‘Your daughters, then, must be even more precious to both of you,’ he managed to offer.
‘They are.’ She began to pleat the silk of her dress, carefully fold by fold. Her continuing agitation was clear. ‘Edward loves his children dearly,’ she asserted and then in a voice that was hardly audible, ‘but a son to continue the business would have been a blessing.’
He said no more. She had been surprisingly candid, and he was appreciative of her trust but had no wish to probe the marital relationship. Her inability to provide Edward Renville with a son go some way towards an explanation for the man’s coldness towards his wife.
The carriage had reached Hyde Park and was making its way through the partly completed south entrance. ‘This must be the Prince of Wales Gate,’ Lucas decided. ‘I believe it is to be the main entrance for the Exhibition and should be finished in the very near future—the road, too, I trust.’
They were travelling along a heavily rutted track and being bounced from one side of the cab to the other. He longed to have the right to reach out and hold his delicate companion safe from injury. But he did not have the right and remembering his earlier trespass, he stayed his hand.
‘Just look, Mr Royde.’
She was clinging to one of the hansom’s creaking doors and almost leaning out of its window in her eagerness. Her eyes shone.
‘Just look at that,’ she repeated.
He did look. This was his first visit to the Exhibition Hall and though he had seen plans of Paxton’s design and read any number of newspaper descriptions, nothing had prepared him for the sheer scale of the giant glass structure. No wonder commentators talked about the building being six times the size of St Paul’s. At one side of the entrance he saw an enormous store of prefabricated cast iron units waiting to be welded together on site. On the other side thousands of huge glass panes were stacked, ready to hang on the iron framework. No wonder the building was being erected at such incredible speed. The design was brilliant in its simplicity.
Lucas helped his companion down from the cab and turned to pay the driver. A shaft of sunlight momentarily burst through the lowering March sky and illuminated the zigzag layers of glass sheeting already in place. He felt Alessia beside him draw a wondering breath.
‘It is like a giant concertina,’ she said, looking about her and wrinkling her brow in a way he had come to love, ‘but made of diamonds.’
Even half-covered in scaffolding and with the noise of the workmen’s hammers and saws pounding in their ears, the Exhibition Hall was magical. ‘It is magnificent,’ he agreed. ‘I can understand now why Punch has named it the Crystal Palace!’
A team of horses pulling a Pickford’s van with yet another consignment of iron columns drew up close to where they were standing, and he took the opportunity to suggest they walk inside the building.
‘I remember that you said it was large, but I had no idea just how large,’ she confessed.
‘Nor me. I read somewhere that Paxton has made it exactly 1851 feet long in homage to the year, but even for an architect that figure is difficult to visualise.’
They had walked only a few paces when a bank of turnstiles stopped their progress. Lucas sidestepped to a small wicket gate and held it open.
‘Come this way, Mrs Renville. As exhibitors, we may pass freely.’
‘But have people already visited? I had not expected that.’
‘They have been turning up since last September, I believe, to check on progress. But since the exhibits started to arrive, members of the public have been banned.’
Once in the Hall itself, they paused to take stock. The glass roof rose two storeys above them, but a cross passage or transept arched even higher to skim the top branches of three majestic elm trees. A large semicircular clock a few feet away was designed to blend with the curved glass roof and beyond the clock, a glass fountain shaped like an immense crystal chandelier stood waiting for the waters to flow. For a long while the pair stood side by side, slowly adjusting to the monumental scale of their surroundings.
‘I am so glad they did not destroy the trees,’ Alessia said finally.
‘They would not have wished to add to criticism of the building by doing so, I imagine. There has been much disquiet that so much glass is likely to shatter in hail or be blown away by high winds.’
‘But the building is safe?’
‘As houses—literally. They have had soldiers marching and running and jumping together across the galleries above and nothing has moved, cracked or otherwise failed. We shall be quite safe!’
They made their way along the wide middle passage with its two rows of large rooms on either side. It looked for all the world like a church nave, Lucas thought, with its lines of pews radiating outwards. At the centre point of the passage a double spiral staircase led to the upper floor. This storey was narrower with just a single row of rooms and balconies running along one side of the building.
‘Are you disappointed?’ He had been studying his companion’s mobile face.
‘A little. The ground floor appears so grand and it has that elegant clock and the splendid fountain. When you mount the stairs, perhaps you are expecting more of the same and instead it is…a little less imposing,’ she finished on a deflated note.
He glanced around at the line of spaces demarcated either by cloth or by wood walls. ‘I have to agree that in its unfinished state, it fails to send the pulse racing. But the Exhibition is oversubscribed and we should be in good company. This upper gallery will house the smaller objects on display.’
He knew well that Renville must have paid a very large sum for the privilege of renting this currently drab area. No doubt he had had to twist a few eminent arms as well, since he had been a late convert to the idea of displaying his wares.
‘Look up, Mrs Renville,’ he said hoping to console her, ‘Is that not a sight worth seeing?’
Together they looked towards the ceiling and followed the iron and glass walls soaring ever higher and then curving inwards to meet at the apex of the arched transept. ‘If the passage below us is the cathedral’s nave, this is its dome.’
