The Crystal Cage Page 15

  He ate as slowly as he dared but eventually could dally no longer and with reluctance set off for a further encounter with the Reverend. He was soon lost, encountering a labyrinth of unused rooms, narrow passages and stairs that seemed to lead nowhere. At last he opened the door to a room bearing clear signs of habitation and realised he had stumbled on Lord Carlyon’s study. He had also stumbled on Lord Carlyon himself.

  The earl courteously waved aside his apologies and then caught sight of the papers protruding from Lucas’s satchel.

  ‘You must be the architect from de Vere’s. The very man I wished to see. If you have a moment, you can take me through the chapel plans.’

  ‘The Reverend Waters…’ Lucas began tentatively.

  ‘Ah yes, Hugo Waters. A sound enough chap but likely to take an age explaining the drawings to me. You, on the other hand, look a much better prospect!’

  Here was his chance. A private interview with the man he wished to influence. He would show Lord Carlyon the current design but in the process suggest several adjustments. If he were lucky enough to be granted a second audience, he would recommend further modifications and slowly and subtly bring the chapel at Southerham into line with his own vision.

  By the time the Reverend Waters found them an hour later, Lucas felt he had done well in laying the groundwork towards the eventual acceptance of his proposals, and his return to London was accomplished with a happy heart. He would build a chapel of which he could be proud. And if all went well, he would build it in his name and not de Vere’s. Most precious of all, he was now three days nearer seeing Alessia and he dared to think that his meeting with her might be imminent. He was desperate to know how the pavilion was progressing and although it was late when he finally reached Red Lion Square, he stopped only to divest himself of his luggage before going straight to Hyde Park and the Exhibition Hall. The workmen had laboured hard and effectively and he was delighted with what he saw. His design, their design, flowed before his eyes and he was impatient to share its beauty. But it was too late to call at Prospect Place; he would have to send a message to her the next day.

  Chapter Ten

  London, late March 1851

  He spent that Friday quite unable to work. The hands on the great oak clock had never moved slower, and he waited in a fervour of impatience to hear the chimes of six o’clock. At last he could leave Great Russell Street for the short journey to Alessia’s house. She would know from his message that the pavilion was finished and would not be too surprised to see him. Even if her husband were at home, he could explain his presence at the door by the need to make arrangements to escort her to Hyde Park for a final viewing.

  It was the pert maid, Hetty, who opened the door to his knocking. A piece of luck, he thought, and if his luck held, Edward Renville might still be at his office.

  ‘How good to see you, Mr Royde.’

  Alessia rustled forward to greet him and as she did so, the lace shawl draped across her shoulders slipped sideways to reveal a clinging gown of pale yellow silk, pulled tight and low against the creamy olive skin of her bosom. He averted his eyes and tried hard to concentrate on what she was saying.

  ‘I received your note a few hours ago. Such wonderful news of the pavilion! And you have been visiting Norfolk for your new commission?’ He was following her along the narrow hallway as she half-turned towards him. ‘I trust your trip to Southerham went well. You must be delighted to have been asked to design for such an important man.’

  ‘It is certainly most flattering and the journey was successful. I am hopeful that Mr de Vere will be pleased,’ he responded a little awkwardly.

  He would have liked to confess what he was truly about but dared not risk her disapproval. In any case, he told himself, it would be unfair to involve her in the web he was spinning. She led him to the back of the house, to the garden room, he noted. Did that mean that his earlier transgression had been forgotten?

  ‘May I offer you some refreshment?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I came only to arrange a time with you to view the pavilion.’

  ‘I am so looking forward to the visit.’ Her face was glowing with anticipation. ‘These past two weeks I have done nothing but think of it, wondering how the work was advancing. I confess that once or twice I was tempted simply to summon a hansom and go and see for myself.’

  ‘Then I have my own confession to make. I have stolen a march on you since I visited last night, as soon as I reached London.’

  ‘For shame, Mr Royde.’

  ‘I hang my head, but I am ready to escort you there whenever you say.’ He smiled down at her and she blushed. He realised that his eyes must give him away even if his speech and actions did not.

  ‘Shall we go now?’

  He blinked. It was almost dusk and the lamplighter was already making his way along the neighbouring roads. She sat facing him with her head slightly lowered and her hands clenched too tightly.

  ‘You find it a strange request, I can see, but in truth the project has been so important to me that I feel unable to wait another minute.’

  The thought of travelling together through the night made the blood rush wildly through his veins, but he managed to say in a sober tone, ‘I would be delighted to escort you—and perhaps Mr Renville would also wish to accompany us.’

  Her face shadowed a little. If he had not been watching her so closely, he would hardly have noticed. But he was always watching when he was with her, watching her every shade of feeling.

  ‘My husband is attending a business dinner in the City tonight. He will not be home for many hours and my daughters are not yet returned. They are having the most splendid time in St Albans and my mother-in-law has asked for them to stay a little longer. So you see, I will not be missed.’

  The sadness in her voice caused him to adopt a false cheerfulness. ‘We are free to go then! And we can easily be back within the hour.’ His mouth spoke the words, but his heart was hoping that time would again prove elastic.

