Page 11 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
Curse the rules.She was a grown woman.Florence nudged it open.
A thin strip of afternoon light filled one half of the long, narrow courtyard.It fell across a row of planter boxes overflowing with vines and brittle leaves—beans, maybe, or pumpkins, long dead at the end of winter.A carriage house of brown and tan brick sat at the far end of the yard, one segment of a long row that stretched the same length as the houses behind her.In front of it, towards the front of the yard, Johannes sat on a low stool, his body bent over a small length of wood.
Like at the office, the man of hard lines and firm jaw seemed at odds with the gentle focus he dedicated to the work before him.He set a chisel against the block and tapped it with a mallet.With a small flick of his wrist, a sliver of wood curled and dropped to the stones.Johannes pursed his lips and blew, stroking the length of the carving, his fingertip hesitating and worrying at a section.His lips thinned, and he repositioned the chisel and tapped again.His coat lay abandoned on the stones beside him, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.The pale skin of his inner forearm tightened as hetap- tap- tappedaway, and the movement radiated along his arms, tensing his shoulders where sweat turned his shirt opaque.He’d unfastened his top button…
Thank the heavens he still wore his waistcoat, as the ripple of muscles beneath his shirt sleeves sparked a tingle in her lower belly that might have caught flame otherwise.As it was, the steady warmth set all her hidden places alight, all those intimate parts of herself that had been stroked to life and then dashed suddenly roused from a secret slumber.George, twenty years her senior, had delighted in instructing his virgin bride just like he’d instructed her in everything else.Later, all the feelings he’d coaxed from her—pleasure, acceptance, safety—had been buried, contained so tightly she didn’t think they’d ever find the strength to resurface.
Johannes wiped the back of his hand across his brow.
Florence licked her lips against the cold.
Johannes stroked the same section of wood again, but this time, he gave a satisfied nod.As he twisted to lay his tools aside, he glanced up, caught sight of her, then returned to his work.It took a beat, but then he looked up again, startled like a bird.He stiffened and stood so abruptly he knocked over his stool.The seat clunked to the pavers while he stumbled back a few steps before steadying himself.
‘Mrs Murray.You are here.I thought I left everything neat.Is your father well?Are you well?Is something wrong?’Johannes fumbled at his top collar buttons, then rolled down his sleeves.
‘You left your folder,’ she called and held it out as proof.‘I thought you may want it.I didn’t intend to intrude, but your brother led me through.’
Johannes shook his head and muttered something under his breath.‘Ammie, no doubt.He has no sense of propriety, although he tries.I apologise.’
‘My mother makes a fuss, but I did not grow up with so many rules.In all honesty, it’s refreshing.’Florence stepped outside, pausing at the top of the stairs.‘Your house.It’s McKerr, isn’t it?FromThe Gentleman’s Guide?’
‘It is.Except for the front windows.’
‘You have bay windows facing the street.McKerr does not.He prefers a less ornamental facade.’
‘I imagine there are a good many things that McKerr does not approve of about the Hempel household.I don’t think he had a family like us in mind when he designed his homes for gentlemen.But that’s the work, isn’t it?We design buildings, but we can’t dictate how people may inhabit them.’
‘Thisisyour home, then?You aren’t a lodger?’
He nodded.‘Eldest boy, and first to step away from the family business.’
Was it rude to ask?Should she know his name?Names had been so amorphous before.Yet here, they meant so very much.
‘My father and grandfather own the Hotel Aster,’ he offered reluctantly, almost apologetically.‘It does quite well.’
Florence rolled the word over in her mind.‘The hotel in Mayfair?’
‘And Park Lane, and two outside of the city in York.And soon, another in Brighton.Everyone talks about the Mayfair Hotel, but I prefer Park Lane.Much prettier, if you ask me.Not that anyone does.’
The sun had shifted across the sky, and now all of the courtyard had sunk into the dry grey of early evening.His stool and his woodwork cast long shadows over the pavers.
‘A Ruskin devotee at work.’Florence gestured at the wood he had been working on.
‘I like to make things.I like to use my hands.It helps me think.’He tipped his head at the townhouse next door.‘It’s a cradle for my sister.She’s expecting her first in a few months.’
‘Your sister who married the neighbour?’
‘That’s right.You make it sound so simple, but it was quite the drama.Then again, everything with Rosie has a way of being a drama.’He chuckled to himself.Florence wanted to join in, but she couldn’t.She didn’t know what it was to have a sibling to both love and grump over.She didn’t know what it was to live in a world of babies and small brothers and multiple people with the same surname.She adored her parents, but her existence as the only child of an older couple had always encircled her like a moat.She never quite understood what life was like for children from families who could fill a church pew.
Her fingers tightened around the folder.In an uncomfortable switch of roles, she was suddenly the fumbling one, the one lost for words as the realisation cascaded through her that, with Johannes, she feltyoung.For all her grumping about his presence in the office, she also enjoyed having him there.George’s life had been one of established purpose.Johannes had a life of hopeful possibility, and he met it with determination, optimism, and a hint of humbleness.Envy, raw and biting, seared as sharp as the ache in her shoulder.What in the heavens had she thought coming here might achieve?Curse how rude it might seem to leave.She set the folder on the balustrade, then took a step towards the door.
‘Have you had any luck finding a society to match your interests?’His words gushed into the greying afternoon.
Florence turned.‘No.When I go out, it is with my mother.Her small circle of friends has interests much different from my own.Most of their daughters are married and have families.I know I could seek introductions with younger people, but I have yet to determine how.’
Johannes put down his chisel and mallet.‘You… you could join my society.It is very newly formed, but I think you might like it.Its members are very enthusiastic.I call it the Society for the Appreciation of Old and New Architecture.We… we visit an example of one or the other every Saturday afternoon, after finishing work.We don’t yet have a motif, but if I outline one in pencil, will you fill in the watercolour?Painting is impossible here.The younger children are always sneaking my brushes.’
He grabbed his leather folder, opened it, and wiggled out a sheet of blank paper.Leaning back against the balustrade, he raised one foot to slot it sideways across his knee.Then he slid a pencil from a leather loop inside the case and, using his crooked leg as a support, began to sketch.Astounding.He made furniture, then contorted his body to become such as well.Confident lines and arcs formed as he swept the lead across the paper before he scrawled a few words across the top of the page.