The Renville space was found without difficulty. It was well positioned near to the middle of the building and its walls were made of cloth rather than wood.
‘That will help.’ Lucas walked slowly around the space. ‘We will not have to destroy too much before we can build again. And these pillars—’ he pointed to the few cast iron columns already in place as supports ‘—they are indeed so slim that my hands reach around them. They will not quarrel with our marble.’
‘We might even be able to use them in our display.’
‘That would certainly make the building a part of the Renville space rather than the other way round.’ He pulled out a roll of papers from the battered satchel and spread them on the floor. Together they began to mark out the area, adjusting the plans slightly here and there to take account of actual shape and dimensions.
Alessia had come to rest at the centre of the pavilion. ‘This is where we should have the…bench.’ She blushed brightly, unable to give the seat its true name.
To allow her to recover, Lucas made himself busy unpacking the parcel of materials.
‘We have a range of colours from which to choose.’ He was stacking the bolts of silk and gauze to one side. ‘I wonder if we should saturate the space in one dominant hue, gauzes and all—that would gain impact—or whether we should go for a softer, more diffuse spectrum.’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps we should first decide on the final position of the pillars.’ She was thinking hard and quickly forgetting her earlier embarrassment. Soon she was moving around the area, marking out the location of each marble column and then moving different coloured silks between them, planning, deciding and then replanning, until she had in her mind exactly how the room should look. Lucas did not interrupt. He was happy just to watch her and know that she was happy, too. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkling by the time she ha
d finished.
‘Should we repair to the tea room?’ he asked. ‘I believe something temporary has been established on the floor below. Then I can make a note of the modifications we have agreed.’
‘I am sorry that this gives you more work after your plans have been so meticulous.’ She looked regretful.
‘They are architect’s drawings only. The design we now have will be what we need for the workmen, the theory made practice.’
She was smiling again and it felt to him as though the sun would never leave the world. He wanted this day to continue forever. On their way down the staircase, he suggested that they take a look at some of the exhibits already on display. Anything, he thought, to keep her with me just a little longer.
They walked towards the western end of the building where displays from Britain and her colonies were to be accommodated. At the very beginning of the section, a mediaeval court had already been constructed. Its walls were made of carved wood and gilt and hung with paintings and stained glass. A few items of ornately carved furniture had begun to fill the space. On the other side of the passage was the Canada room, exhibiting sleighs, canoes of birch bark and Indian feather bonnets. Then the India room, for the moment quite sparse and containing only a few pieces of furniture, a howdah with its elephant cloth and an imposing but empty cabinet right in the middle of the room.
‘I wonder…’ she began.
‘The Koh-i-noor diamond? I believe that is the cabinet that will house the jewel.’
‘How marvellous it will be to view it at such close quarters! The first day of May cannot come soon enough.’
But not for me, he thought sadly. That will be the very last time I ever see you.
‘Tell me about the new project you are to work on.’ They had settled themselves at a table and all thought of returning to Prospect Place within the hour had vanished from both their minds.
‘Unfortunately it is a church doomed to be sacrificed to the Gothic.’
‘And you are not happy with the commission?’
‘I should be. Or at least I should feel flattered. It is an important chapel and so an important job. But I hate to see beautiful old buildings desecrated in the name of fashion.’
‘Can you not request Mr de Vere to work on something other?’
‘I am a junior architect, Mrs Renville. I am not able to make requests of my principal.’
‘But you are a very talented man and Mr de Vere must be gratified to have your services.’
‘I am one among many,’ he said ruefully. ‘But one day…one day I shall have my own practice and choose my own commissions.’
‘I hope that day will come soon for you.’
‘I hope so, too, but I must be realistic. It takes a substantial sum of money to set up a practice and I have already spent whatever I had on studying abroad.’
‘It was well spent, I am sure.’
‘It was, but it cannot be spent again. It was an inheritance from my godfather,’ he confided, seeing the sympathy in her face. ‘I was fortunate, but I cannot hope to inherit more.’
‘And your parents?’ she ventured.
‘I must not look to them for help. My father is a tenant farmer eking out a small living and with six children to provide for. Two of my younger brothers have found work on the land, but I have no aptitude for it. My mother scrimped for years to buy my education—Latin and Greek extra!—and then to buy my apprenticeship at a local architect’s. Everything I have, everything I am, I owe to her.’
‘And you have already repaid much with your evident love for her.’
‘But I want to repay materially. When I become rich and famous, I will spend every last penny to make her comfortable.’
‘When, not if?’ she teased.
‘When,’ he said firmly.
The cab was still waiting when they emerged from the glass palace, and within thirty minutes they were standing outside the studded front door of Wisteria Lodge.
‘The men will begin work on the pavilion next week,’ Lucas told her. ‘When all is ready, you might like to visit again and confirm that you are completely happy with the result.’
His stomach tightened at the thought that she might wish him to oversee last preparations by himself. He raised his eyes and saw candid brown ones looking back at him. They carried a softness that he could not ignore.
