Within, a vaulted main hall dominated by wrought-iron staircase. Eight columns of red granite, placed in front of piers, with arches between the piers. Plasterwork on the vault (?) – ornamental detail to be carefully managed, integral to the building – banish all irrelevant crusting & flouncing.
Intermediate landings are below the octagon, with a gallery running round. The effect of extravagant space vital to this. Top landing, reading-room (70 feet?) arranged with bays left & right, divided by vaulting piers. Each bay has to the outside an oriel, below & above. (See sketches.) Cupola above, octagonal to echo the end bays, supplemental to the light from the oriels.
At the back elevation, glass curtain-walling, with mullions.
22nd June 1868
Blazing away to finish accurate designs of the building. Once done, I wrote to my father, then carried the scrolls to the office & unfurled them for Urquhart’s inspection. When he had finished I asked him if he had forgiven me on the Paradise-st. business. ‘Gladly,’ he cried, ‘if this is to be our replacement.’ He then suggested that we draw up a list of private subscriptions. I shook my head, & explained that this was to be a free library, a gift to the city – & that every poor man should find a welcome in it. But how did I propose to pay for it? he asked. In answer I showed him the drawing I had made of Frank as a young man, absorbed in his book. ‘I have a good hope that this man’s father will help pay for it.’
June [1868]
My hope has not been in vain – Pa confessed he was deeply affected by the plans, & vouchsafed his entire approval. He even suggested a name: The Francis Eames Library. (I omitted to tell him that this was to have been my own choice.) With the help of certain business associates he is confident of raising money for the purpose. I am quite preposterously delighted, & feel a revival of energies I have not experienced since the design of Janus House fully six years ago. In honour of the man who inspired me then & now, his aphorism shall be carved above the door: THERE IS NO WEALTH BUT LIFE.
July [1868]
Library plans proceed apace. I spend so many hours at the office that Emily claims I have become a very stranger to them – ‘Ellie & Rose will barely know they have a father,’ she says. There is a humorous note to her plaints, I think, though there is justice enough in them; I leave home before they wake, & return long after they are abed.
2nd August 1868
Urquhart met with our bankers today, & returned with a troubled expression that I could not tease away. The issue stands at this – Pa, true to his word, has organised a philanthropic fund that will raise the sum of £40,000. All well & good – but Urquhart says that the cost of the library, once the land has been purchased, the builders hired &c., will now certainly exceed £65,000. The bank is prepared to lend only £5,000, leaving a shortfall of at least £20,000. He presented our dilemma thus: either we seek the money elsewhere, or we cut back the costs of the building. Urquhart knows that I am adamant on the latter – it shall be made as I have designed it, or else not at all. But savings could be made, he argues, & instances the use of ash for the shelving as less expensive than walnut. No, I insist, walnut it must be. He throws up his hands as if to say, ‘The Devil take him,’ & I smile – he knows I can bend the matter to my will.
19th August [1868]
Loath as I am to drag her into the business I broached it with Emily this evening, enlightening her on the excess costs of the library scheme, the parsimony of the bank &c., & enquired as to whether she supposed her father might look favourably on a request – £20,000, while no small sum, would not unduly tax a man of Sir Wm’s means. She considered the matter seriously for some moments, & presently admitted that she had little confidence in his acceding to my petition – it is long acknowledged between us that my father-in-law holds me in no great esteem. ‘But he might be brought round to the idea,’ she continued, ‘if I were to approach him.’ It shames me to confide here that this was the solution which I had secretly purposed – whether Emily was deceived by my surprised expression of delight I could not say. ‘You might prove your gratitude,’ she said, as I whirled her up in an embrace, ‘by devoting a little time to your wife and children.’ I accepted the reproach, & promised her all the uxorious attention at my disposal if she succeeds in convincing Sir to open his coffers.
