Page 25 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
He tucked her into his side.Tugged at the blanket and sheets and folded them beneath the heavy quilt.‘I feel sleepy,’ he said and kissed her temple.‘You don’t have to feel much more than that.’
Florence settled against him.Sleepy.That was a feeling she could manage.She stroked the soft fuzz of his chest until his breathing changed.
From Miss Holt to Mrs Murray… Could she contemplate a future as Mrs Hempel?
Chapter Twelve
Johannesshookouthiscoat.Flecks of sleet dropped onto the boards in the entrance to the office, then melted into tiny dots.He hung up his hat, his coat, then raked his fingers through his hair.Checked his shirt buttons and necktie for the hundredth time.
He should have sent her a note.Something, anything, to acknowledge their night together.And he had tried.He had sat in the courtyard with his folder, intending to compose a note… but instead he’d sat staring at his mute pencil.His brain could only string together scattered phrases, likeyou were more than just a night,likeI miss you, meet me in the park,likeI’ll whisk you through the staff entrance, and we can do it all again because every time I close my eyes, all I see is your face, and every time I breathe, it’s you I inhale, and my tongue, it only tastes…
He could hardly putanyof that into a note.
He just wasn’t one for words.
‘Wear the dress you wore to the gardens.You look so lovely in that one.’
‘Mama, please.I can choose my own dress.’
In the Monday morning quiet of the office, Florence and her mother’s voices tiptoed down the stairs.Johannes smiled to himself.He loved the sound of her voice, even while she was sparring with her mother.Especially here, where she was most comfortable.It seemed a little rougher and less refined.How had she sounded when she’d been living in Sydney?Had her accent been stronger there?He pulled the door closed—carefully—and unthreaded the top button of his coat.
‘There will be ladies coming to town in the spring.Younger than you and fresh debutantes.You need to spend more time with him.I’ve seen how he looks at you.’
Johannes’s fingers slowed.
‘I thought you warned me to stay away.You said you didn’t want me married to the son of an innkeeper.’
‘He is not the son of an innkeeper, as well you know.I asked the ladies after church, and they said the family was the newest money in town, but that there was plenty of money.What is his allowance?’
‘Mama!Could you be less garish?We don’t talk about such things.’
The joy, the light, the nervous energy that had been buzzing beneath his skin fizzled to damp.His heart thumped in his chest, heavy and sad, cracking in soft silence like ice on the edge of a pond.
Money.They wanted the money.
It was better than what had happened to Rosie, he supposed.Being hunted for her income for all those years had made her so paranoid she couldn’t tell a coward from a cad.Better he found out now than when he was properly lost.
But oh, his chest ached.
Johannes opened the door and shut it, loudly this time, so that its clap echoed and broke their prattling.Normally, he tried to walk gently, aware of the noise he made without trying.But what was the point in being quiet?
‘I didn’t hear the door.’Mr Holt swept his pencil across his desk in a long arc as Johannes entered the office.He waved dismissively at a small pile of drawings.‘The colours on these need to be darker.The client has poor eyesight.’
‘Yes, sir.’Johannes crossed the room and gathered the papers into a stack.A small cough rose from behind him, and curse his poor heart, it began to race.He focused on the papers, but just as his pulse had betrayed him with its anticipation, so did his mouth by going dry, and his traitorous eyes darted to her for just a sliver—a sliver that nearly brought him undone.
Why did she have to be so lovely?Why, on a day when the ice whipped around in flurries and the chill sneaked between the windows, did she have to look so inviting and comforting?Why did his memory taunt him with how yielding, how tender she had been, how luscious her body, how hungry her kisses?
Johannes picked up the papers and kept his head bowed as he returned to his desk.He opened his watercolours and added a drop of water to the shades he needed.Green, yellow, blue, red.He adjusted the pen nib and dipped it in the yellow.
‘Turn up the lamps, Florence,’ Mr Holt called from his desk.‘The clouds have come over.Looks like winter isn’t done with us yet.’
The lamps flared.Tepid light filled the office.
Mr Holt nodded in satisfaction.‘Not as good as a sunny day, but they will suffice.’
‘Mother asked if you would see her.She’s replying to Mrs Battersea about a party, and she’d like to know if you will look over her phrasing.She says it’s been some time since she’s addressed the wife of a gentleman.She’d like to be certain she’s correct.’
Mr Holt rolled his eyes, but pushed himself back from his desk.He tutted to himself as he left until his mild annoyance was replaced with his step and the squeak of the stairs.Florence pulled her shawl tighter and rubbed her palms together.