  * * *

  As they approached Hyde Park the traffic grew noticeably thicker. A considerable number of heavy vans pulled by long teams of horses and piled high with machinery or packing cases was heading in the same direction. They were still some distance away when the Exhibition Hall came into view. Passengers crammed on the top decks of nearby horse-drawn buses craned their necks to see as much as they could. It was virtually dark now but work was continuing by the glow of lanterns and the glare of bonfires built from a mountain of scrap timber. The whole world seemed a blaze of light against which small, dark figures danced here and there. It seemed to both of them as though they were entering an enchanted land.

  This time, they turned in through the huge bronze gates that marked the northern entrance. ‘So much activity,’ Alessia exclaimed, ‘and they are working so late.’ The small dancing figures had transformed themselves into gangs of workmen labouring at every corner of the building.

  ‘I understand that they are toiling day and night to ensure that all is finished on time.’

  ‘And will it be?’

  ‘Consider the number of workmen—there must be thousands—it has to be finished for the first day of May. The Queen’s honour depends upon it!’

  A long queue of wagons waiting to unload had formed in front of the Exhibition Hall and they decided to leave the cab and walk the rest of the way. While Lucas paid the driver, his companion wandered ahead towards the entrance.

  ‘Lucas, look at these,’ she exclaimed.

  She was pointing to huge marble and bronze statues wrapped in canvas and standing ready to be rolled into the Hall where they would take their place along its nave. Two were life-sized statues of Victoria and Albert on horses. But it was not the statues he noticed. She had called him by his first name for the first time and she had been unaware of doing so. This is how she must think of me, he thought deliriously. I am not Mr Royde, architect, I am Lucas, friend. Perhaps even more. He tried to push away the notion even as it fou
nd a small sanctuary within.

  They turned towards the spiral staircase that led to the upper gallery, but an army of painters busily decorating the last of the cast iron pillars blocked their passage and they were forced to sidestep a chaos of paint pots and perspiring men. Once past, Lucas strode ahead to find a clear path to the stairs, but she did not follow. Instead she veered to the right, her face alight with excitement.

  ‘Is that where the Queen will sit, do you think?’

  He walked back towards her and saw that a magnificent Indian chair covered in crimson velvet had been placed on a raised platform. Workmen were struggling to fit a canopy thirty feet above, each corner of its blue silk decorated with ostrich feathers in the shape of the Prince of Wales’s symbol.

  ‘Almost certainly. The opening ceremony promises to be a splendid occasion and Mr Renville is sure to have reserved your places.’ He gestured to the rows of seats covered in crimson cloth that were even now being arranged on the long east-west aisle.

  ‘All that is needed is the royal carpet.’

  ‘No doubt that is on its way. Let us take a look at our own royal carpet.’

  When they stood at the entrance to the Renville pavilion, Lucas said nothing but watched her face intently. She stood motionless, her eyes wandering here and there, noting the little details they had agreed on, taking in the few additions he had felt bold enough to include. She drew an appreciative breath and turned to him.

  ‘It is entrancing. And your tiles look wonderful. Was it your idea to incorporate them so well with this splendid flooring? Yes, of course it was.’ She took his hand impulsively. ‘It is the added touch that brings everything together.’

  The flooring had been a late idea and one he had not shared with her. If she had disliked it, it would have been easy enough to lift the rich rugs and shimmering tiles and return to plain slatted wood. In the event he had chosen right, and at the same time established a window for his private work. She became aware that she was still holding his hand and abruptly let go.

  ‘Would you care to see more of the Exhibition Hall?’ he asked, hoping to distract her. A thread of tension had begun to pull tightly between them. ‘I believe most of the displays are now in place, and we saw only a small fraction on our last visit.’

  ‘Yes—no,’ she said in some confusion. Then more slowly, ‘I think I would like to wander along this gallery to its very end and then wander back again. I would like to come upon this space as though I were a visitor, to see and feel how it will appear to someone who does not know it.’

  ‘Then you will have to scrub your mind blank.’

  ‘I will try.’ And once more she was smiling, her moment’s lapse forgotten.

  They walked the length of the gallery, viewing the darkened expanse of the park through huge windows, occasionally looking upwards at the astonishing roof with its three massive elm trees safely enclosed within. Outside the fires were still burning, though beginning to burn lower. A noise of hammering came to them from the far end of the building. People would be working for some hours to come but their numbers were gradually diminishing.

  They slowly retraced their steps, her arm on his, talking together quietly, enjoying their pretence of being uninitiated visitors.

  ‘And what did you think of the American room?’ She had been reading her newspaper.

  ‘Interesting, Mrs Renville.’

  ‘In what way, Mr Royde?’

  ‘Any display that boasts a reaping machine, a piano that can be played by four people at once and a stuffed squirrel can rightly be called “interesting,” I feel.’

  She giggled and he wished that she would take his hand again. But she did not and they continued decorously along the passageway, arm in arm. The park was almost peaceful now with only distant sounds to mar its tranquillity.

  Then they were at the Renville pavilion, poised at its entrance. Their eyes locked for an instant before they plunged together through the draped gauzes to gaze silently on their handiwork.

