The Crystal Cage

by Merryn Allingham

  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 w
as 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.

  ‘I should have sent a message, Mr Royde. I apologise again. I regret that I will not have the time to visit Hyde Park. However, my husband is sure to take me in the next few days and I will communicate through him any further ideas that I have.’

  So stiff, so formal. She was hardly the same woman. He took a breath and tried to match her formality.

  ‘That will be most helpful, Mrs Renville. I came this morning merely to ascertain your wishes and also to show you these.’

  He drew his portfolio from out of the battered leather bag that had done him service since he first left Dorset and extracted a small number of sheets. He was careful to choose illustrations completed since he met her, those most redolent of her home region. ‘I believe you expressed a desire to view some of my designs for decorative tiles.’

  She was clearly surprised. This was something she had not expected. But she was also intrigued.

  He went on as smoothly as he could. ‘Naturally I would not wish to interrupt your morning, but if you would care to look through them at a more convenient time, I am happy to leave them with you. A servant perhaps could be entrusted to return them to Mr de Vere’s office.’

  She had begun slowly to leaf through the pages as he was talking.

  ‘These are from your portfolio?’

  ‘They are. I was wondering if you thought any might suit the design we have agreed.’

  He made sure the ‘we’ was there. She leafed through a few more sheets, clearly engrossed. He waited without speaking, watching her every fleeting expression. At last she looked up.

  ‘These are wonderful.’ She was suddenly animated and the stiffness dissolved. ‘They remind me of Verona. They are the colours of Lombardy.’

  ‘I fear they may not be entirely right for the Renville pavilion, but I am happy that you like them.’

  He looked anxiously at her. He no longer cared if his tiles were used or not, all he wanted was that she speak to him, respond to him, stay with him.

  ‘I cannot be sure, Mr Royde.’ The familiar furrow appeared on her brow. ‘I would need to see them in situ and with the materials we have selected.’

  That glorious ‘we’ was back.

  ‘I am on my way to Hyde Park with the materials and have a hansom waiting outside. I will do my best to judge correctly whether or not to use the tiles.’

  She walked to the window and looked out. The horse was shaking its head impatiently and the jarvey yawning into his hands. She turned round to Lucas, her face wearing an unreadable expression. He hoped it might mean she was reconsidering and decided to take a chance.

  ‘If you could spare just a short while—we could be there and back within the hour—I would welcome your opinion. I am far too close to the designs and need an impartial guide.’

  For a moment she looked torn. ‘I am not sure I can claim to be that.’ Then quite suddenly, ‘But I will come. For just an hour,’ she reminded him, and rang the bell.

  ‘Please fetch my cloak, Martha, and make sure Cook has luncheon ready for noon. I shall be returned well before then.’

  Martha’s expression gave nothing away, but the sharp slap of her footsteps as she disappeared to find the cloak expressed her displeasure.

  An hour was all he needed. An hour to have her near, to feel her body close, to feel her soul walk with his. His heart’s familiar thud had begun once more, but he knew that he must be vigilant, watch his every word, his every movement, for nothing now must mar their time together.

  Chapter Nine

  He was careful to seat himself in the far corner of the hansom and allow her as much space as possible. It was enough to have her sharing the same seat, to smell again the faint perfume of jasmine, to steal gazes at the shapely, erect figure beside him. He noticed that today her hair was fastened behind her neck in an intricate coil but wisps escaped here and there, soft tendrils that he longed to seize and curl around his finger.

  ‘Are you still very busy at
de Vere’s?’ she asked politely. It was an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence that was building between them, and he wondered if she was feeling the same irresistible urge to touch.

  ‘We are, Mrs Renville,’ he replied, equally polite. ‘Mr de Vere has intimated that he wishes me to lead a new and substantial project once my work on the Exhibition is complete.’

  They fell back into silence again. Her eyes were downcast, studying with intensity the embossed pattern on her long kid gloves, and he hoped that she was feeling some sadness that their association was nearing its end.

  ‘And how are your children?’ He needed to keep talking and make this visit unexceptional, as though they had never exchanged more than a formal handshake.

  ‘They are well, thank you, Mr Royde. They will be returning home shortly.’

  ‘You must have missed their young presence.’

  ‘I have. They are very precious to me.’ Her voice was unusually heightened.

  ‘They are beautiful young girls. You are very lucky.’ He did not know what else to say.

  ‘So I tell myself every day. God has been good in giving me my two darlings.’

  There was something not quite right. Her tone was too solemn for what had merely been a courteous enquiry. He half turned, trying to snatch a glimpse of her face, and saw a small trickle of a tear making its way slowly down one creamy olive cheek.

  ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Renville.’ He blurted the words, thoroughly discomposed. ‘I had no intention of causing you upset.’

  With a visible effort, she pulled herself together and wiped away the tear. ‘Of course you had not. I am being foolish, but you see…’ and in a sudden, astonishing breach of her privacy, she rushed out, ‘I have recently been told that I am unable to have more children.’

  He was shocked but also gladdened, not only because she would bear no more of Renville’s children, but because she had confided in him. Something so private, so personal. His physical closeness had made her emotional and in turn she had made him her confidante.