The Crystal Cage

by Merryn Allingham

  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 compulsiv
e 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.

  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.’