The Crystal Cage (7 page)

‘We must be leaving,’ he announced abruptly. ‘I still have many hours of work before me.’ His disdainful glance dismissed the notion that this could ever apply to an architect. ‘And I must first escort my wife home.’

‘Of course,’ de Vere said smoothly. ‘Will Mrs Renville be coming to our offices for consultations? If so, I would be happy to make my room available to her whenever she wishes.’

‘Royde will come to our house,’ his uncomfortable guest stated baldly. ‘Next week, Thursday at two in the afternoon. Bring some ideas for my wife to see. Once she has agreed to them, we will make a start. The Exhibition site has been under construction since last September and is already well developed.’

Lucas was confounded. Surely even this philistine must realise that it would take time to create a design that would perfectly display the beauty of the silks he sold. But there was little point in arguing. Edward Renville was a rich man who expected his demands to be met.

‘If the site has already reached an advanced stage, it would be helpful to know the precise location of the space that you have been awarded,’ he managed in a tight voice.

‘You will need to discover it for yourself. It is immaterial. What I want to see are plans—and quickly. Space at the Exhibition is heavily oversubscribed and only my considerable influence has obtained one.’

Lucas gave up. The man was an ogre and a stupid ogre at that. He could not keep the contempt from his face, but before Renville had noticed the affront, his wife had collected her bonnet from a nearby chair and was holding out a gloved hand.

‘Till next Thursday then, Mr Royde,’ she smiled gently.

‘
A giovedì
,’ Lucas repeated quietly, holding her hand for just a shade too long.

The unexpected music of Italian provoked a glowering expression in Edward Renville and without further pause, he ushered his wife through the side door and out into Great Russell Street.

Chapter Four

London, early February 1851

The following Thursday Lucas left Great Russell Street promptly at half past one in the afternoon. The Renville house lay only a short walk away, but he needed time to compose himself before the meeting with Alessia. It had been dominating his thoughts for days;
she
had been dominating his thoughts. He had felt her presence constantly: the soft glance of liquid brown eyes, the rustle of blue silk, the faint trace in the air of what he now realised was jasmine. Each time he reached for his pencil to map out sketches for the Renville pavilion, she had been there following every line he drew. It had been difficult to concentrate on the task but by dint of spending every waking minute on the designs, he had come armed today with a small sheaf of drawings.

The more he had thought of her, the more he knew the Renville space had to be an arbour, almost a secret shrine. He had sketched the thinnest of marble pillars to enclose and demarcate the area and these he had wrapped in serpents of shimmering silk. They would support a roof, undulating and lined with glass, which would reflect back the beauty spread beneath. Swathes of the finest gauze would follow the line of the roof and act as a canopy over the central feature, which in his mind’s eye took the form of a bed. A large, circular bed. But he was not foolhardy and knew that if Edward Renville scented even a hint of immorality, his dismissal from the project would be instant. He guessed, too, that such a daring statement would not please Alessia either. Instead he compromised on a love seat, its cushions covered in rich silks. The exquisite tiles, whose design until now had occupied every hour of his free time, would be cast in gentler hues from the palest oyster to the deepest royal purple and strewn between the fragile pillars.

As he walked, he went over the plans in his mind and for the hundredth time heard himself explain them. He decided that he sounded confident and professional and could only pray that when he met her again, he would not be struck dumb as he had in de Vere’s office.

Prospect Place proved to be a small cul-de-sac, and the house, when he reached it, fulfilled his expectation of a prosperous, middle-class residence but one that stood in the midst of a row of grander houses, which like his own in Red Lion Square, had suffered the indignity of being divided into smaller lodgings. He opened an impressively solid iron gate and walked up the short path to Wisteria Lodge. The bay windows were hung with thick curtains and behind them a further layer of net. The doorway had been refashioned into a mediaeval arch and the front entrance was a massive brass-studded ebony door. It was frighteningly reminiscent of a fortified castle. He sounded the knocker.

