Authors: Merryn Allingham
‘I paint when I can,’ she said simply.
‘When your daughters are not at home,’ he suggested.
‘When Edward does not need me.’
The jealousy was in danger of return. ‘I have just visited Onslow Street,’ he said almost casually. ‘Your husband wished to see the final designs. I had thought you would be there. We had an appointment to meet.’
She brushed his reminder aside. ‘And does Mr Renville approve the plans?’
‘I believe so, though his actual words did not suggest strong endorsement.’
‘My husband is not the most effusive of men,’ she conceded, ‘but he would have told you if he had not liked what he saw.’
‘I hope so. He certainly considered them well. At one point I began to wonder if he wished to go ahead with the Exhibition space.’
‘I am sure he does. He is very proud of his business and wants others to share his pride.’
Her championship caused him a swirling irritation. ‘That is hardly to be wondered at,’ he agreed duplicitously. ‘He has built a most successful business.’
‘And from virtually nothing, Mr Royde. When his father died, Edward and his mother were left almost penniless.’
‘Even more admirable,’ he heard himself enthusing. ‘It takes talent as well as capital to achieve such success.’
And he wondered just where Renville had found what must have been a considerable sum of money on which to base that success. He had his suspicions but dared not pursue the subject. Instead he began to open the package of materials.
‘I should be glad of your opinion, Mrs Renville, on my initial choice of colours.’
She took time to examine each sample, taking them one by one to bright daylight and then moving back to the furthest recesses of the room where a paraffin lamp burned dimly.
‘They are completely right,’ she pronounced. ‘You have chosen well.’
‘Would they have been your choice, too?’ His voice had softened and the simple question assumed a strange intimacy.
She flushed but looked directly into his eyes, soft brown meeting warm blue. ‘They are exactly what I would have chosen.’ Then a little hastily, ‘I only hope they will suit the space we have been allocated.’
‘In their raw form, the Exhibition spaces are likely to be identical. These colours, these textures, should attract attention without imposing their presence too loudly.’
‘You have not seen the precise location then?’
‘Not yet, but I need to. Your husband was keen that you also view it, and I have called today to ask if you would care to accompany me.’ That was at least partly true.
‘I would like that very much.’
‘Shall we say next Monday? If it is convenient to you, I will call at ten in the morning.’
‘That will suit perfectly. Edward leaves for his office well before nine, and I will not be needed after that time.’
Lucas was already tired of Edward Renville’s demands and his annoyance only increased when she said in a new and doubtful tone, ‘I am not sure now that Edward will like the materials we have chosen. He may prefer a bolder, more robust scheme.’
‘Your husband was happy to entrust the choice of colours to us, and I think we have chosen well. Did we not envisage this space as wholly feminine?’
She looked a little downhearted. Her husband’s approval seemed depressingly important and he was driven to say, ‘It
is
the right choice. Forgive me, Mrs Renville, but your husband has little of the feminine about him.’
She smiled, ‘No, indeed. That is not an adjective I would ever apply to Edward. But you must not think him harsh.’
Lucas could not prevent his scepticism showing and she continued a little awkwardly, ‘He can sometimes appear so, but that is because he cares greatly for his business and for his family.’
‘I am sure that is true.’ His tone suggested quite other and she appeared to redouble her efforts to convince him. ‘He loves his daughters.’
‘And you?’ he found himself asking.
She looked shocked. ‘Naturally, I am his wife.’
How had they got to this? He must be mad to speak so to her. Yet he knew what impelled him. He knew the loneliness in her, the lack of love that she could not admit. His heart had spoken plainly to hers from the day they met. It was what drove him constantly to seek her out, to hold close the image of her night and day, to feel the thrill, the leaping pulse whenever they met.
