Page 18 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
Johannes basked in the warmth of her praise.Her eyes, those ever-darting, blueprint-bright eyes swept over the house plan.
‘The reason we persist is that we have no choice.If we don’t draw, if we don’t create, if we don’t try, who would we be?Because if we didn’t, a part of us would die.That’s why.’With a determined nod, she lowered herself into her father’s chair, pulled the quantities book closer, and took up a pen.‘Maybe things will be different this time,’ she announced.‘After all, they keep going out to competition.It must be for a reason.Maybe Mr Harris has grown lazy, and this time, he will be no match for you.’
‘I very much doubt it.Like you say, we lack the name and the connections, and—’
‘Hope.’She dipped the nib in the ink.Just before she touched it to the page, she looked up.‘If people like you and I don’t have hope, then they have won.Give them everything.But don’t give them that.’
Watching Florence work was like watching a magician who conjured pounds and pence.She broke down the components of his vision into square feet and inches of wood, tiles, bricks, and plaster.Then she re-cast it into a balance sheet of beautiful economy.She scrawled sums, stretched formulas across the page, tallied them, and left little notes in the margins.Reducing his vision to pounds and shillings tested his heart and his head, but Florence coaxed it all into balance.
‘Pine or oak?’she asked.
‘Oak would look nicer,’ he replied.
‘Pine is less expensive.’She tapped the end of the pen against the table.‘Your cottage is currently sitting at £186.’
Johannes pressed his forehead into his palms.Too much economy and his design would be lacklustre and wouldn’t impress the judges.Too little and he’d price the work so high that he’d be accused of ostentation.They wouldn’t even bother to unroll their submission.
His watch slid the hour over.The church bell gonged three singular warnings.And he still had to make his way across town and register his plan before six o’clock.Johannes dragged his chair across the room and planted it beside Florence.He leant in and scanned her list.
‘It’s the last thing I need to price,’ she muttered.‘Paint it, and the sun will shine off the gloss.No one will know the difference.’
She wiped a stray hair from her face.An absent-minded spot of ink marked her cheek.Heavy with the weight of the day, his mind clunked with the comparison.She was right, yet his heart screamedoak.
Johannes took one last look at the plan, then closed his eyes.He pulled the lines into his mind and let them stack and build themselves in his imagination until they stood firm enough to create a door with hinges that swung and stairs to climb.He stepped forwards and turned the handle.Walked into the building.Cast his glance into the front rooms, down the hall to the family rooms, then kept going until he reached the stairs.He looked down at the banister beneath his fingers.
Johannes opened his eyes.
‘Oak,’ he said.‘I know it seems like too much, but the woodgrain, the rings of age, and the honesty of it matter.The family needs to traverse a stairway made of that to ground them in the world.It can’t be wrought iron or painted pine.It must be oak.’
He leant over and scanned her sheet, looking for somewhere to create a little economy.‘Change the tiles in the washrooms.The tiles can be plain, not painted.’
She huffed, struck out the offending number, mumbled something like,I suggested as much earlier,as she scribbled a new figure, then set to tallying the columns.Finally, she slid the sheet across the desk.‘I will leave the presentation to you, but there you have it.A beautiful overseer’s cottage on a company budget.’
Her eyes shone with achievement.The dot on her cheek had smeared, and thin curls had escaped from her braid.When her soft pink lips parted on a sigh of fatigue, he let himself linger on them for too long.They sat side by side, both touching the paper, and he flexed his fingers, tentatively reaching across to find hers.
‘My neighbour Miss Delaney is hosting a musicale at her home this Friday.Would you like to accompany me?’
‘Is this a special excursion for the society?’
‘No.This is me wanting to spend more time with a woman whose company I enjoy.To perhaps get to know you a little better.’
‘I… I am not sure we should…’
‘Her house is the Italian Palladian.It’s an excellent example of its type.’
Florence bit her lip, but the grin she was clearly trying to suppress persisted.‘I’ve never been inside a Palladian,’ she whispered.‘Are the floors marble?How tall are the ceilings?’
‘Why don’t you accept my invitation and discover the answers for yourself?’
She nodded once, in slow commitment.
Johannes scrawled the address onto one of the scrap sheets of paper.‘Wonderful.I will see you on Honeysuckle Street at eight.’
Chapter Nine
‘Whenwasitconstructed?’Florence leant out through the cab window to better inspect the mansion.
‘Good evening, Mrs Murray,’ Johannes said, smirking.‘It’s nice to see you too.’
