Authors: Merryn Allingham
The maid ushered him out of the house and he started a slow walk back to Great Russell Street. The interview had given him much to ponder. His brief glimpse of the Renville household suggested only too clearly that the older woman wielded considerable power at Prospect Place. Remembering Alessia’s brave attempt to champion his ideas against such formidable opposition, his heart reached out to her. If they were to work on these plans together and without interference, he would have to find a way of seeing her alone.
* * *
The chance came sooner than he thought. The week that followed his visit to Prospect Place was immensely busy with a rush of work deluging the practice and keeping every one of the assistants fully occupied. Each day brought requests from de Vere that they undertake new consultations, research new materials, refashion existing plans. And from the neighbouring office came a welter of yellow sheets heralding queries from the draughtsmen on submissions that were unclear or that needed further work before they could begin final drawings. But even as task followed task in quick succession, Lucas refused to lose sight of the Renville design. His mind continually replayed his conversation with Alessia. He was exhilarated that she had welcomed his plans. She had loved the notion of classical pillars, loved the swathes of luxurious silk, loved the sense of magical space. It would be a true bower, he decided, with Alessia at its centre. She would not be dressed in the stiff brocades and satins of Victorian England but in the soft gauzes of a hotter clime, gauzes that clung to her figure, curving and tangling to her form. This tantalising vision kept him company through dreary days and into the night. It was well that his work at de Vere’s, despite its bustle, hardly stretched him. At home his precious portfolio began to suffer. Every evening after a meagre supper, he would set himself to work and every evening he would find himself, pencil in hand, the paper blank, but shimmering before him the image of a beautiful face. Minutes later, even hours later, he would wake and realise that he had not drawn a single line.
He tried scolding himself severely. Had he not sworn to concentrate entirely on his work, to put aside romantic dalliance? Did he not remember to his cost the perils of allowing himself to wander down that path? He had only to recall Marguerite. She had known what she was doing; she was a seasoned player and Lucas had provided a pleasurable interlude. As companion to an exacting and difficult
contessa
, Marguerite had welcomed her liaison with Lucas, a break from the tedium of provincial Lombardy. But it had only ever been an interlude for her. She was betrothed to a Frenchman, someone, Lucas learned, quite senior in the diplomatic service, and she was merely waiting out the months until marriage freed her from the dowager’s demands. Marguerite had been well versed in dalliance, but he had been a novice and had tumbled into uncritical love with her. When it became clear that he was only the means to an end, his ardour had cooled, and he had taken what was on offer and asked for no more. The experience had strengthened a nascent cynicism in him. Worse, it had undermined his confidence that he could judge well. If he had been so easily swayed by one woman, what might he not be with the next? And here was the next. Except that Alessia Renville could never be just the next woman. She was a queen, an empress. Her presence thrilled him and made him want to do great deeds for her. She was all his fairy tales come true. And she was married. He might weave dreams around her, but he had always to come back to that fact. And it was one he needed to remember.
But it was nowhere in his mind when his next meeting with Alessia came upon him suddenly and unexpectedly. A week after his visit to the Renville house, he and Fontenoy had left the office at noon to visit the market in Bury Street. For the past week they had eaten lunch at their desks, but now that the pace of work had slackened a little, they decided on a brief saunter. Friday was the first day of a two-day market and provided an excellent opportunity to buy fresh fruit and vegetables at a reasonable price and for Lucas to supplement the frugal diet that was deemed sufficient by the matron who ran the lodging house at Red Lion Square. They had just inspected a couple of stalls and were moving on to a third before deciding on their purchases, when Fontenoy inadvertently knocked into a young woman walking in the opposite direction. He apologised profusely, even more so when he realised that she was a most attractive young woman.
She rescued the parasol and parcels that had been wrenched from her hand by his hefty impact and made haste to reassure him. ‘There is no cause for concern, sir.’ She smiled gently up at him. ‘A slight accident only—and no wonder, the market is so crowded this morning that it is a miracle we can move at all.’
Despite her words, Fontenoy appeared anxious to linger and she had to repeat, a little more firmly this time, ‘Please do not be concerned.’
