The Tragic Photograph: Uncovering the Hidden Story of the Davy Sisters

In March 2021, the Boston Historical Society received an unassuming package that would reveal one of the most haunting and tragic stories in its archives.

Inside a plain manila envelope lay a single sepia-toned photograph from 1895, mounted on thick cardboard typical of Victorian studio portraits.

The photograph depicted two young girls, dressed in matching white dresses, standing hand in hand in a garden.

On the photograph, faded brown ink identified them as “Lily and Rose Davies, June 1895.

” Accompanying the image was a brief note in elderly handwriting: “The Davy’s sisters, 1895.

May they finally rest.

I can’t keep this any longer.

Someone should know the truth.

Dr Helen Foster, a veteran curator of the Boston Historical Society’s photographic archives, first encountered the photograph in 2021.

With eighteen years of experience examining thousands of Victorian images, Foster initially considered this portrait unremarkable.

The girls’ solemn expressions, the lace collars, puffed sleeves, and carefully posed hands were standard for the era.

Yet something about the younger girl, Rose, caught Foster’s attention.

Her hand, tightly clasped with her sister’s, appeared unnaturally rigid, her fingers curled at an odd angle.

Intrigued, Foster ordered a high-resolution digital scan to examine the photograph in unprecedented detail.

By March 18, 2021, the scan, performed at 12,800 dpi, revealed details invisible to the naked eye.

Every fiber of the paper, every grain of photographic emulsion, and every minute imperfection in the mounting board was visible.

Foster worked alongside Marcus Chen, the society’s imaging specialist, as they scrutinized the results.

Under magnification, the younger girl’s hand revealed a startling truth.

Unlike her sister Lily’s hand, which showed the normal texture and pliability of living skin, Rose’s hand exhibited a waxy, almost artificial quality.

The skin tone was darker, a subtle but unmistakable indication of post-mortem lividity, suggesting that the child had already died when the photograph was taken.

Post-mortem photography, common in the Victorian era, typically featured children displayed in beds or coffins.

Yet in this photograph, the intention was different: to create the illusion of life, to show both sisters together as if untouched by tragedy.

Infrared imaging confirmed the difference between the sisters.

Lily’s face reflected residual patterns consistent with a living subject, while Rose’s body absorbed infrared light uniformly, revealing no evidence of life.

Digital enhancement of Rose’s features further revealed clouded corneas and a desiccated tongue, clear indicators of death.

To maintain the illusion of vitality, someone had carefully applied powder and rouge to her cheeks, concealing the worst signs of decay.

In contrast, Lily’s cheeks showed subtle tear tracks beneath cosmetic powder, evidence of grief restrained in the moments before the photograph was taken.

The photograph bore additional secrets.

Enhanced imaging revealed faint pencil inscriptions on the mounting board, written in childlike handwriting: “I promised Mama I would hold her hand forever.

I kept my promise.

June 12th, 1895.

” The discovery raised immediate questions.

Who were these children? Why had such extraordinary measures been taken to stage this photograph? And what promise had Lily made that necessitated posing with her deceased sister?

Foster began an exhaustive investigation into the Davies family.

Historical records confirmed that Robert and Eleanor Davies of Boston’s Beacon Hill had two daughters, Lily, born in March 1884, and Rose, born in September 1888.

Rose died of scarlet fever on June 3rd, 1895, and Lily succumbed to the same illness a week later, on June 10th.

Death certificates and Boston Globe reports confirmed the timing of the girls’ illnesses and the family’s grief.

According to health department records, Rose’s body was kept at home for seven days before burial, during which Lily refused to leave her sister’s side despite her own declining health.

Further investigation revealed the photographer responsible: Thomas Blackwell, a professional memorial photographer specializing in post-mortem portraits.

His ledger noted an entry dated June 7th, 1895, indicating a commissioned portrait of “two subjects” at the Davies residence.

Blackwell’s personal diary provided context: he had been summoned urgently because Lily, the surviving daughter, insisted on a photograph showing both sisters alive together.

The elder child had demanded that Rose appear alive in the image, concealing the harsh reality of her death.

Blackwell wrote of his unease, acknowledging that the arrangement was emotionally disturbing, yet he acquiesced out of compassion and respect for the child’s wishes.

Foster traced additional records corroborating the extraordinary circumstances.

Dr Samuel Morrison, who had attended the Davies household, filed reports with the city health department noting that Lily had remained beside her deceased sister for days, insisting that she maintain a promise to their mother to hold Rose’s hand until “everything is better.

” Morrison’s reports highlighted the family’s extreme grief and the perilous health conditions that Lily faced while fulfilling her promise.

The photograph, as Foster and her colleagues realized, was not a deception in the conventional sense.

