Page 31 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
Johannes took up the pen again, and each line he drew carried a little more purpose than those he’d scratched out through a creative flurry.Maybe the archway should be more predictable.He could add a touch of gothic.He could not cling to his ideologies, to his vision for grander commissions.They needed to win, even if winning meant compromise.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Ofalltheplacesto be on a Saturday afternoon.Of course you are here.’Florence tried to keep her tone serious as she addressed Johannes’s broad back.
He spun around and gave her a slow smile.‘As are you.I thought all of this would be too old-fashioned for a modern mind like yours.’
‘I can make an exception for Soane,’ she replied.
‘Everyone makes an exception for Soane.’
After they’d finished the half-day Saturday at work, she had taken a cab here, to the John Soane Museum.Through one of his feverish mutterings, her father had explained that if she wanted to understand skylights and windows, she had to meet the old master of light, so she had come to learn what she could.Florence plucked at the stitched binding of her folder.Inside it, she carried sketches of pediments and acanthus leaves, of busts reflected in the mirror, of vases and wood cabinets, and—as impossible as it seemed—lines and lines of light.Of course she had found Johannes in the preserved home of the celebrated architect, the man who’d designed for kings and prime ministers, who had re-created most of the Bank of England.And even after spending all week and the morning together, her heart beat a little faster and her spirits lifted at the sight of him.
‘I am pleased you found your way here,’ he said, slipping once again into his warm, lazy drawl.‘I had it on my list of places to show you, before…’
As his words trailed off, the light awkwardness tumbled into discomfort, heavy and tense.Oh heavens, what was he going to say?Beforewhat?Before I took you upstairs?Before you rode my mouth until you screamed?Before your mother learnt about my family and her prattling ruined everything?
‘Before we became so busy with the competition,’ he continued, each word deliberate and dangerously smooth.‘You can’t understand this city if you don’t know Soane.’
He offered his elbow.She took it and allowed him to lead the way.She had to squeeze close to him as they rounded corners, but despite his size, he had a way of creating pockets just for her.Along the corridors, he released her to follow at will, and when they reached the long circuitous stairway bathed in light from the domed skylight above, he matched his step to hers.Left right.Left right.As they moved, he studied the walls intently, paused by each painting, and dipped into an alcove to examine the bust of Shakespeare with a startling nonchalance.Was he making busy so she didn’t feel awkward for her slow pace?Or was he genuinely so lost in the world of the master architect that he slowed to a crawl?
‘It’s a crazy thought, isn’t it?’He climbed the last few steps to the landing where she was waiting.‘For an architect to have his entire life frozen like this.Not a king or a queen or anyone that important.Just a man with a pen and a plan.To become such an influence that not even death erases your place in the world.That people want to see where you used to eat breakfast.’
‘Is that what you want?’she asked, as she slotted into the comfortable bend of his elbow.‘To be immortal?’
He shrugged.‘Everyone wants to leave their mark.To leave a legacy.’
‘What is this obsession men have with their legacy?’She bumped against him with a laugh.‘You sound like Father.In Australia, he always spoke of being remembered for his work and designing something magnificent.But then a contract for a civic building went to someone else, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never win a prestigious contract.He had to take on work designing something simple that gathered no attention from the press.Or the client liked theideaof an architect but had no imagination to support a grand design, and he had to alter his vision to suit.He never had the luxury of holding out for work that was worthy of his skill.His portfolio is a mix of aspirations trimmed by his clients’ lack of ambition and government efficiency.’
‘He’s an excellent teacher, even if he’s particular.I’m grateful for how patient he is.’
‘Not your experience of being articled?’she asked.
‘Mr Goodman did at leastteachme something.Not everyone has that luck, especially when they lack connections.Many an aspirational family are completely swindled by men who promise an education but deliver nothing.Yet, I cannot help but think that maybe I’d be further along in my career if I’d had a more determined teacher.But walking through here, seeing the master’s work, I also wonder… would it matter?Am I good enough to even contemplate such a thing?I mean…’ Johannes gestured upwards, his eyes softening in reverence as his gaze followed his hand.‘This.It’s extraordinary.’
Florence placed a steadying hand on a doorframe.Slowly, so that her shoulder didn’t bite at the sudden movement, she peered into the light-filled cavity, her eyes flitting and dancing about.Light spilled from the ceiling, filled recesses, and threw shadows over the carved plaster casts and reliefs that adorned the stairwell all the way up to the skylight two stories above.Rays of sunshine licked the precise curve of a mundane pot handle, dripped over air bubbles set in the plaster, and highlighted lines where brushes had been used to neaten the work.Each ornament sat in conversation with another: faces, flowers, flourishes—so many models covered almost every last inch of wall.It was as if someone had opened a reference book and flung all the illustrations into physical space.
‘It’s like a mind’s jumble turned to order, but with walls, hooks, and nails.Crowded perfection.Beneath it all, I bet it’s a mess.’
Like me.Hidden beneath the precision were rough nails and hand-curved hooks.No beauty, only solid metal driven into heavy wooden beams.Florence absorbed the sheer glory of it, let her eyes drain the walls of their wonder until her gaze fell on Johannes.He was watching her, smiling, and she smiled back.The clock in the hall struck five times.She tucked her folder against her chest.
‘Don’t go,’ he said.‘Stay out a little longer.We only ever talk about work.The last two times I tried to offer you a drink, we were interrupted.Can we try again?Third time’s the charm?And no Water Company talk.Just us.’
Florence hugged the folder tighter.‘I do not wish to go to a hotel, even one as beautiful as the Aster.I…’ She fumbled for an excuse.He was too charming, his attention too enchanting, and spending more time with Johannes would not end well.‘I am not in the mood to sit and be polite and proper, but thank you—’
‘What if I took you somewhere deplorable?The sort of place only irresponsible young people go?’
‘Not the best champagne in town?’
‘The opposite.I’d say it’s the worst ale in London, but calling it ale might be too hefty a compliment.The gin will strip your throat, and the wine will make you cry.’
‘If it’s so terrible, why do people go there?’
‘For the gambling.To make bad business deals.To meet with unsavoury types.’He smirked like he knew he was reeling her in.‘Think of it as theotherside of London.’
Confound him.‘One drink.Do you understand?One.’
As far as architectural design went, The Bee and Daisy had no redeeming qualities.Neither of them could tell if the roof was lopsided or straight, but the walls were definitely crooked.It reeked of the river, the ale tasted of sour piss, and had it not been for Johannes’s towering protection, Florence would undoubtedly have been thrown into the Thames when she asked for a clean tankard after her first one was greasy around the mouth.Men hunched protectively over their conversations, and even the air smelt like it was suspicious and spoiling for a fight.