When he still made no move, she was forced to add, ‘I believe you will lose sight of your companion if you do not join him immediately.’
Lucas had walked on, heedless of the small affray. She looked after him as she spoke, and her voice faltered a little. ‘Is that the gentleman who accompanies you?’ She indicated with her parasol the sombre black of Lucas’s frock coat, even now disappearing into the crowd.
‘Yes, do you know him?’ Fontenoy’s enquiry was eager. There might just be an intriguing story here awaiting his discovery.
‘Is that not Mr Royde, Mr Lucas Royde of de Vere and Partners?’
‘The very same.’
A slight flush had crept into Alessia’s face, but her voice was as calm as ever. ‘Mr Royde is designing for my husband’s business. A display space for the Great Exhibition, you know,’ she elaborated, seeing Fontenoy’s mystified expression.
‘Ah yes,’ he caught on quickly. ‘Did you not visit our offices a short while ago?’
‘Indeed, Mr…?’
‘Fontenoy. At your service, ma’am.’
She inclined her head a little. ‘Yes, Mr Fontenoy, we visited de Vere’s and commissioned Mr Royde to work for us.’
By this time Lucas had realised that he had lost his companion. He stopped and retraced his steps. The sight of Alessia Renville in animated conversation with Fontenoy affected him curiously. There was a ripple of sheer joy at seeing her again, but a stab of annoyance that she should sully herself by talking with such a man. He reached their side very quickly.
‘Mrs Renville.’ He doffed his hat as he spoke. ‘How good to see you again! I hope you will be pleased to hear that your design is near completion. And that I have followed your advice.’
‘It was hardly advice, Mr Royde,’ she responded almost gaily. ‘If my memory is correct, my attempts to contribute were ruled unacceptable.’ Her eyes were sparkling with inner amusement, and he knew that she was remembering the elder Mrs Renville’s angry repudiation of his pagan plans.
‘
I
did not rule them unacceptable, Mrs Renville. I have tried to incorporate your sentiments within the new drawings and am hopeful that you will no longer consider the project too tame.’
‘I should not have said that,’ she confessed, a lingering smile lighting her face.
Fontenoy was watching them carefully. She might be a married woman, he thought, but…
‘I am very glad you ventured your thoughts,’ Lucas was saying, ‘for they confirmed quite decisively my own.’
There was a momentary silence as they felt the pleasure of mutual agreement, and then she said a little shyly, ‘When may I see the new plans?’
‘Whenever is convenient. I have them with me.’
‘With you?’ Fontenoy was surprised into speaking.
‘Yes.’ Lucas flushed a little. ‘I carry them with me in case I should think of any additions or alterations.’
He knew that he carried them as a small reminder of the woman who was standing just an arm’s length from him and looking, in ruby-red velvet, as though she had stepped from an artist’s study of winter.
‘Perhaps you would like to show them to me now?’
For an instant he was bemused, and seeing this, she made haste to retract her invitation. ‘Of course, you gentlemen must lack the time,’ she said quickly, looking from one to the other. ‘How stupid of me! But if you had not to return to your office immediately, you would be most welcome to take tea at Prospect Place. The house is very close.’
It was close and he wanted to be there. Fontenoy helped him on his way.
‘You go, Royde, by all means and I’ll let DV know where you are. He’ll be pleased that the project is progressing so well.’ He tried hard to keep a snigger from his voice but failed.
Lucas had no wish to hand him a victory, but his need to be with Alessia Renville was overwhelming.
She was looking at him expectantly. ‘Will that be convenient, Mr Royde?’
‘Quite convenient, Mrs Renville.’
‘I am so glad. I am most eager to go through the plans once more with you. I have thought of one or two slight changes that may be beneficial.’
In a moment they had bid Fontenoy goodbye and turned to walk away in the opposite direction. Lucas’s colleague watched them go and gave a long, low whistle. Things might soon be getting very interesting at de Vere and Partners.
The journey to Wisteria Lodge was accomplished in ten minutes and filled with quiet talk on the most general of topics: the inclement weather of late, the hope for an early spring, the state of the silk trade. The parlour maid that Lucas had seen on his previous visit opened the front door to them.