25th August 1868
This is the day upon which Emily has made an appointment to see her father at Torrington Hall. I had suggested that Urquhart accompany her thither, for if I know Sir Wm he will not be tempted into munificence without the guarantee of a sound business plan – on which subject, I feel assured, Urquhart will be most persuasive. Emily agreed to this, & they left an hour ago by carriage from Hope-pl. I set down these words now to distract myself from anxiously pacing up & down my office carpet – the matter is out of my hands. Still I fret.
3rd September 1868
My twenty-ninth birthday, though the true fount of this evening’s celebration sprang from the pockets of my father-in-law, the estimable Sir Wm Rocksavage – never again shall I slight the fellow! We have our £20,000, & I raised a toast in tribute to Emily & to Urquhart at dinner here. Effie, Edward’s wife, also present, looking remarkably pretty – though I sense a melancholy about her of late. Edward, in truth, makes a habit of ignoring her on such occasions, as if he had brought the woman along on compulsion & quickly tired of her. It is perplexing, for Effie seems to me all that a wifely companion ought to be, affectionate, attentive, convivial, & blessed with a humorous acuity of observation – I am reminded of Cassius, who ‘looks quite through the deeds of men’. But where marriage is concerned I deem it best not to enquire too closely – it being difficult enough to understand one’s own without making another’s the object of study.
September [1868]
Library. The cost continues to spiral upwards; I look away and another thousand has crept on to the account. At present it stands at £85,000. The builders with whom we had drawn up a contract have now seen fit to offer their services elsewhere. Such is the demand for bricks & mortar at present that many hold back for the highest bidder – & previous loyalties go up in smoke.
November [1868]
Library. It is proving really the most vexatious project I have ever undertaken. No sooner do we dispatch one problem than another rears up, Hydra-headed. Now the Duke-st. site is judged unsuitable to our purpose, & we must go scouting for another location. Yet my determination to see it through will not waver – I owe this much to Frank.
29th November 1868
My brother’s anniversary. Pa had organised a service at St Catherine’s – the first reading was from Psalms: ‘As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, & it is gone; & the place thereof shall know it no more.’
Wednesday, ninth December, 1868
Library. Today I was talking with one of the uncomprehending apprentices (I have a small collection of them) when a caller was announced at the office – ‘a lady’, said the boy, & thereupon entered none other than Effie Urquhart. She had come on the expectation of a luncheon engagement with Edward, it seemed. I was sorry to disappoint her, & explained that her husband was gone from the office on business, not to return until evening. She looked crestfallen at this, so I quickly added that – being at leisure myself (if only) – I would be greatly obliged if she were to accompany me to luncheon instead. She declined at first (I had an inkling that she perceived my invitation as mere charity) but a little cajoling won her around. We walked over to a respectable dining-room on Dale-st., where the appearance of a lady provoked only one or two of the more ancient heads to turn. Settled in a booth, we talked amiably of something & nothing – when I ordered champagne Mrs Urquhart betrayed a look of surprise. ‘I count every day lost that does not occasion at least one glass of it,’ I said truthfully, & I persuaded her to join me. She recounted a little of her history – born & raised in Alderley Edge, had met Edward through his acquaintance with her father, & migrated to the city on b
eing married. She confessed herself ill-suited to Liverpool after her years in Cheshire – ‘I still imagine myself to be a country girl,’ she said, rather sadly. I begin to see the truth of this, for there is about her an innocent gaiety not commonly associated with the bustle of city folk & the roar of thoroughfares. A loneliness haunts her – she seems to have made few friends in her time here. Had she talked of this discontent to her husband? I asked. – Now & then, came her smiling reply, ‘but Edward is not much given to listening’. (This was no surprise to me.) As we proceeded merrily through luncheon I pondered an oddity, for though we had met on but a few occasions I felt a closer companionship with Mrs Urquhart than I have ever done with Edward, whom I see nearly every day.