‘I think that is a very sensible suggestion, Mr Royde.’
‘Lunch is ready, ma’am.’ The maid’s disagreeable face appeared at Alessia’s shoulder. ‘It’s been ready for the last hour, as you requested,’ she accused, accompanying her words with a determined sniff.
‘Thank you, Martha. I will come in a few moments.’
He waited until the maid had reluctantly withdrawn before saying, ‘I will send you news when the pavilion is finished, Mrs Renville. Then we can agree a convenient time for you to visit.’
‘Thank you, you are most kind.’
He stepped towards her, bowing his head and lightly kissing her hand.
‘It is my pleasure.’
There were no truer words. The door shut behind her and he dismissed the cab, deciding to return to Great Russell Street on foot. A walk would give him time to think, although about what he did not know. There was nothing to think about. Everything was only too clear. She might like him—greatly. She might like to be with him; they had just enjoyed three magnificent hours together. But he was simply the architect employed by her husband and nothing more. In honesty, he could be nothing more. He had overreached himself before and frightened her badly. A married woman was allowed no foibles. She belonged to her husband, body and soul, and Alessia knew that well. She might not be happy, he knew in his heart she was not, but she had made her choice and she was living with it. He wondered, though, just how much of a choice it had been.
* * *
He calculated that it would take the workmen employed by de Vere’s at least two weeks, possibly more, to complete the revised plans. There was no chance, therefore, of seeing Alessia for many days. Every evening he was tempted to call at the site to check on progress as though his presence could in itself speed things along. But for what? Once the pavilion was finished, so was their friendship. When he escorted her next to the Exhibition Hall, they would be the last intimate hours he would spend with her. On May 1 at the grand opening, he would see her, no doubt sit close to her, but she would no longer be for him alone. Her husband would be by her side and all her attention would be his. Edward Renville would strut proud in his possession of a beautiful wife and a successful business. There was no question in Lucas’s mind as to which meant most to him.
The weather was now a good deal more pleasant and his walk to the office from Red Lion Square no longer a fight against the elements. But as spring wakened, his restlessness grew daily. It was well that the new project assigned to him was gathering momentum for the heavy workload provided distraction from what was becoming a dangerous obsession. Just when he thought he could no longer resist the temptation to return to the Crystal Palace, he was once more summoned to de Vere’s office.
‘Do sit down, Mr Royde.’
The great man was unusually friendly and waved Lucas into a comfortable armchair. His employer sat opposite and swung his seat to face him. The familiar melancholy smile was on his face and his fingers steepled in an attitude of thought. Lucas braced himself for bad news, but it was praise that de Vere had in mind.
‘I have perused your initial drawings for the Carlyon estate, and I like what I see.’
Lucas could not say the same, but he had drawn according to de Vere’s wishes. In his secret mind he had every intention of attempting to persuade the earl to abandon the design he had created. Boldness, he would tell his lordship, was crucial. Only give his architect carte blanche, and the Carlyon chapel would be universally admired for its beauty and originality.
‘I think we are at the stage, Mr Royde, when a site visit is in order.’ Daniel de Vere’s smile grew a little sadder. ‘Y
ou will go to Norfolk tomorrow. The journey will necessitate you spending two nights there, and you may book yourself a hotel room for the duration. I will not expect you back in the office until Friday morning.’
Norfolk. It was hardly a world away, but the last thing Lucas wanted was to leave London at this moment. He had no choice, though, but to acquiesce.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he murmured, hating his enforced submission.
De Vere stood up and handed him a single sheet of paper. ‘Here are the details of your initial contact at Southerham Hall, a Reverend Waters. You will present the drawings to him and if he is happy with them, he will submit them to the earl for his opinion. I will send a telegram today to alert him of your arrival. I think you will find suitable accommodation at the Royal Hotel.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucas said again, and edged towards the door, hoping to make his escape. But de Vere had not yet finished.
‘You know, Mr Royde, this project is a large affair, very large,’ he counselled. ‘I am putting you in sole charge and have every confidence you will do it well. The distinction you will gain from this and from the Exhibition space you have designed for Mr Renville will prove most helpful to your career. Yes indeed, most helpful.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucas said for the third time, and bowed his way past the walnut panelling.
The journey to Norwich was uneventful but wearing, the train proving no better sprung than the coach that had taken him to the Shoreditch terminus. Uncomfortable wooden boards served as the train’s seats, and space was at a premium, for every compartment was vastly overcrowded. By the time he walked up the front steps of the Royal Hotel, his head hurt and every muscle of his body ached. He ate supper alone and soon after retired to his room to sift gloomily through the hated plans. The thought of what lay ahead on the morrow only increased his despondency.
The Reverend Waters proved to be a small and fussy man. He pored over each drawing for an inordinate time, asking questions, raising spurious difficulties, suggesting impossible additions, until Lucas was near to returning to London and asking de Vere to award this prestigious commission to another of his architectural team. A break for luncheon did nothing to lessen the morning’s frustrations when he was directed to the servants’ hall to take his meal. How fitting, he thought sourly.
The Crystal Cage Page 14
