Page 21 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
Her heart had settled into the same measured pace as the melody of the piano, but at Johannes’s question, it began to beat frantically, like a marching band.The balcony.The naïve were compromised in such places.Liaisons were begun and reputations ruined.Only foolish young women agreed to be whisked off to such places.
‘I would love to,’ she said.
Her hand enveloped in his, Johannes carved a path to the back of the room, then along its edges.If heads turned to follow them, she did not notice, keeping her focus steady on his broad back.Her knees and back protested the speed at which he moved, but she forced herself to keep pace.Tomorrow she could be old and complain about her joints.Tonight, she would be young.
At the far end, they stepped through wide, unlatched French doors and out onto the balcony.Johannes stopped beside the balustrade, and Florence joined him to look out over the lush gardens below.Amidst the shadowed bushes, light split by the crystal chandeliers danced to the same rhythm as Cassius’s tune.Miss Delaney was singing now, as superb as a songbird.
Johannes threw Florence a glance, parted his lips, then looked away.She tried to form some sentence to cut through the awkwardness, but nothing sprang to mind.
‘I have a confession,’ he finally said.He took her hand.‘I think of you more than I should.I enjoy your company beyond friendship.Every Monday, I can’t help but feel a slight dread that at one of the gatherings you’ve attended the previous week, you have met a man who delights in your presence, who you’ll want to spend time with, instead of meeting with me.I was hoping that I might be able to make a small claim upon your attention.Perhaps I might call on you outside of working hours?Or even just when you go out, would you keep in mind that I am very fond of you and would cherish the opportunity for a little more of your—’
Maybe it was the moon or the breeze or the melody—or even his bumbling hesitation.All of it left her both bold and terrified.He offered a prospect she was not ready to talk about, and she could not contemplate another word of his raw confession.And so, with an overly eager lunge, Florence kissed Johannes.
He tasted sweet, so sweet, of cold air and crisp champagne.His arms wrapped around her in an instant, like he’d been practising the motion in his mind.He pulled her against his chest and tilted into their embrace, lips parting, tongue searching.The man with the unsteady words was gone, replaced by the man who was kissing her now, confident and daring.Florence let her hands relax against his chest so her palms cradled the firmness of his body.With a tiny grunt, he drew her closer.His arm pinched her skin, and as a sharp pain shot through her shoulder, her anguished cry splintered the magic.
Johannes released her.‘Florence?What happened?’
‘I shouldn’t have done that.I’m sorry, I—I can’t do this.’She stumbled back, and he took a step to follow.His eyes blazed with hurt even as he reached for her.‘I can’t forget George.I can’t… I can’t be married again.’
And even though it hurt like the blazes, she ran, limbs lopsided and pathetic.Back into the Palladian and down the front stairs, so fast she almost fell onto the main street.
Then, trembling with agony, she hailed a cab to take her home.
Chapter Ten
Allthroughtheworkday,Johannes cast sidelong looks at his employer to try to determine if he had made some career-ending mistake.But Mr Holt behaved as usual, revealing no sign of pleasure or displeasure with his work.Still recovering from his chill, he occasionally spluttered into his handkerchief while he set tasks, appraised drawings and calculations, and made comment.No accusation came.And why should he, Johannes, feel any guilt?Florence was not a young maid under her father’s protection.She was a widow, her own woman.Or at least she had been, for a time.He had only confessed his burgeoning feelings.He had merely asked leave to call on her in a different capacity.
Shehad kissedhim.
When she had not appeared in the office by two o’clock, he accepted that the Society for the Appreciation of New and Old Architecture would not be meeting that week—or, perhaps, ever again.Johannes packed up his pens and slipped them into his leather folder.At the door, he ran into Mrs Holt.
‘Heading home, Johannes?’
‘I’m going to drop in on the hotel first,’ he said, shrugging on his coat.
‘Your parents’ inn?’she asked.
‘Inn?I’ll admit, it’s not as fancy as the one in Mayfair, but I wouldn’t quite call it an inn.’Perhaps all accommodations were called inns in Australia.Perhaps that was all they had over there.‘The Hotel Aster,’ he explained, as Mrs Holt frowned.She opened and closed her mouth a little, like she was chewing over his words.‘Not the main one, the smaller one in Park Lane.It’s on my way home, so my father asked me to call in and check on things.He often asks when he is busy, and with my sister nearing her confinement, he’s relying on me a little more.’Johannes put on his hat and, with a nod of farewell, set off into the city.
He trudged through the slush of melted snow, dirty with soot and grime, to try to shake his melancholy, but to no avail.With his misery still clinging to his coattails, he made for the hotel.It was just after five o’clock by the time he stepped into the foyer of the Park Lane Aster.Guests were gathering in the dining room.There seemed to be more of them than usual, even for this time of year when the weather was warming up.Some would have a drink or take tea before heading out to the theatre or another show, while others would dine at six o’clock and turn in early.
Many of the tables were filled with well-dressed couples and small groups, and one very large gathering filled up the back of the room.A banquet had been assembled from smaller tables, stretching all the way from below the windows to the far wall.Men in fine suits gathered around the table, packed so tight the backs of their chairs rubbed against one another.
‘Are they all staying in rooms?’Johannes asked the concierge Matteo.
‘The large group is just dining,’ Matteo said.‘They did not have a reservation, but we were able to accommodate them.All lords and gentlemen, by the looks of things.’
‘Peers?Don’t extend them credit.Make sure they pay their bill before they leave.’Johannes scanned the guest register.Not full, but almost.Father would be happy.Park Lane was becoming almost as sought after as Mayfair.Johannes cast another glance into the dining room, then set off to do the rounds.
Father had a fixed way for how he liked things done.His way.Normally, the rigid order of tasks, numbers to collate, and questions to ask of staff soothed Johannes, but tonight, falling into familiarity grated.Too much automation gave too much space to thought.
That kiss.Full of life and passion.So eager that, for a deluded tick of the clock, he’d thought he wasn’t alone in his longing.That a tie bound them together.That all it would take was for him to unlatch his feelings, and she would be free to meet him.More than passion or lust, it had been a kiss to come home to.She’d felt like she belonged in his arms.So why had she pulled away?Why would she run?He should not have expected to come anywhere else than second place, but to lose to a dead man?That was an injury that smarted.No matter how hard he tried, he could never match up.But that was him.Always second.Always behind.
Rounds finished, information gathered, questions answered, and papers signed, Johannes settled down in the dining room.He ordered a drink in the hope that it would swallow a bit of his brooding before he returned home.The tables of couples had emptied out, and the group of gents was talking and laughing louder than before.Their plates were almost empty, and dozens of wine bottles lined the length of their table.Maybe he’d hang around long enough to make sure they paid.Matteo was good, but a little support never hurt.
He was grumbling into his second gin sour when Florence appeared, as if he’d pulled her straight from his frayed thoughts.Not the woman from the night before, but just herself.Wearing her simple house dress and with a spot of ink smudged on her cheek.
He kicked out a chair.‘Would you like a drink?Tea, gin, champagne?We have the second best of everything here.’He tipped back the last of his drink.‘Must be why I like it so much.’
