The Crystal Cage (18 page)

‘I am sorry that this gives you more work after your plans have been so meticulous.’ She looked regretful.

‘They are architect’s drawings only. The design we now have will be what we need for the workmen, the theory made practice.’

She was smiling again and it felt to him as though the sun would never leave the world. He wanted this day to continue forever. On their way down the staircase, he suggested that they take a look at some of the exhibits already on display.
Anything
, he thought,
to keep her with me just a little longer
.

They walked towards the western end of the building where displays from Britain and her colonies were to be accommodated. At the very beginning of the section, a mediaeval court had already been constructed. Its walls were made of carved wood and gilt and hung with paintings and stained glass. A few items of ornately carved furniture had begun to fill the space. On the other side of the passage was the Canada room, exhibiting sleighs, canoes of birch bark and Indian feather bonnets. Then the India room, for the moment quite sparse and containing only a few pieces of furniture, a howdah with its elephant cloth and an imposing but empty cabinet right in the middle of the room.

‘I wonder…’ she began.

‘The Koh-i-noor diamond? I believe that is the cabinet that will house the jewel.’

‘How marvellous it will be to view it at such close quarters! The first day of May cannot come soon enough.’

But not for me
, he thought sadly.
That will be the very last time I ever see you
.

‘Tell me about the new project you are to work on.’ They had settled themselves at a table and all thought of returning to Prospect Place within the hour had vanished from both their minds.

‘Unfortunately it is a church doomed to be sacrificed to the Gothic.’

‘And you are not happy with the commission?’

‘I should be. Or at least I should feel flattered. It is an important chapel and so an important job. But I hate to see beautiful old buildings desecrated in the name of fashion.’

‘Can you not request Mr de Vere to work on something other?’

‘I am a junior architect, Mrs Renville. I am not able to make requests of my principal.’

‘But you are a very talented man and Mr de Vere must be gratified to have your services.’

‘I am one among many,’ he said ruefully. ‘But one day…one day I shall have my own practice and choose my own commissions.’

‘I hope that day will come soon for you.’

‘I hope so, too, but I must be realistic. It takes a substantial sum of money to set up a practice and I have already spent whatever I had on studying abroad.’

‘It was well spent, I am sure.’

‘It was, but it cannot be spent again. It was an inheritance from my godfather,’ he confided, seeing the sympathy in her face. ‘I was fortunate, but I cannot hope to inherit more.’

‘And your parents?’ she ventured.

‘I must not look to them for help. My father is a tenant farmer eking out a small living and with six children to provide for. Two of my younger brothers have found work on the land, but I have no aptitude for it. My mother scrimped for years to buy my education—Latin and Greek extra!—and then to buy my apprenticeship at a local architect’s. Everything I have, everything I am, I owe to her.’

‘And you have already repaid much with your evident love for her.’

‘But I want to repay materially. When I become rich and famous, I will spend every last penny to make her comfortable.’

‘
When
, not
if
?’ she teased.

‘When,’ he said firmly.

The cab was still waiting when they emerged from the glass palace, and within thirty minutes they were standing outside the studded front door of Wisteria Lodge.

‘The men will begin work on the pavilion next week,’ Lucas told her. ‘When all is ready, you might like to visit again and confirm that you are completely happy with the result.’

His stomach tightened at the thought that she might wish him to oversee last preparations by himself. He raised his eyes and saw candid brown ones looking back at him. They carried a softness that he could not ignore.

‘I think that is a very sensible suggestion, Mr Royde.’

‘Lunch is ready, ma’am.’ The maid’s disagreeable face appeared at Alessia’s shoulder. ‘It’s been ready for the last hour, as you requested,’ she accused, accompanying her words with a determined sniff.

‘Thank you, Martha. I will come in a few moments.’

He waited until the maid had reluctantly withdrawn before saying, ‘I will send you news when the pavilion is finished, Mrs Renville. Then we can agree a convenient time for you to visit.’

‘Thank you, you are most kind.’

