Chapter Text
Dear Mr. Mason,
My name is Gustave Laurent and I was fortunate enough to attend your exhibition in New York on the 4th of this month. Your success is well-deserved: I found your photographs remarkable, the subjects exquisite, and I would very much like to display them at my gallery in Saint Denis, Lemoyne. I know the citizens of this fine city will marvel at the beauty of the creatures you have captured just as I have, and I fervently wish to meet the man behind these marvellous images. I am holding an exhibition on the 21st of the next month, where several artists of varying types will display their work, and I hope to see yours added to the collection.
Yours sincerely,
Gustave Laurent.
Albert Mason clutched the letter so tightly the edges crinkled under his grip. Outside the office he could hear people chattering and typewriters clacking but everything had seemed to quieten to a soft hum once he’d opened his mail. He’d read it three times just to confirm what it was saying, to make sure he wasn’t imagining what he was reading. Someone admired his work. An art curator wanted to display his work.
He wasn’t going, of course.
No one would show up. Perhaps this M. Laurent appreciated his photographs but that wasn’t to say anyone else would. The photos were terrible. Capturing animals in motion was not an easy feat, as he had come to learn time and time again, and the majority of photos he’d developed hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped. His success in New York had only occurred because New York society fixated on anything that was new and incited gossip, even if it was not necessarily good. This very morning, for example, Albert had photographed a woman with an extravagant hat for an article purely dedicated to said extravagant hat.
Apparently, that was what the readers of the small newspaper he was currently working for longed to know about.
At the exhibition, all Albert had heard was whispers of how beautiful and exquisite the creatures in his photos were, and an uncomfortable feeling had settled in his stomach. Yes, he’d ventured into the wilderness with the intention of channeling his fascination for the predators of the West, but ultimately it was to convince his audience that these animals did not deserve to be callously hunted for sport. With the way those socialites’ eyes gleamed at the pictures, though, Albert had worried he’d stopped predators being hunted for sport only for them to be hunted for trophies instead; for the rich to boast to their friends about the rare beasts they were using as a rug. He was certain that was what he was going to encounter if he agreed to the exhibition in Saint Denis.
He was going, of course.
Albert would change their minds. He’d speak up if he thought people’s eyes were shining a little too brightly, if his photographs weren’t doing enough to ignite an ounce of sympathy within them. And if he didn’t speak up then… he’d stand in the corner and glare. Equally effective.
Albert drew some parchment from a drawer and began composing his reply, enthusiastically accepting M. Laurent’s invite. He was admittedly curious to meet the man who so admired his work, and he was always keen to learn of other artists and their work; the exhibition would be a noteworthy experience that he wasn’t going to ignore, even if his pictures wouldn’t be received as he’d hoped they would.
The thought of returning to Lemoyne, of travelling west again, sparked a smile as Albert continued to write. He didn’t know why he was suddenly smiling, what it was about the West that made him so cheerful.
He knew exactly what it was.
Albert wouldn’t see him. He’d be in Saint Denis for only a few days, so seeing him would be incredibly unlikely. But then again, the same man happening upon him five times, the same man saving him three times, was also incredibly unlikely.
He had a feeling Arthur Morgan dealt with incredibly unlikely events on a daily basis.
That unfathomable man had drifted through his mind over the past two months since his return to New York, hearing his gruff laugh when he saw the photographs, remembering his wry smile at any mention of West Elizabeth or New Hanover. On the evenings where he was feeling morose and unsociable, Albert would find the picture of Arthur and fondly reminisce over their interactions, hoping to never forget the man who had interested him so.
Perhaps once he was in Lemoyne, if he was feeling bold, he would track Mr. Morgan down, although something told him the man couldn’t be found if he did not want to be. And why on earth would he want to see Albert again?
Cutting off the slew of dark thoughts brimming behind closed doors, Albert’s pen paused in the middle of drafting his letter. Was he being ridiculous? How did he expect to convince anyone of the importance of wildlife preservation when he was so timid and meek? He couldn’t demand respect like most men could, like Mr. Morgan could; he would be laughed at. Ridiculed. Monsieur Laurent would be disappointed to find the photographer he revered was hardly a man worthy of such esteem. He was hardly a man at all.
Better not to go and risk humiliation. His photographs were well-liked and considerably successful: they could change minds on their own. No need for him to stand beside them and whine at his audience like a child. He was perfectly happy here in New York, anyway. He would find the trip to Lemoyne stressful and exhausting, not to mention horribly humid.
Yes, he was better suited to staying in the office, arranging sessions with the prospective rich who wanted to get their faces in a newspaper to show off their lavish clothes and crow over their not-to-be-missed gatherings. This was all newsworthy, apparently.
