Page 16 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
‘I need to see to something.It will save Father a trip across town.I’ll only be a moment.Would you like tea?’
‘Coffee?’Florence dragged her gaze from the architraves back to Johannes.‘If it’s no bother?’
He smiled in response.And what a smile.He didn’t smile broadly often, but when he did, every stern edge of him disappeared and a gentle light flooded the little creases around his eyes.They spoke much more than he did, as if to say,nothing is a bother for you.He gestured through the archway.‘One of the staff will set a table, but look around first, if you like.I shan’t be long.’
Then he departed.Florence felt strangely out of place.In a small way, the office beneath her home was still her domain.The places he took her to were there for her consideration and assessment.But this washisworld.A world of people who followed orders, who wore the hotel crest on their waistcoats, of people with impeccable poise and manners that would be of little use in Sydney, let alone in the reaches beyond.Nothing in her life compared to a place like this.And Park Lane was the lesser of the two hotels, with the other catering to a more exclusive set again.Johannes lived on a precipice of wealth and service.Not a world turned on its head, but a world of possibilities.
The concierge who had spoken to Johannes returned to stand behind the desk.He leant closer to the doorman, and when he spoke, his voice was only a little clearer than a mumble.‘Lady Deveraux has returned for the spring.Do you think he’s noticed?’
The doorman snorted, his eyes darting towards the tearoom.‘She has certainly noticed him.’
No matter how low the funds in their coffers, or if they found themselves in dusty streets on the opposite side of the world when their husbands took posts in the far reaches of empire—there was a way that aladyheld herself that differed from how a woman of mere wealth did.In Sydney and Melbourne, her mother had always been able to point them out to Florence as they sat in the blazing sun, watching another foundation stone being laid or building opened.There, they were the wives of important government officials or senior army officers.And the woman sitting in the sunlit tearoom carried herself with the same air.
She held her cup delicately between thumb and forefinger, balancing the saucer in her other hand as she sipped, then replaced the cup on the saucer, perfectly in the centre.She flicked a glance at the arch, swept the foyer with her eyes, then turned her attention back to her tea.Everything about her radiated beauty, from her clear eyes to her thin fingers to her ebony hair.No freckles dusted across her nose, nor ink smudged around her fingernails.And, undoubtedly, no white raised scars ran across her back either.
Was this the woman Johannes had sketched?She certainly had the same thin bone structure as the woman on the page, the same confident poise, that subtle elegance.A shard of jealousy cut deeply through Florence.And for what?For the woman’s perfect body?Her independent wealth?Or for her place in Johannes’s bed?
Ridiculous.Stop being ridiculous.
‘Perhaps we might see young Hempel here more often, like last year.Might be prudent to keep his favourite room available in case he decides to work nights again.’Both men sniggered, then straightened and suppressed their grins as Johannes rounded the corner and stepped back into the entry hall.
‘What do you think?’he asked, beaming.
‘It’s none of my business,’ she blurted out, and when he raised his brows in apparent confusion, she added, ‘Of what?’
‘The windows, of course.How could you miss them?’And he took her hand and led her into the dining room.
The ceiling settled a little lower in this room than in the foyer, and the wood panelling was a little darker, so the place felt close and warm.Across the length of the wall that faced the street, weak light filtered through hundreds of small circular windows encased in lead frames.Blurred at the circumference, the glass centred to a small dot of clarity that provided a pinhole view to the outside world.The effect was mesmerising as indistinct shapes shifted and faded behind the glass, yet yellow light streamed in.
‘Did you make them?’she asked.
He shook his head.‘I tried, but leadlight and glasswork is not my forte.My hands have none of the skill of those craftsmen, no matter how many hours I devote to studying their techniques.There is nothing so useful as learning a craft alongside a master, like a father would have taught his son.’He tapped the frame.‘The glass is called rondels.Each individual circle would have been cast by a glassmaker.I don’t know how old they are.A hundred years?Maybe two hundred?This place was so run down when we bought it, and it’s not easy to work out how old things are, especially if they’ve been repaired.’
Florence ran her gloved finger across the indent between the glass and the lead outline.
‘It’s better if you touch it directly.Without gloves.’He spoke in that soft, low grumble, like a sleeping lion, all repose and contained strength.He loosened each finger before sliding his own glove free in a single, confident movement.Like all of Johannes, his hands were firm, built from labour and hard as oak.He trailed a finger across a wooden scroll and stroked a carved flower as lightly as a lover’s caress.A yellow pane of glass cast a buttery hue over his skin, melting the nicks and scars left behind by his work into nothing.
Florence removed a glove.She traced the surface with her fingertips, all of it as slick as silk or marble instead of wood that had once been rough and full of splinters.The frames had been polished to softness through years of wiping, dusting, and care, layers of human activity laid over the craftsmen’s skills over again.A story of ordinary people passing through time had embedded itself into these windows.
‘This part was cracked.’Johannes tapped at an upright length.‘I had to find the right joint to remove, then try to cut the same way to replace it.It took an entire day to get the joinery right.’
‘You can barely tell,’ she said, not minding the wonder that seeped into her voice.
‘I think it’s better when you can’t tell what’s new at first glance but when you look closer, you can.It feels more honest.I know it seems odd to take pride in something I didn’t make, that I only repaired.But I can’t help it.Father was going to pull them all out and replace them with something from a factory, but I convinced him to let me try to save them.It’s much nicer, don’t you think?’
‘They’re beautiful.Truly.’And even though it was bold and brazen, she placed her hand over his.His skin was as rough as she’d imagined, and yet when he squeezed her fingers, his touch was as tender as sea foam.Who knew how many women watched him?It did not matter as his eyes did not wander.She broke his gaze to lower her arm and slip her glove back on but moved too fast.Her shoulder caught, and a sharp shot of pain flashed from her neck to her elbow, screaming the truth she had been lulled into forgetting—that she wasnotwhole and beautiful.She was broken.Broken and in need of someone to care for her, as the world made no space for a woman like her to hold even a pebble for herself.
He frowned at her gasp, then brightened as she pinned on her bravest smile.There was no denying it now.He had not even shot a glance at Lady Deveraux, nor any of the other women in the dining room.He likedher.
How simple a solution Johannes was.The man had landed on her doorstep.He was kind and temperate and had the means to support a wife.When she struggled, he would call on doctors, hire nurses or maids as she needed them, maybe rearrange their house so that she did not have to climb the stairs a dozen times a day.He would let her work in an office with him.He’d ask her to colour his plans.
And when her body ached too much, when she asked for him to leave her to sleep and not come to her bed, he would brush her hair and kiss her brow and leave her to warm milk and laudanum.
But after that?When two or three bad nights became twenty?Thirty?Would he remain so calm and understanding?He wouldn’t have to walk the streets by the docks or make his way to the known houses in the Rocks like George had.He could just come here and sit in the dining room and twist his drink until he caught someone’s eye, or she his.No grotty alley walls, just a favourite room in a fancy hotel.He wouldn’t come home smelling of sweat and cheap rose water, but of champagne and French perfume.
‘I promised my mother I would help her with some correspondence.I had best go,’ she said.
‘But the coffee.It’s very good.My father loves coffee, and he insists on the best.’