  ‘Is it truly wonderful or am I being dreadfully partial?’

  ‘It is truly wonderful. The pillars gleam as richly as I could ever want and their carvings are beautifully precise. And these silks,’ he lightly brushed one of the sinuous swathes of glowing violet, ‘are iridescent.’

  And so was she. In the reflected, flickering light of the fires which burned outside, she had never looked more beautiful.

  ‘We have ourselves a triumph, Mrs Renville.’

  ‘I am so pleased,’ and her voice shook. A tear slowly wandered down one cheek. She tried to pretend that it was not there, but his finger gently wiped it away.

  ‘I am sorry. I am being foolish again.’

  ‘You are being an artist.’

  And then quite suddenly she was in his arms and he was kissing her cheek with small, butterfly kisses. It is only for comfort, he thought. But it was not. He felt her tremble and pulled her closer, holding her tight against himself. Then his hands were in her hair and unresisting she allowed him to liberate her carefully fashioned locks until they fanned out across the shoulders of her cape. His lips grazed the shining strands of hair hanging loose around her face, then nibbled at her earlobes and found their way downwards to the creamy softness of her neck. The cape fell to the floor and his mouth flitted across her bare shoulders. He needed to taste her. When she offered her mouth to him, it was soft and inviting. His tongue gently parted her lips and slowly began to explore the softness within. He felt her body melting into his, heard her small pants of pleasure. Then his fingers were undoing the tiny pearl buttons of her dress and his lips gliding across the smooth cream of her bosom. Cupping her breasts in his hands he brought them to his mouth, one after another. He was lighting a fire in her, in them both. She was breathing quickly and matching him kiss for kiss, stroking his body until it started to burn out of his control. He guided her gently downwards to lie on the thickest of the rugs and then quickly followed, covering her with his body. She tore at his shirt, burying her face in his bare throat. He was a lost man. He forgot everything but his need to feel her naked skin against his, the hardness of his body against hers. He would allow himself this one moment. Slowly but urgently he began to move against her.

  * * *

  They strolled hand in hand along the pathway as though gliding through a dream. Surely it had been a dream. But no, Alessia walked beside him, the beautiful woman he had so thoroughly loved, walked beside him. He knew that he had made her happy and for the very first time. For himself, past pleasures were not unknown but they faded into nothingness. This was love, not lust. The months with Marguerite had been mere childish fumblings. This was love that went deep and true. Alessia was his destiny and must be his for always.

  She spoke and the spell was broken. ‘Edward may be home by now.’ The hour had lengthened into three. ‘I will say that when you called to make an appointment, I insisted that you escort me to Hyde Park immediately.’

  Her voice was decided, but he hated the necessity for such an excuse. He wanted to shout to the roof tops that they need make no apology. They were in love and they belonged together. The whole world must see that, the whole world must sing it loudly. But he must not compromise her. Nor himself, he warned the eager lover within—not at this stage. When the Exhibition was over, when he had made a name for himself, perhaps then…

  ‘I will say nothing,’ he reassured her. ‘I will leave you to explain your absence.’

  But in the event Edward Renville had not yet returned from his business dinner and they had no need to lie. Lucas stood beside her in the open doorway, the street light shading his face to a dark intensity. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.

  ‘Should we visit the site again before the grand opening, do you think? It might be wise to ensure that all continues successfully.’

  She knew exactly what he was offering and accepted his invitation. ‘It would be well to do so,’ she said demurely.

  Well indeed. And so began th
e happiest three weeks of Lucas Royde’s entire life. At every opportunity she would send a message that she would be alone that evening. She sent always to Red Lion Square for he had warned her that Fontenoy, still hopeful of discovering something discreditable, was a danger. It seemed to Lucas that she spent a great many evenings alone and he rejoiced. In these hours she was entirely his. But what could be wrong with Edward Renville, to prefer the company of men—and businessmen at that—to a woman so full of love that he was daily drowning in its bounty. He supposed that his work at de Vere’s was still considered satisfactory, but in truth he had little remembrance of what he did from day-to-day. All he could think of were the evenings and their promise. On the few occasions that Renville remained at home, Lucas was driven half mad with jealousy and frustration. But the next night they would again lay close on those deep, rich rugs, flickering fire lighting the space and every snatched minute together charged with joy.

  * * *

  One evening as they were preparing to leave, he said out of the blue, ‘Was your husband a successful man when you married him?’

  ‘Do you know your eyebrows can be very threatening?’

  ‘Threatening?’

  ‘Yes, even though your eyes say something quite different.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘And so insistent! Why do you ask?’

  ‘I want to know everything about you. I wondered what kind of man he was when you first met, if you had any notion of what your life would be once you married.’

  She flushed a little, but her voice was steady when she answered. ‘Edward was just starting out. He had a very small business, but he was certain that he would make a success.’

  ‘And you believed in him?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  They were fully clothed and sitting side by side on the love seat looking out over the darkened park. Half turning towards her, he glimpsed her profile, classical in its beauty, outlined against the shadows of the pavilion.