Albert supposed photographing socialites was not dissimilar from photographing predators; both had hungry looks in their eyes and both fought to keep their position at the top of their individual hierarchies. Socialites were less charismatic, though. But more bloodthirsty.
No. He was being ridiculous. Albert finished writing the letter and hurriedly stuffed it into an envelope and scrawled the address on it. He rose from his small desk and left his office, heading down the narrow hallway until he reached his boss’ much larger office. A secretary shot him a brief smile and opened the door for him, announcing his presence as she left.
Mr. Waxley, a balding, mustached man seated behind an ornate desk, glanced up from his work at Albert’s arrival, his wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose.
“Mr. Mason,” he acknowledged, leaning back and gesturing to a chair opposite him, “What can I do for you?”
“Mr Waxley, with your permission, I’d like to take a – a week off work.”
Mr. Waxley’s brows rose. “A week? Is there something wrong?”
Albert had scarcely interacted with Mr. Waxley bar his interview when he’d applied to be the newspaper’s photographer, yet he was appreciative of the look of concern from his employer.
“Nothing like that, sir. It’s… well, a gallery in Saint Denis plans to hold an exhibit next week and they have requested to display my work. I would very much like to attend in person, as I’m sure you understand.”
Mr. Waxley looked grave, something Albert didn’t find reassuring. “Understand, yes,” he said, “but I cannot let you go, I’m afraid. We’re simply too busy here.”
Albert’s heart sank. “Sir, with all due respect, I haven’t asked for any time away since my employment, I’ve had no days off because of illness, and I’ve covered for more than one colleague during their absence, even when unfamiliar with their duties. Surely that–”
“Mason, you’ve been here a grand total of two months,” Waxley said with a chuckle that grated at Albert, “I would have called you in here sooner if you had taken leave during that time. I’m sorry to tell you no, I really am, but I can’t afford to spare you.”
“What will you have me do next week that is so important?”
“Have you forgotten about the gala next Thursday? At the Metropolitan? I’ll need you to photograph the significant guests in attendance beforehand so that our readers–”
“Can’t you employ an artist to do that instead?”
“Why would I employ an artist when I have a photographer?”
Albert sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple with one finger, feeling an oncoming headache.
“Next month or so, when all the hubbub has died down, I can grant you some time off. How about that?”
“I resign,” Albert muttered.
“Excuse me?”
Albert opened his eyes, meeting Mr. Waxley’s stunned gaze with a determined one.
“I’m resigning. As of right now.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
Mr. Waxley leaned closer, pushing his glasses further up his nose, “Now, Mr. Mason, this is all rather childish. Perhaps you’d like a minute to think about what you’re saying before you continue.”
“I don’t need a minute, sir. I’ve already thought about it. At great lengths, as a matter of fact. Although I frequently convinced myself this job was what I wanted I’ve known for a while that it is not. And while I’m sorry to announce it in such an unexpected manner, I simply cannot stay here any longer.”
It seemed now that Mr. Waxley was the one with a headache. He was frowning at Mason, an expression of incomprehension on his face. “What exactly is your plan, then? You must know I cannot give you a referral. You’ve not been with the company long enough. Finding new employment will be much more difficult, you understand?”
“I’m aware,” Albert said. He offered a small smile. “I don’t have a plan. I haven’t fully plotted out my life like most men have.” He stood up. “But what I do know is that I need to book a ticket for the next boat to Saint Denis. Good day, sir.”
Three days after walking out of his job, Albert stepped out onto the deck of the boat as it docked in Saint Denis, casting his eye across the bustling city and breathing deeply, desperate not to endure another bout of hyperventilation. He’d suffered it twice just on the boat trip, not to mention the longer episodes the night before he left, where he’d sat shaking in an armchair as he wondered for the hundredth time if he had made a terrible mistake.
Stepping back into the familiar city, Albert cast those doubts aside. He was happy to be back there; he hadn’t felt so elated in a long while. Carriages rattled past him, people yelled to each other across the street, horses’ hooves clopped along the cobbled roads, yet a sense of peace settled inside him as he dragged his belongings towards a waiting coachman. The ride was short, and if it wasn’t for his heavy luggage Albert would have walked, but sitting in the carriage allowed him to familiarize himself with the points of interest within the city; most notably, the Laurent Gallery.
In all the time Albert had spent in Saint Denis, he was embarrassed to admit that he’d never set foot in the small gallery. That was soon to change, though, as the exhibition was in two days’ time. A buzz of excitement thrummed through his veins as he settled himself in his lodgings above the saloon. He knew only a few people who were genuinely interested in his work – Mr. Morgan being one of them – and being there now Albert was finally able to feel enthusiastic about the exhibition. He’d left his nerves on the boat, where they were going to remain.