‘Thank you, Martha.’
Alessia handed parasol, parcels and velvet cloak to the waiting girl and led him to the rear of the house, passing on the way the closed door of their earlier drab meeting place. The room they entered now was entirely different. It was largely uncluttered and the furniture it held was delicately constructed, the chairs covered in straw silk and the carpet a faded forest green. A large rococo framed mirror and an elegant round table engraved with delicate marquetry seemed to be the only overt ornamentation. Soft gauze curtains hung at the long windows, and beyond Lucas could see an attractive garden that in the summer would no doubt be ablaze with colour.
His face must have registered surprise. ‘This room is my particular haven, Mr Royde. We keep the drawing room for strictly formal occasions, and I do not feel this is one such.’
He was returning her smile, warmed by her warmth, when Martha came in and noisily laid out cups and saucers. Her disapproval was evident. She must, he thought, have been well trained by the elder Mrs Renville.
‘Would you care for tea?’ Alessia asked when the maid had once more disappeared.
‘Thank you. But your mother-in-law?’
‘She is no longer with us.’ She crossed the room to hand him a cup and saucer, bone china, he noted, and the latest of Wedgwood’s expensive designs.
‘The elder Mrs Renville does not live with you?’ he hazarded.
‘She visited us for Christmas. She lives in St Albans and returned there a few days ago. My daughters have travelled with her; they are to stay with their grandmother for several weeks.’
He hoped that relief didn’t show too plainly on his face. To distract from any tell-tale expression, he began searching in his inner pocket for the plans and made ready to go through them, page by page. But before he could begin she had crossed the room again and taken a seat beside him on the couch. He could not take his eyes from her face; its beauty had the lustre of the finest crystal. He felt as gauche as a schoolboy and could only hope that his manner did not betray him.
‘Though much of the design remains the same,’ he began, ‘I have tried to think more boldly, Mrs Renville. I believe that I’ve already shown you a drawing of the roof. I would like to keep the same rolling shape and the same mirrored glass lining to reflect the potpourri of colours that will be crammed into what in fact is a small space.’
She nodded happily. ‘I love the design of the roof—It flows wonderfully and it’s different. Using mirrors is perhaps even a little daring!’
‘Daring is what we need to be,’ he agreed, ‘to make people take notice. We want them to pause, not pass by. Hopefully we can entice them to enter.’
‘I imagine there will be many other exhibitors.’
‘Indeed, yes. I had not previously given much attention to the event, but since your husband placed his commission with de Vere’s, I have been doing a little research. The Exhibition Hall will be vast—some hundred thousand square feet—and will cover every kind of manufacture and technical innovation.’
‘I saw a sketch of the Exhibition Hall in
The Daily News
. It seemed for all the world like a very large greenhouse!’
‘I believe Joseph Paxton, the designer, was inspired by the plans he drew up some years ago for the Duke of Devonshire. And they were indeed for a greenhouse! But there I think the similarity ends. This will be a vast space, tall enough to encompass living trees, and large enough to accommodate over a hundred thousand exhibits from all over the world.’
‘Which is why we must do something a little different?’
‘Exactly.’ He shuffled the papers into a neat pile. ‘Having no defined entrance but instead spaces between pillars will mean that the pavilion is accessible from different directions. It will perhaps cause observers to pause in order to puzzle out the structure. And once they venture inside, they should feel cocooned, enclosed in a magical sphere, but without losing the sense of air and space.’
‘And the roof?’ she prompted.
‘The roof is key, I think. I would like to use swathes of fine tulle.’ He gestured to her window coverings. ‘Something like these curtains, which would drape from one side of the roof to the other, following its line.’
‘A canopy.’
‘That’s it.’
‘But a canopy over a bench?’
‘I have ideas other than a bench, but I fear Mrs Renville senior would not approve.’
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and his heart turned over at this small intimate gesture.
‘Mrs Florence Renville will not be here to judge and Edward has given me authority to decide. So tell me, please.’
‘I thought,’ he said slowly, ‘a love seat filled with cushions made from Renville silks.’