They were standing close to each other, a mere hand’s touch away. Her eyes were worried, but there was something else in their depths, a feeling she could not quite conceal. A lock of hair had come loose and fell across her forehead. Without a thought he reached across and gently pushed the lock back into place. She stood without moving and his fingers traced a line from her hair down her cheek to her neck. His hand slid behind her head resting in the softness of her curls. He felt her tremble slightly and he was far from steady. Slowly he brought her closer, his face bending towards hers. His lips were brushing against her forehead, her cheek and then her mouth. Her lips parted slightly, and he fastened his mouth to hers. He felt her body melt and cling. The kiss was long and deep and a wild joy raged through him. He wanted more and more. But she had sprung apart, breathless, her cheeks burning and her hands frantically smoothing her hair into some kind of order.
‘Thank you for showing me the materials, Mr Royde,’ she managed finally, her voice hollow and strained. ‘You must excuse me now, I have much to do. Hetty will see you from the house.’
She opened the door of the studio, and he could do nothing but bow stiffly and walk through it. The door closed behind him before he had taken two steps along the pathway. He had ruined whatever friendship they had. He had ruined any chance of ever seeing her again. How could he have been so utterly imprudent?
* * *
He returned to Great Russell Street in the blackest of moods. He wanted to kick himself and very hard.
‘And how was the delectable Alessia?’ Fontenoy’s jibe roused fury in him, but he would not give the man the satisfaction of knowing he had scored a hit.
‘Mrs Renville is well. You will be pleased to know that both she and her husband have today approved the final plans. I believe I am shortly to work on a different and much larger commission.’
He was glad of the man’s evident disappointment. A different project was unlikely to provide Fontenoy with anywhere near the same excitement. And a different project intimated that Lucas was on his way up the architectural ladder and leaving his meddlesome colleague behind. Fontenoy was not to know that Royde had reduced his world to ashes, destroying any chance of seeing Alessia Renville again.
Try as he might he could not free his mind. He was used to carrying her close to his heart, but now sweet remembrance intermingled with memories of their last catastrophic meeting. How could he have allowed himself to break the unspoken rules of their relationship, to step across that invisible marker both knew and silently acknowledged? Was it the informality of her appearance, the unconventional setting, the shared passion of two artists? He had no idea, only that he could not have stopped himself from kissing her. She had tasted sublime, but she was not his to taste and she’d been swift to remind him. If she told her husband of his encroachment, he could look forward to instant dismissal, not just from the Exhibition project but from de Vere’s itself. Would that be such a blow? Of late he had shamefully neglected his portfolio and leaving the practice would mean the time to create. But it would also mean a drastic loss of income; after two years’ study in the Italian states, his inheritance had dwindled to almost nothing.
And what if knowledge of the incident spread in some way, became gossip, distorted and exaggerated? His reputation would be wrecked. He could forget any chance he might ever have of establishing his own London practice. But it would not happen. Alessia would say nothing. She was angry with him, but she would not risk his whole future. He trusted her, loved her—passionately, deeply, in a way of which Renville was wholly incapable. Life was wretchedly unfair.
‘Royde?’ De Vere had emerged silently from his office. ‘May I have a moment of your time, please?’
Lucas wondered what was coming. Daniel de Vere was looking particularly smart, and a stylish crimson waistcoat and matching cravat lightened the sombre professional black. Whatever mission had engaged his principal that morning, it had been important. He followed him to the inner sanctum and before he had quite closed the door, de Vere had begun speaking again. It was as near eager as Lucas had ever seen him.
‘Today, Royde, I have been consulted by a well-connected gentleman. Very well connected. The Earl of Carlyon no less.’ He paused to allow the name to percolate his junior’s consciousness. ‘You may know that he is the owner of a large estate in Norfolk.’ Lucas did not but thought it better to adopt an expression of mild interest. ‘Lord Carlyon is wishful to undertake some renovation on his estate, in particular the family chapel.’
So this was the new commission, the Gothic renovation Lucas had been anticipating. At least Carlyon was an important man, a man well to the fore of public affairs, and if he had to vandalise beauty, it would be as well to do so in the service of someone who could be of use in his future career.
Unusually de Vere did not take his seat behind the fortress desk but remained standing facing Lucas. He smiled slightly. ‘You may wonder why I have seen fit to involve you in such a prestigious project.’