Just before we parted she enquired as to the progress of the library, & remarked – without any trace of asperity – that Edward was more at the office than he was at home. I owned that I had neglected Emily in like fashion, & by way of apology assured her that once the actual building had begun both he & I would make good the deficit of attention that was long owed to our wives. She smiled at this, & as we shook hands she said, ‘I acknowledge the respect of being properly addressed – but would you do me the kindness of calling me Effie?’
Christmas Day [1868]
Dinner at Abercromby-sq. All the family present, & I invited the Urquharts for our evening party. It pleased me to notice how well Ma & Effie liked one another – perhaps they recognised the fellowship of country girls. (‘A lovely lass,’ Ma whispered to me later – an estimation in which I readily concurred.) While I played at cards with Georgy, whose Christmas punch is ever popular, Emily & Urquhart played duets at the piano – I asked for ‘Liverpool’s an Altered Town’ but neither knew it, & Ma says that she has quite forgotten the words.
Later I talked with Pa about the Library. I confessed my exasperation with the delays, & with the stupendous absurdity of the builders’ caprice – one moment they make an oath to start on this or that date, the next they make footling excuses as to why that date is now ‘impossible’. (Invariably because another client has tempted them away.) Pa is sanguine, however, & bears it with a patience remarkable in one who has invested a cool £10,000 of his own money. ‘All shall be well,’ he says. ‘The place shall be built.’ I hope to Heaven he is right.
10th January 1869
Library. The Toxteth site has been approved, copies of the plans have been made, the builders are ready to begin – in March. All that remains is to decide upon the plasterwork of the vault; the designs of the capitals I have sketched here seem satisfactory. Yet I have an abhorrence of things that are merely ‘satisfactory’ – they must be outstanding, or else I should forbear to put my name to them. My first scheme was to have stiff-leaf mouldings, such as ornament any building one cares to visit – therefore unsuitable; Liver birds, as sketched, another possibility.
Wednesday, 20th January, 1869
St Agnes’s Eve – ‘ah bitter chill it was!’ I rec’d at the office this afternoon a note marked Private, in a lady’s hand. It was from Effie Urquhart, asking very earnestly to see me. I had not the faintest notion what the matter might be, but readily answered her request & set off for her house in Canning-st. On arriving I was conducted to the drawing-room, where I found her alone & in great distress – it was apparent that she had been weeping. After some awkward efforts on my part to comfort her, she addressed me quietly; she ventured to hope that I was a friend to her, & I replied – Of course. Then would I speak truthfully to her? Again, I assented, still uncertain of where she was leading. ‘Did Edward have a meeting with you yesterday afternoon?’ We saw each other yesterday afternoon, I replied. ‘At two o’clock, at the Adelphi Hotel?’ she asked. No, later, I said, at Norfolk-st. At this, she lowered her head in her hands, & began to sob. I begged her to tell me her meaning, but for a long time she could not speak. Presently she collected herself, & said, ‘You will think me foolish, I am sure, but I have reason to believe – these last few weeks Edward has been so often away from the house –’ ‘You know too well the library has occupied us both insanely,’ I offered, but she shook her head. ‘Not this time,’ she replied. ‘He told me he was to meet you, yesterday, at two. I had suspected something was amiss for a while – you recall the day I came to meet him for luncheon, & he was gone? – so I decided to put the matter to the test.’
I was dumbfounded. ‘You … followed him?’ She nodded, distractedly, her kerchief crushed in her hand. ‘I saw him enter the hotel, & I waited, pacing up & down the street outside. He did not emerge until half-past four. I kept to a doorway & observed him leave –’ ‘Alone?’ She nodded. There might be an innocent explanation, I said – Edward was frequently obliged to meet with our financial committee, building managers &c. – the Adelphi would be a likely place to do so. (But I did wonder – why would Urquhart lie to his wife about meeting me?) Reluctant though I was to investigate any further, only a brute could have ignored the silent appeal of Effie’s woebegone face. I assured her that her fears were almost certainly groundless, but I would pursue the matter & settle whatever doubts remained.