A parlour maid ushered him through a vividly tiled hall into a drawing room that looked out on to the street. It might have been a light and airy space but for the heavy curtains and overstuffed furniture. A cast iron fireplace and a large expanse of dark-stained wood took away whatever breath the room possessed. The sole saving grace, Lucas thought, was the delicate chandelier that hung from a central position, its fragile glass droplets gently swaying even in the still air. He placed the papers he had prepared on a small marble table and waited, hat turning in his hands. The clock ticked the minutes away. When the quarter struck, he began to wonder if he should leave. His presence might not after all be welcome today, but he could hardly let himself out of the house, and the maid had disappeared below stairs. He glanced at the servants’ bell but his courage failed, and he remained immobile.

At last sounds from the upper floor reached him, a creaking on the stairs, and then he was facing not Alessia, but a black-clothed matron of some sixty years. His surprise told and she looked at him severely.

‘Mr Royde, I imagine.’ Hand outstretched, her advance was brisk, setting the rows of jet beads adorning her breast into an angry fuss. ‘I am Florence Renville. I believe you have met my son, Edward.’

He gathered his wits. ‘Indeed, yes. I am most pleased to meet you, Mrs Renville. Mr Renville asked me to call today with initial plans for the pavilion he wishes to build for the Great Exhibition.’

She sniffed. ‘I cannot imagine why he wishes to exhibit. The business is extremely successful, and he has no need to advertise.’

Her words were almost a complete echo of her son’s. Mother and son were evidently in accord and he wondered if, unknown to him, plans for the Exhibition had been rejected on her advice. She spoke with an undoubted air of authority. If that were so, all his labour had been futile, his hours wasted. Even worse, he would not see Alessia.

‘Take a seat, Mr Royde,’ she indicated one of the overstuffed chairs that guarded the fireplace. ‘My daughter-in-law will be with us shortly.’

The hand that had been squeezing his heart stopped.

‘I am looking forward to presenting my initial ideas to Mrs Renville,’ he managed and gestured towards the table and the papers he had brought.

‘Mrs Renville will no doubt have her own ideas,’ the older woman said repressively. Then, unable to subdue her irritation, she continued, ‘Though goodness knows why she needs further occupation with a household and two young children to manage.’

As if on cue, two small girls dressed in identical white cotton outfits stood shyly in the doorway and behind them, Alessia Renville. Their mother gently urged them forward to make their curtsies.

‘Mr Royde, please forgive my unpunctuality. We have had a small schoolroom problem,’ and she smiled conspiratorially down at the children, ‘but all is resolved now. May I introduce my daughters to you?’ She pushed the girls towards Lucas as she spoke.

‘This is Florence.’ Lucas solemnly shook hands with the older girl. ‘And this is Georgina.’ The smaller child gave a lopsided grin that broke the formality of the moment.

‘Now, girls,’ Alessia said quietly, ‘you must return to Miss Timms, and this time mind her well.’

The children turned with some reluctance towards the door where their mother waited. One by one she kissed them lightly on the top of the head and watched them out of sight, their bunched skirts and ruffled pantaloons disappearing swiftly up the stairs.

‘Can I offer you some refreshment, Mr Royde?’ she asked, turning towards him.

Before he had the chance to decline, her mother-in-law said sharply, ‘Mr Royde is a busy man, Alessia. He has brought sketches for you to see. I would suggest that you view them immediately and allow him to return to his office.’

Florence Renville lowered herself heavily onto the brocaded sofa and fixed them both with an unwavering glance. It was clear that she intended to remain until he had left the house. Alessia blushed at her mother-in-law’s lack of courtesy but responded in her usual gentle manner, ‘Naturally, Mr Royde, I understand you have many calls on your time. We will set to business—and thank you for producing plans so quickly.’

He jumped to his feet and retrieved the papers. When he passed them to her, he noticed her hand shook a little. Hardly surprising, he thought. Between her husband and his mother she must lead an unenviable life. She spent some minutes leafing through the sketches, occasionally holding one up for a closer view, once or twice turning a sheet uncertainly this way and that.

At last she turned to him, her smile warm and inviting. ‘Perhaps you could describe to me exactly what you intend.’

‘Surely the plans are clear enough,’ the elder Mrs Renville interjected.