It was a memorial born of love, grief, and the desire to preserve a fleeting moment of togetherness in the face of death.

Lily’s insistence on the staged portrait represented a final act of devotion, creating a lasting memory for her mother Eleanor, who had been prostrate with grief and incapacitated by illness during the week following Rose’s death.

The image was designed to offer comfort, to capture a fleeting illusion of life in the midst of irrevocable loss.

Foster’s research extended to the tragic aftermath of the family.

Eleanor Davies never recovered from the deaths of her daughters.

She was institutionalized in Mlan Asylum in August 1895, diagnosed with acute melancholia.

Records indicate that she spent the remaining twelve years of her life largely unresponsive, frequently gazing at the photograph of her daughters in their white dresses.

Robert Davies, similarly overwhelmed, relocated to New York and attempted to rebuild his life, remarrying in 1899, though the marriage failed.

He died in 1904 at the age of 49, his obituary briefly acknowledging the deaths of his daughters.

The photograph’s subsequent journey through generations was equally poignant.

Eleanor’s sister, Margaret Hartwell, inherited it in 1907, recognizing its emotional power and the sorrow it represented.

Margaret stored it in a trunk for five decades until her death in 1957, after which it passed to her daughter, Catherine, and eventually to her grandson, James Hartwell.

James, understanding the burden of grief embedded in the image and facing his own mortality, finally sent the photograph to the Boston Historical Society in March 2021.

In a phone conversation, he described it as “cursed, not by magic, but by love,” a relic representing devotion that could neither be destroyed nor fully shared.

The historical, forensic, and emotional layers of the photograph made it a unique artifact.

Digital scans provided an unprecedented view of Victorian photographic techniques and memorial practices.

The combination of powder and rouge, meticulous posing, and the intentional concealment of death exemplified the extraordinary lengths to which families and photographers went to manage grief and memory in the nineteenth century.

Foster emphasized that the image was not intended as deception for others but as a gift to preserve memory and provide comfort amid unimaginable sorrow.

Beyond its technical and historical significance, the photograph raises profound questions about human emotion, memory, and the intersection of life and death.

Lily’s promise to her mother, carried out at immense personal cost, reflects the intensity of familial bonds and the capacity of children to confront tragedy with devotion beyond their years.

The staged image captures the complexity of Victorian attitudes toward mortality, illustrating the lengths to which families went to reconcile love, grief, and memory.

Dr Foster’s presentation to the Boston Historical Society board in April 2021 highlighted the photograph’s delicate balance of historical importance and emotional sensitivity.

Board members debated its public display, ultimately deciding that the photograph would be preserved and documented for research purposes while restricting general access.

This approach respects both the historical significance and the profoundly private grief that the photograph represents.

The story of the Davy sisters illustrates more than Victorian mourning practices; it is a testament to the human capacity for love under unimaginable strain.

The photograph encapsulates a promise kept beyond death, the endurance of devotion, and the desire to protect others from the full weight of tragedy.

It serves as a memorial not just to Rose and Lily, but to the resilience and sorrow of those left behind.

In reviewing the photograph, Foster reflected on the layered narrative embedded in every detail: the precise posing of the girls, the careful application of makeup, the frozen hand of Rose, and the tear-streaked face of Lily.

Each element told a story of hope, grief, and sacrifice.

The inscription on the mounting board, now fully legible, conveyed the essence of the image: a promise made and fulfilled, even in the face of death.

The photograph remains sealed in the society’s archives, a silent witness to a moment that transcends time.

For Dr Helen Foster, it is a reminder that historical artifacts are not merely objects of curiosity but vessels of human experience, carrying emotions, intentions, and stories that resonate across generations.

In this single image, the tragedy of loss, the depth of familial love, and the extraordinary devotion of a child coalesce, offering both a historical record and a profound reflection on the human condition.

Ultimately, the photograph of Lily and Rose Davies provides an extraordinary lens into the past, revealing the ways in which families navigated grief, memory, and devotion in a time when death was an ever-present reality.

It underscores the fragile balance between life and loss, the weight of promises, and the enduring power of love.

Through meticulous research, historical documentation, and modern imaging technology, Dr Foster brought this hidden story to light, ensuring that the sacrifices and devotion of the Davies sisters—and the family who loved them—will not be forgotten.

The photograph, preserved and studied, stands as both a historical artifact and a testament to the human heart.

It captures the pain, care, and love that transcends mortality, leaving future generations with a glimpse of a world in which even the smallest hands could bear the heaviest burdens.

For the Boston Historical Society, it remains one of the most poignant discoveries of modern archival research—a memorial not only to two children lost too soon but to the extraordinary human capacity to hold onto love, even in the shadow of death.