Lucas’s pride immediately rejected the implication. However junior in the hierarchy of de Vere’s, he knew himself to be their most skilled and creative architect.
‘I have seen how well you have worked in the few months you have been with us and how well you have managed a client who, I must confess, has not been easy. Within the last hour Mr Renville has sent a message to say that he is completely satisfied with your design.’
Was that Alessia’s doing, he wondered—her way of reassuring him that his lapse of good manners would not damage his career?
De Vere was smiling benignly. ‘You deserve to get your teeth into something substantial and the Carlyon chapel will give you the opportunity.’
‘Thank you for your trust, Mr de Vere,’ he murmured. Was that sycophantic enough? ‘Did Lord Carlyon have any particular style in mind?’ There was a vain hope that he might after all be given a blank sheet.
‘He is very open to suggestions and that is always beneficial,’ his employer confided amicably. ‘I think myself that he would be happy with a remodelling in the Gothic style. He seemed to me a gentleman who likes to keep up with current fashion.’
Lucas smiled and executed a respectful bow. The phrase ‘open to suggestions’ hovered before him. If he could employ quiet persuasion, the new Carlyon chapel might emerge as far from Gothic as possible. And if this were the large and important commission it appeared, might he not also be able to influence the client to assign him the work privately? That would be disloyal, but a man who is intent on going places cannot let loyalty get in his way. The Norfolk commission might have come at just the right time. If his design for the Great Exhibition were well received, it would give him the influence he needed to persuade Lord Carlyon that Gothic was outdated and his own ideas, at the forefront of new architecture.
* * *
Monday morning came too quickly. He awoke at six o’clock and lay staring at the mottled ceiling. The question that for days had hung so heavily on him remained unresolved. Should he try to keep the appointment with Alessia or accept that her farewell had been irrevocable? He lay motionless in bed for a long time until the rattles and bangs of his fellow lodgers beginning their separate days grew too loud to ignore. He had to decide. What if she was waiting for him at Prospect Place and he did not arrive? What would she think? And if her husband knew of their appointment, how could he explain his failure to keep it? When he thought more, he was convinced that Edward Renville would know. He had been keen that his wife should view the exact location of the firm’s pavilion and he would be sure to question her. Lucas would have to go to Wisteria Lodge. If she denied herself when he called at the house, he would have his answer. And if she agreed to see him, he would risk her wrath. He could only hope that her anger had since dissipated; he was sure that it was anger directed as much at her own self as at him. She shared in their shame. She had responded to his lovemaking, she had opened her mouth to his, fused her body with his. But he must never again think of such things. It was as a client that he would escort her to Hyde Park.
He dressed slowly and with care, choosing from his small wardrobe the most muted shade of cravat and waistcoat that he possessed. The need to check and recheck his appearance necessitated a walk back and forth to the small mirror which hung slightly askew on the back of the door. On his final trip he glimpsed the reflection of his portfolio languishing in the opposite corner. Every time his eyes had rested on it in recent weeks, he had felt guilty. Creativity had been neglected so that he might devote himself entirely to Alessia Renville. And look what had happened. But perhaps the portfolio could help him on this most difficult of days. She had expressed interest in seeing it, and it might provide a means of diffusing lingering discord.
It was Martha who opened the door, her face assuming her customary disapproval as soon as she recognised the visitor. She left him standing in the hall while she went to find her mistress. Evidently Alessia had made no firm plans to accompany him.
The sound of light steps on the stairs made his heart jump furiously. When she came into view, he saw that she was wearing a plain gown of corded Italian silk, which despite its simplicity did nothing to hide the voluptuous figure beneath.
‘Mr Royde.’ She came forward and shook hands. Her voice was studiedly neutral. ‘I must apologise for Martha’s shortcomings in leaving you standing here. Please come into the drawing room.’
He said nothing and followed her into the joyless space. There was to be no garden room for him that morning, he reflected wryly, only this drab overstuffed chamber with shades of the older Mrs Renville crouching in every corner.