‘They are beautifully drawn, Mama, but I would still like to hear Mr Royde spell out his vision.’ Her voice was surprisingly firm.

The older woman tutted impatiently, but Lucas went to stand beside Alessia Renville’s chair and began to go through each image in turn. He tried to keep his eyes on the drawings but could not stop them occasionally feasting on the dark glint of her curls so close to his face or the shapely hand turning the pages. He cleared his throat and began the speech he had prepared.

‘The essence of the plan, Mrs Renville, lies in our not having a solid construction. As you can see, one side of the display space will be made entirely of glass—this is the outer wall of the Exhibition Hall—while the other three sides consist of closely positioned marble pillars. These would be an echo of the iron pillars with which the Exhibition Hall itself is being built. I believe they are so slim that one can almost put one’s hands around them. I wanted to give the sense of a piazza and also a taste perhaps of historic Rome. The pillars would be narrow and would have Renville silks wound around them. Their marble would be carved top and bottom with a relief displaying aspects of the company’s business. Perhaps copies of the motifs that pattern many of the silks? But we might also consider a maritime theme to reinforce the notion of materials so special that they must be shipped from a foreign land. You will see, too, that the roof is undulating—here this image should show that more clearly—and lined with mirrors to reflect back the colours and patterns of the silks. The roof is an innovation—decidedly modern, I feel. I see it as a counterpoint to the historic, an expression of a more contemporary Italy. What do you think?’

‘I think I will have to depend on your judgment, Mr Royde. It is many years since I lived in my country.’

‘You never visit?’

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I have no reason to return.’

The sadness in her voice fingered him with her hurt and he went on hurriedly, ‘My idea, you see, is to present a fusion of the old and the new, to present the Renville silks as part of a continuing legacy of style and beauty.’

‘And it is a most beautiful country, do you not think, Mr Royde?’

‘I do. I lived there for just two years, but it stole away my heart—and very easily.’

Their eyes, when they met, were warm with a shared pleasure.

‘The plans, Mr Royde.’ It was Florence Renville. ‘I think you have forgotten the plans.’

‘The plans, yes. Let us continue.’ His voice was only a little unsteady.

Alessia bent her head once more over the sketches, the earlier light extinguished from her face. She was silent for a considerable while; it seemed that she was concentrating intently on one particular page. As he leaned closer, he became aware of her puzzlement.

‘Mr Royde, forgive me, but I cannot understand this drawing. What is this?’

She was pointing to the love seat and Lucas could only thank heaven that he had not dared the bed. Florence Renville had become steadily more antagonistic as he had expounded his ideas, her expression showing clearly the affront she felt at the pagan nature of his suggestions.

‘That is a…bench,’ he finished lamely.

‘A bench?’

‘I thought we might cover it in silk. Then scatter along its length soft cushions and bolsters that would display yet more samples from the Renville range.’

‘Yes,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘But do you not think it is a little…tame?’

‘Tame!’ Her mother-in-law exploded once more into life. ‘Tame! In my opinion the whole thing is decidedly unchristian. It
needs
taming.’

‘Mama, surely not. It is a beautiful design. And of course, the bench will be fine, Mr Royde. It’s just that the rest of the design is so…’

‘Immoral.’

‘Mama!’

‘I shall speak with Edward,’ the older Mrs Renville announced imperiously. ‘In the meanwhile, Mr Royde, I am sure you must be due back at your office. I would ask you to do nothing further with the plans.’

Alessia’s lovely face flushed pink and her hands began a compulsive smoothing of her voluminous skirts. Lucas felt her agitation as his own. He would like to have struck down the stiff black satin opposite, beads and all.

Instead, he turned to the matriarch and said smoothly, ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Renville. I hold myself in readiness for your son’s instructions. No doubt Mrs Alessia Renville will wish to speak with him also.’

The older woman glared. She would not easily relinquish her authority, he knew, but he was confident that Edward Renville would listen to what his wife had to say. And Alessia had liked his plans. All except the bench. If he could have told her it was a love seat, she would have delighted in it, he was sure. But there had been no chance with her mother-in-law standing censor.