Page 26 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
‘Are you cold?’Johannes asked.
She nodded.‘Winter does seem to have decided to give us one last shake, hasn’t she?’
He pushed himself from his seat and took the few steps to the furnace, where he crouched down.Anger and pity rolled and writhed inside him, all of it indistinct bubbles and a mass of feeling, none of it resolving into words.He wanted to rail and shout but couldn’t, not at his employer’s daughter in his employer’s office.He opened the cast iron door and threw in another lump of coal.Metal squeaked on metal as he fixed the door closed again.
‘I was going to send you a note, but my mother insisted I go calling with her.And she is so strict on Sundays.’
Johannes returned to his desk.
‘You looked so peaceful sleeping that I couldn’t wake you.I didn’t think it wise to stay until morning.’Her skirts whispered along the wood as she approached.‘Is something amiss?I don’t normally behave like I did with you.I’ve never done such a thing, never been so bold in my life.And yesterday, I… I missed you.I couldn’t wait for it to be Monday.’
‘Please stop taunting me,’ he whispered.
‘Taunting you?I’m trying to tell you that I’d like to spend more time with you.If you wanted to call on me, like you said in the gardens at Miss Delaney’s, I… I’d like that.’
This was too much.‘Was it all just a play?’
‘A play?’She came so close that her faint shadow fell over his desk, and her soap and orange water filled his air.‘I’m trying to tell you that I’d like you to court me.’
‘Me?Or my money?’This time, when he dared to look up, he was fortified by his anger, and his resolve held.‘I heard you and your mother.You were just trying to find a rich husband.Has that been the plan all along?’
‘You think that’s why I went upstairs with you?’Her eyes shone with hurt, and part of him took a selfish satisfaction in seeing her as wounded as he felt.But her sadness twisted, and when she next spoke, her voice was as low and cold as the wind.‘You are a cad.How dare you.’
‘We are the newest money in town.Iheardyou.’
‘And money is a terrible thing for a woman to consider, is it?It’s wrong to long for stability?You and your simpler times before industry, when the world was better… yet you refuse to look beyond the surface of your ideas because it does not suit you to reconcile people like me.’
They stared at each other, holding bitter daggers.The furnace cracked as a gust of wind filled the flu and ash clicked against its sides.Florence looked away first.For a moment, his anger faltered as she closed her eyes, drew a slow breath, then shook her head.‘I should have known,’ she muttered, and before he could let the crack widen enough to ask whatpeople like hermeant, a shout came from down the hall.
‘Surely not.’Mr Holt entered the room in a fluster, a copy ofThe Architect and Builderheld open at arm’s length.He grabbed his spectacles off his desk, pushed them on, and pulled the paper so close it almost touched his nose.‘Eureka!’He looked up, eyes darting fast between them.‘Mr Harris is no longer the New Water Company’s chief architect.’
Florence took the magazine from him and scanned the page.‘Father, the poor man died.’
‘The details are not important.’Mr Holt snatched the booklet back and ran his finger over the page.‘Whatisimportant is that they are reviewing all his plans and holding a competition for the design of their new offices.A victory on this scale will change everything.It will bolster our name, bring in steady commissions, private clients… no more competitions unless we choose to enter.And Florence.We can pay the surgeon.He can fix you.’
Fix her?
Florence kept her focus on the magazine.‘How can you be so certain you are going to win?’she asked.
‘Because I am going to bribe one of the judges.Don’t look at me like that,’ Mr Holt chided his daughter.‘This is just how this place with its infernal system works.And for once, I have a contact, but if he is going to use his influence to convince the others, we must give him something worth fighting for.Something grand, a well-designed, functional office, that makes a statement about the company and its future.The winning plans will be published.There will be much public interest in this.The entry must be sound.Johannes, find the copies of the last entries we sent in.We need to come up with a list of what they want, what they have selected in the past.And Florence—’
‘Yes?’she looked up from the magazine, her eyes bright with anticipation.
Mr Holt settled into his seat.‘I’d love a cup of tea.’
Chapter Thirteen
Shehatedtheofficenow.Hated it.Hated its windows and lamps, the paper and ink, the smell and sound and light of creation.She hated coming down on some trite errand from her mother and having to potter about between them, remaining silent as they spouted ideas at one another.Pushed aside by her father as he found someone else to assist him—he didn’t even chatter with her in the evenings any longer, just scratched in his notebook and held his own conversation.And Johannes?He’d shut himself off completely.He did not even raise an eyebrow when she entered the room, but stayed hunched over his work.She might as well have been a fixture on the wall.
Florence tried to brush off his condescension, but how could she?Her skin had seared with his touch.His lips had been the breeze that ushered in spring after the longest winter, and his tongue… that had been the wickedest, most fascinating thing of all.Whispering carnal desires one moment, offering nothing but softness and comfort the next, and then, his dexterity with her intimacies…
And now, all he would do was press his lips tight and frown.
She balanced the tea tray on her hip as she placed her father’s cup on the table, then crossed the room to Johannes.He had not replied when she’d asked if he’d like tea, but today, she was too battered by all the grey walls and stern looks to decipher his grunts and frowns.She added lots of milk and two sugars.She didn’t know if that was how he took his tea, but he could do with some sweetening, so that’s what he got.
The cup jiggled against the saucer as she set it on his desk.He was sketching a configuration, maybe of a wing or a cluster of offices, little squares taking shape along the length of a corridor.
‘You can’t have a door there,’ she said.
