Page 15 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
He should, but he did not evenwantto deny it.
He was enamoured.
He was lost.
Chapter Seven
Winterheldthecityin its grasp all through the end of February and into the early days of March.On very cold mornings, Florence dressed in layers of wool and thick cotton, put on stockings and slippers, then patted down the hallway from her bedroom to the front parlour on the upper level.Here, with a heavy quilted blanket and with her palms cupping mugs of warm coffee, she would study patterns on the icy windows.Some she sketched onto the notepaper in the folder Johannes had made her.On other days, when her shoulder felt too stiff to work, she would balance the book on her knee and trace the frozen outlines with her fingers, practising their shapes until the sun inched into the courtyard and they thawed and trickled out of existence.
From Monday to Friday, the days followed the bellows and bells of the city.Johannes tapped into the hallway just before eight, rumbled and knocked through the office, or ran errands.Father met with potential clients in the front room.If she felt she could manage, and when her mother was distracted, Florence made her way downstairs.Unlike before, she and Johannes threw each other secret looks, and her breath clogged in her chest as he picked up his pen, dipped it into the paint, bent over his work, and took her in.He always sat so still, as if time froze between them for a beat.Then he would shoot her a smile and return his focus to the board.
Saturday carried a different energy from the other days.Perhaps the shorter workday made both her father and his assistant tackle tasks with more enthusiasm because the knocks and conversation from the room downstairs echoed with more urgency than during the week.As her father and Johannes squared off work from the past week and discussed upcoming projects and competitions, Florence would dress in her warmest gloves, find her heaviest shawl, and wrap herself in as many layers of flannel as she could manage without falling over.Just after one o’clock, she made her way to the entrance to meet Johannes.If it was a rare sunny day, she would wait on the steps out front.
Those scant few hours where he whisked her across the city blazed through her with such incandescence that it gave her a burst of electricity to power her week.They never ventured so far away that she could not return before supper—each excursion must have taken considerable time to plan.He took her by omnibus to a castle in Richmond, to a new cathedral in St Albans, to a concert hall in St James’s.Out to Kew Gardens where he complained that the metal and glass were an affront to proper architecture, but said nothing as she marvelled at the height of the arches.He even helped her count the rivets that secured the structure.Later, in her bed at night, she imagined the load of the glass and calculated the weight and curve required so the entire edifice did not fold like a paper house in a storm.
Her weekdays were filled with tedious social visits and activity, but every Saturday afternoon she ran her palm over wooden arches to gauge their angle, not to pretend they were pretty.She counted pillars and spoke of the weight of lead tiles with someone who calculated sums almost as fast as she did herself.Their afternoons felt unhurried despite their brevity.If only they could stretch into eternity.
And if only she would always be blessed with good days for Saturdays.
Today was not one of those.It was after twelve before she found the stamina to pull herself upright, out of a laudanum haze and into the day.Last night had been unkind to her.She’d lain in bed with a new copy of theArt Journal, determined to finish the latest issue so she could match Johannes’s knowledge.When she had drifted off, it had been into a heavy, unmoving sleep, but her shoulder had woken her well before dawn, screaming and stiff.Then her knee had joined its complaints.She had tried to resist laudanum, in case she slept through the entire day, but her pain had swallowed her.Now she moved with forced focus to fasten buttons and fix her hair.She had chosen an older, more comfortable dress, plainer than she’d like, but with a slightly stretched weave that made movement easier.As she slipped the last pin into her hair, her mother tapped at the door.
‘Where are you going?’Mama asked.
‘To my drawing society.As I do every Saturday afternoon.’
‘With the assistant?’
‘He is also a member of the society.’Florence fluffed her skirt and smoothed the sash at her hip.‘I am a grown woman, Mama, and a widowed one at that.There is nothing inappropriate about walking with Johannes… I mean, Mr Hempel.My virtue is long gone.’
Despite herself, Florence cowed under Mama’s stare.‘Just ensure itstaysappropriate.You need a husband who can provide for you.Not one who will offer you a future of serving drinks from behind a bar.’
‘Behind a bar?Mama, it’s not that kind of hotel.’
Her mother grunted.‘Keep things appropriate.’
Florence brushed past her.She took the stairs, one at a time as always.
Left right.Left right.
Johannes was already waiting by the entrance.As she reached the lower steps, he beamed, his smile brighter than normal.
‘What grand adventure do we have in store for today?’she whispered.She should really wait until they were clear of the house, but she couldn’t contain her excitement.‘A palace on the Thames?A new development out of town?’
He chuckled, cad that he was.He always kept their destination a secret until they reached it.‘Something a little less ostentatious, but still special.I think so, anyway.I hope you like it as much as I do.It’s a bit of a walk.Are you warm enough?’
Florence fastened her top button, then nodded.‘Lead on.’
For a while, they ambled beside one another in comfortable silence.Johannes started to fidget as they crossed from the business district into the more sedate boulevards of Park Lane.He spoke in a rush, all broken sentences, stammering as if he were searching for words like crumbs.Oh, this one was clearly special to him.Maybe more special than the sandstone mansion near his home.His energy radiated from each finger tap against her bicep, and she felt it in the way he pulled back each step to align with hers.They turned down a quieter street, then around a corner, coming to a halt in front of a villa of red and brown brick.Brass letters curved around a white arched portico, spellingASTER.As Johannes climbed onto the first step, the door opened and a man in a crisply tailored black uniform with gold embroidery emerged to hold it wide for them.
‘I don’t know if you’ll like this one,’ Johannes called over his shoulder.‘But I hope you do.’
He shook out his coat with a different type of ease than he normally approached the city with.He nodded or greeted every staff member as well as the occasional lady or gent in lush silks and tailored suits.
Florence did not have Johannes’s easy grasp of construction methods and styles that allowed him to rattle off that this part of a building was Tudor, whereas the wings were Gothic, that this was a poor addition, but he liked another one.In Sydney, anything old that didn’t meet new needs was simply demolished and replaced, and buildings rose in single styles, with ample room for grandeur or practicality as necessary.London, in contrast, layered its constructions as it layered its people, prioritising them and giving some spaces more care and attention.This building had stone stairs, a stucco entry, and red brick walls.Inside the entrance, new dados gleamed with fresh, bright paint and above them, thick wood-blocked wallpaper ran to the plaster architraves.
He leant into her.‘Everyone likes the Mayfair hotel the best.It was the first one, and Father still runs it like he always has, with his obsession for detail.Its reputation is what matters, I suppose.This one came second—we opened it when I was about seventeen.It is less ornamental and priced a little more reasonably, so it attracts a different clientele.Maybe that’s why I like it better here.’
A man dressed in black, but with a slightly different collar and a more confident air than the doorman, greeted Johannes.He spoke softly to him—too low for her to hear—and Johannes nodded.
