The Portrait Sitting

Clarke Metcalfe is down on his luck. Heartbroken and penniless, Clarke has one last chance to clear the debt he was saddled with when his beloved Emmaline left town to pursue the bright lights of Broadway. It’s an opportunity that will clear his debts and save his kneecaps. But when the mysterious Mrs. Price arrives at his studio, she is not at all what he was expecting.

Francine Price has spent her marriage trying to meet her husband’s impossible standards, which included keeping her simple, intimate desires at bay. Now her husband is gone, she has begun sorting through his things. And what an eye-opening discovery she has made.

Francine and Clarke come together for an afternoon—he, the photographer, her the model. But as the afternoon progresses, desires are voiced, and heartaches are laid bare. Clarke and Francine learn the power of passion exposed, and what it means to be truly seen by another.

The Portrait Sitting is a steamy novella set in the late Victorian era. Its main tropes are working class characters, widow FMC and jilted groom MMC. With a guaranteed HEA, The Portrait Sitting has HOT consensual scenes. It includes strong language and sexy times.

This novel also contains themes of spouse loss, grief and misogyny that some audiences may find confronting.

The silver plate reflected a pathetic man.
Clarke adjusted the angle so that instead of his face, it showed the flaking paint of the pressed tin ceiling, then continued to polish.
The church bell gave three hefty clangs. The woman would be here soon. He kept her note folded in his pocket, although he had memorised every word. He wanted this sitting to be perfect. It must be perfect. His knees depended on it.
Dear Mr Metcalfe,
I have heard you are a photographer of some talent. I require a daguerreotype photograph for my husband. Not a calotype. I am prepared to pay a fee of £20. Your discretion is appreciated.
Clarke sprinkled rouge powder over the silver plate, dipped his cloth into the bowl of pure alcohol, and swiped across the surface in steady, horizontal strokes.
The letter had arrived two days ago. Clarke had read it three times, gripping the parchment like it was driftwood that would save him from drowning. Giddy with relief, his fingers shook as he penned a note to the antiques dealer to tell him that his beloved daguerreotype camera was no longer for sale. But before he could scrawl his signature, a fist pounded at the door. Another debt collector. This one chasing payment for shoes Emmaline had bought on his credit. Shoes that were probably now clipping over the boards on Broadway. His dreams of salvation crumbled and sat as dark and cold as the ash in the hearth.
The work would at least give him time to find a position at one of the linen mills. After a decade of answering only to himself, the thought of taking orders from another man grated. But working in the mill would be preferable to having his knees busted, which the debt collector had made clear was the other way they could settle his debt.
A photographer of some talent. He had been known as a talented photographer, and it had been a difficult craft to learn. Unlike the calotype, the daguerreotype photographic process did not create a negative that could be duplicated, but only ever made a single image. Light exposed directly onto the chemically treated silver plate to create the photograph, and after the photographer followed a specific process of heat and chemical treatments, the portrait became fixed. There was only one chance to get the portrait right.
It took him years to master the method. Not so much the science, but working with his photography subjects. Those sitting had to remain perfectly still as the plate exposed, sometimes for a full minute. If they moved, the photograph blurred. Clarke had a way with people, though. He made his clients comfortable, yet self-aware enough to stay still. Relaxed without becoming lax. It showed in the final photographic print, and for many years, his colleagues had called him a master of his craft.
In half a heartbeat, a different photographic method collapsed his world. Calotype. Cheaper, quicker, easier. It created a photograph in the blink of an eye and as many copies as one could wish for. Save nostalgic old women, no one wanted a daguerreotype photograph now. Only calotype. And without two pennies in his pocket, Clarke could not purchase a new camera, or the paper, or the chemicals he needed to move his business forward. Like his daguerreotype, he was obsolete.
Clarke placed the plate into the sensitising box where the iodine would react with the silver and turn the polished coat light sensitive. As a final step, he huddled under his black cloth and inserted the fully prepared plate into its case, ready to go into the camera after the lens had been focused.
The church bell rang again. Half past the hour. Clarke straightened the backdrop mural that hid the horribly faded wallpaper, then brushed dust from the red velvet of the mahogany chaise lounge. Thank goodness he hadn’t stooped so low as to sell his chaise yet. She might take her business elsewhere if he suggested she sit on a milk crate.
A hackney cab pulled up out front, the horses and carriage a silhouette through the gauze curtains that screened the studio window. The driver jumped from the roof and opened the cab door. Was it time already? Clarke groped for his watch, then cursed. How had he forgotten? He’d sold his watch four weeks ago to pay the bill for Emmaline’s dresses. The blue and cream one she wore to the carnival when he asked her to marry him, and the second one he knew was extravagant, but he indulged her anyway. White silk, hand painted and trimmed with Venetian lace. Magnificent. Not that he had seen it. Bad luck to see the dress before the wedding, she teased as she slid her hand over his crotch. She shouldn’t have been wearing white, but what right did he have to criticise? Beautiful Emmaline. His dove. His flower. His undoing.
The door rattled. Best to get it over with. Clarke moved to the door, slid the bolt across and tugged it open.
He blinked. Shook his head. The lady at his door looked about his own age, perhaps even a few years younger. A sensible bun restrained her mouse-brown hair. A white lace collar that reached almost to her chin sat stark against her black woollen gown. Her body turned slightly away from him as she looked down at the wooden sign in his window. Clarke Metcalfe, Photographer. Thick slivers of ivory, sun-stained paint peeled back from the board, like the wood had once been proud to advertise his services but now only sought to repulse him.
‘Can I help you?’ He looked past her, searching for an old woman, but she was alone.
She looked up. Dark brown eyes flecked with gold sparkled in the afternoon sun. Her brow furrowed with worry, but that sparkle in her eyes…he must be mistaken. Did he catch a flash of excitement?
‘Mr Metcalfe?’ She held out a gloved hand in greeting. ‘I am Mrs Price. I am here for my portrait sitting.’