23rd January [1869]
Whatever doubts … Effie’s story has fastened itself upon my brain as unyieldingly as a limpet. Now suspicions goad me that Urquhart’s absences from the office might not be so blameless – has he been engineering mischief on behalf of a rival speculator? It would explain why the builders have so often played false with us, & why financial assistance promised to the Library is later mysteriously withdrawn.
I determined to establish the truth for myself, & when Urquhart had left for the day I slipped into his office & examined his business diary. ‘Meeting with E’ was a frequent entry – E being myself. I scoured the later pages & read, under 19th Jan (the day of which Effie had spoken), ‘Adelphi – 2 o’clock – E.’ So he had arranged to meet me, it seemed – I had no memory of the appointment, but then the Library has so preoccupied my thoughts there would be nothing unusual in that. Looking further I noted that he had marked another meeting at the Adelphi for 28th Jan – with whom was unspecified.
28th January [1869]
I have just now visited Effie to tell her this news – for such it is, to both of us. My own calmness as I sit here astounds me, though I fear it shall not last. How to begin?– This morning (that seems another age already) I called on Urquhart at his office & with a show of friendly indifference enquired as to his appointments for the day – would he oblige me with his company at the Cockspur? Alas, he replied, he had made another engagement for this afternoon – but (he continued) might we have luncheon tomorrow? I spread my hands as though to say, Of course. At half-past one he left the office, & moments later I was out on the street, following him, down Moorfields, into Stanley-st. – the bright bustle of the passers-by keeping a distance between us. It seemed absurd at first that I should be shadowing my own friend in this way, but as his pace quickened an ominous lightness entered my own steps; I could not account for it, but felt as one who might be stalking towards disaster – I shall not forget this walk for as long as I draw breath. On, on, I pursued him, up Leigh-st., across Clayton-sq., Cases-st. and then into Ranelagh-st. where the old hotel closes the view at its top. (This too is soon to be demolished.) Carriages clattered by & for a moment I lost my quarry in the crowds milling around Ranelagh-pl. I entered the hotel by a side-door, & hugged the shadows – there were people enough in the vestibule to afford adequate concealment. Then I espied him, seated at one of the tables & looking about in expectation of someone. I continued to wait – oh for those last minutes of not knowing – when at the far side of the entrance-hall I caught sight of Emily, looking quite lost amid the press of porters & guests & other hotel-haunters. Emily! Marvelling at the coincidence of her being there I was about to present myself when I saw her face light up & she walked towards the man she had come to meet – Urquhart. Meeting with E … But I am not E.
He stood, they talked – then with a furtive glance about the hall he led her towards
the staircase, his arm hovering proprietorially at the small of her back. Up the stairs they walked, deep in conversation – & disappeared from view. For one preposterous moment I thought of his declining my invitation this morning – ‘but might we have luncheon tomorrow?’ he said. No, I thought sadly, we shall not dine with one another again … Emily, Emily – I have neglected you, truly I know it now –
I hear a key in the latch – her key. We are husband and wife still. For how long did she imagine it could last? My heart knocks so violently against my ribs I wonder to think she does not hear it. I could not –
There the journals of Peter Eames came to an abrupt halt. Baines felt a number of things in quick succession: surprise, outrage, disbelief, pity, and then a maddening sense of anticlimax. Eames had exited his own story just as he was beginning its denouement. The bare details of what lay ahead were well known, at least to those who had ever taken an interest in this obscure provincial architect. He and his wife Emily had separated early in 1869; she had taken her daughters, Ellen and Rose, and moved back to Blundell Sands with Edward Urquhart. Eames, who also lost the William Rocksavage endowment as well as his business manager, continued to work on the library scheme in defiance of mounting costs and his own near-bankruptcy. Building began on it in autumn 1869, but when the money dried up three years later it was abandoned. His premonition that Magdalen Chambers would be the last building he would ever complete had proven correct. In July 1873 he was drowned while swimming off Blundell Sands. He was thirty-three years old.
The Rescue Man Page 28