He stepped towards her, bowing his head and lightly kissing her hand.

‘It is my pleasure.’

There were no truer words. The door shut behind her and he dismissed the cab, deciding to return to Great Russell Street on foot. A walk would give him time to think, although about what he did not know. There was nothing to think about. Everything was only too clear. She might like him—greatly. She might like to be with him; they had just enjoyed three magnificent hours together. But he was simply the architect employed by her husband and nothing more. In honesty, he could be nothing more. He had overreached himself before and frightened her badly. A married woman was allowed no foibles. She belonged to her husband, body and soul, and Alessia knew that well. She might not be happy, he knew in his heart she was not, but she had made her choice and she was living with it. He wondered, though, just how much of a choice it had been.

* * *

He calculated that it would take the workmen employed by de Vere’s at least two weeks, possibly more, to complete the revised plans. There was no chance, therefore, of seeing Alessia for many days. Every evening he was tempted to call at the site to check on progress as though his presence could in itself speed things along. But for what? Once the pavilion was finished, so was their friendship. When he escorted her next to the Exhibition Hall, they would be the last intimate hours he would spend with her. On May 1 at the grand opening, he would see her, no doubt sit close to her, but she would no longer be for him alone. Her husband would be by her side and all her attention would be his. Edward Renville would strut proud in his possession of a beautiful wife and a successful business. There was no question in Lucas’s mind as to which meant most to him.

The weather was now a good deal more pleasant and his walk to the office from Red Lion Square no longer a fight against the elements. But as spring wakened, his restlessness grew daily. It was well that the new project assigned to him was gathering momentum for the heavy workload provided distraction from what was becoming a dangerous obsession. Just when he thought he could no longer resist the temptation to return to the Crystal Palace, he was once more summoned to de Vere’s office.

‘Do sit down, Mr Royde.’

The great man was unusually friendly and waved Lucas into a comfortable armchair. His employer sat opposite and swung his seat to face him. The familiar melancholy smile was on his face and his fingers steepled in an attitude of thought. Lucas braced himself for bad news, but it was praise that de Vere had in mind.

‘I have perused your initial drawings for the Carlyon estate, and I like what I see.’

Lucas could not say the same, but he had drawn according to de Vere’s wishes. In his secret mind he had every intention of attempting to persuade the earl to abandon the design he had created. Boldness, he would tell his lordship, was crucial. Only give his architect
carte blanche,
and the Carlyon chapel would be universally admired for its beauty and originality.

‘I think we are at the stage, Mr Royde, when a site visit is in order.’ Daniel de Vere’s smile grew a little sadder. ‘You will go to Norfolk tomorrow. The journey will necessitate you spending two nights there, and you may book yourself a hotel room for the duration. I will not expect you back in the office until Friday morning.’

Norfolk. It was hardly a world away, but the last thing Lucas wanted was to leave London at this moment. He had no choice, though, but to acquiesce.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he murmured, hating his enforced submission.

De Vere stood up and handed him a single sheet of paper. ‘Here are the details of your initial contact at Southerham Hall, a Reverend Waters. You will present the drawings to him and if he is happy with them, he will submit them to the earl for his opinion. I will send a telegram today to alert him of your arrival. I think you will find suitable accommodation at the Royal Hotel.’

‘Thank you,’ Lucas said again, and edged towards the door, hoping to make his escape. But de Vere had not yet finished.

‘You know, Mr Royde, this project is a large affair, very large,’ he counselled. ‘I am putting you in sole charge and have every confidence you will do it well. The distinction you will gain from this and from the Exhibition space you have designed for Mr Renville will prove most helpful to your career. Yes indeed, most helpful.’

‘Thank you,’ Lucas said for the third time, and bowed his way past the walnut panelling.

The journey to Norwich was uneventful but wearing, the train proving no better sprung than the coach that had taken him to the Shoreditch terminus. Uncomfortable wooden boards served as the train’s seats, and space was at a premium, for every compartment was vastly overcrowded. By the time he walked up the front steps of the Royal Hotel, his head hurt and every muscle of his body ached. He ate supper alone and soon after retired to his room to sift gloomily through the hated plans. The thought of what lay ahead on the morrow only increased his despondency.

The Reverend Waters proved to be a small and fussy man. He pored over each drawing for an inordinate time, asking questions, raising spurious difficulties, suggesting impossible additions, until Lucas was near to returning to London and asking de Vere to award this prestigious commission to another of his architectural team. A break for luncheon did nothing to lessen the morning’s frustrations when he was directed to the servants’ hall to take his meal.
How fitting
, he thought sourly.

He ate as slowly as he dared but eventually could dally no longer and with reluctance set off for a further encounter with the Reverend. He was soon lost, encountering a labyrinth of unused rooms, narrow passages and stairs that seemed to lead nowhere. At last he opened the door to a room bearing clear signs of habitation and realised he had stumbled on Lord Carlyon’s study. He had also stumbled on Lord Carlyon himself.

The earl courteously waved aside his apologies and then caught sight of the papers protruding from Lucas’s satchel.

‘You must be the architect from de Vere’s. The very man I wished to see. If you have a moment, you can take me through the chapel plans.’

‘The Reverend Waters…’ Lucas began tentatively.

‘Ah yes, Hugo Waters. A sound enough chap but likely to take an age explaining the drawings to me. You, on the other hand, look a much better prospect!’

Here was his chance. A private interview with the man he wished to influence. He would show Lord Carlyon the current design but in the process suggest several adjustments. If he were lucky enough to be granted a second audience, he would recommend further modifications and slowly and subtly bring the chapel at Southerham into line with his own vision.

By the time the Reverend Waters found them an hour later, Lucas felt he had done well in laying the groundwork towards the eventual acceptance of his proposals, and his return to London was accomplished with a happy heart. He would build a chapel of which he could be proud. And if all went well, he would build it in
his
name and not de Vere’s. Most precious of all, he was now three days nearer seeing Alessia and he dared to think that his meeting with her might be imminent. He was desperate to know how the pavilion was progressing and although it was late when he finally reached Red Lion Square, he stopped only to divest himself of his luggage before going straight to Hyde Park and the Exhibition Hall. The workmen had laboured hard and effectively and he was delighted with what he saw. His design, their design, flowed before his eyes and he was impatient to share its beauty. But it was too late to call at Prospect Place; he would have to send a message to her the next day.

Chapter Ten

London, late March 1851

He spent that Friday quite unable to work. The hands on the great oak clock had never moved slower, and he waited in a fervour of impatience to hear the chimes of six o’clock. At last he could leave Great Russell Street for the short journey to Alessia’s house. She would know from his message that the pavilion was finished and would not be too surprised to see him. Even if her husband were at home, he could explain his presence at the door by the need to make arrangements to escort her to Hyde Park for a final viewing.

It was the pert maid, Hetty, who opened the door to his knocking. A piece of luck, he thought, and if his luck held, Edward Renville might still be at his office.

‘How good to see you, Mr Royde.’

Alessia rustled forward to greet him and as she did so, the lace shawl draped across her shoulders slipped sideways to reveal a clinging gown of pale yellow silk, pulled tight and low against the creamy olive skin of her bosom. He averted his eyes and tried hard to concentrate on what she was saying.

‘I received your note a few hours ago. Such wonderful news of the pavilion! And you have been visiting Norfolk for your new commission?’ He was following her along the narrow hallway as she half-turned towards him. ‘I trust your trip to Southerham went well. You must be delighted to have been asked to design for such an important man.’

‘It is certainly most flattering and the journey was successful. I am hopeful that Mr de Vere will be pleased,’ he responded a little awkwardly.

He would have liked to confess what he was truly about but dared not risk her disapproval. In any case, he told himself, it would be unfair to involve her in the web he was spinning. She led him to the back of the house, to the garden room, he noted. Did that mean that his earlier transgression had been forgotten?