by Davyne DeSye
Or at least not yet. The thought burst upon him with wishful boyish fervency – had he had a free hand, one finger would have rubbed at his upper lip.
Petter put one portfolio down long enough to pull his coat collar up against the dampness and then retrieved the leather case from the wet ground. I know my craft. I will succeed. Without a backward glance toward the façade he had approached with such hope not one hour ago, he turned toward the offices of his current employer. As though weeping for this latest failure, the mist turned to rain before he could take a dozen steps.
***
“Petter, m’ boy!” The high-pitched voice of Edward Evans greeted Petter as he stepped, dripping, through the door into the shop. Petter winced at the man’s choice of words – “boy,” again – as much as he winced at the stilettos in the eyes of the journeyman over whom the master stonemason stood.
“Mr. Evans, sir,” Petter answered his employer with deference. He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the rain from his face and hair.
“Any luck, m’ boy?” Evans asked, moving his enormous, muscular bulk toward Petter with the ease of one long accustomed to moving great blocks of stone, and finding himself – empty-handed – free to float across the floor. The glistening baldness of his great head and the flapping of the long, free-floating mustache as it bobbed toward Petter enhanced the impression that the man floated. Petter had often wondered if the lush mustache was nurtured to counterbalance the lack of hair upon the skull.
Before Petter had quite finished drying his face, the man’s massive arm was around his shoulders, and then removed in almost the same moment. “Good gracious, but your coat is soaked.”
“Yes, sir,” Petter said. “Forgot my umbrella.” He shrugged out of his topcoat, making sure not to look toward the abandoned journeyman, certain he would find the man’s eyes still smoldering his resentment.
“Good day to you, Petter,” said a sweet lilting voice at his other side. Petter turned toward the young lady while wrestling his waterlogged coat over one arm.
“Good day to you, Miss Evans.” He bowed his head to the rather plain daughter of the master mason, returning her radiant smile with a more subdued smile of his own.
“Phoebe, Petter. I have asked you to call me Phoebe,” she answered, her clear eyes meeting his. Her eyes were her best feature – large and luminous even in their darkness, and surrounded by luxurious dark lashes.
“Phoebe, take Petter’s coat, dear,” her father said as he clapped Petter’s shoulder with one massive hand. It struck Petter that the pitch of the man’s voice was very close to the high register tones of his daughter’s, although the man was three times the size of the girl. “Come, Petter, m’ boy, tell me how you fared. Have I lost my best journeyman?” He pulled Petter toward the office to the side of the work area.
Petter coughed into his hand to avoid answering, both because he loathed to confess his most recent failure to the journeymen working in the room, and because he knew Evans’ careless praise only increased the jealous contempt with which the journeymen regarded him. While he appreciated the effusive compliments of the good-natured man, he also regretted the tension the praise caused among the men who would be Petter’s fellows.
“Sit, m’ boy, sit. Which did you show them? Have you got your commission?” Evans motioned to the chair on Petter’s side of the great desk, and began folding architectural drawings and illustrations of carved stone cornices and frontispieces to one side.
“No, sir, no commission,” Petter said, “although one of the gentlemen seemed quite impressed with my latest plan.”
“Ah, the only aesthete in the group then,” Evans answered, and patting the desk, said, “Come on then, show me. I don’t believe I’ve seen the final version.”
Petter placed the drawings of the hotel he had designed on the table, and turned them to face Evans. Starting with a rendering of the façade of the building and moving through the architectural plans beneath, Evans bowed his glowing pate and leafed through the plans.
“Magnificent,” he said at last.
“Magnificent,” echoed Phoebe, startling Petter, for he had not heard her enter the room.
“Thank you, sir, miss,” Petter said.
“I am especially impressed with the design of the main floor – the flow you achieved with the open arches between the foyer and adjoining rooms. The placement of the main reception area… And the planned carvings!” Evans’ voice squeaked at the final word, and he cleared his throat before finishing, “Magnificent!”
“Thank you, sir.” Petter glanced at Phoebe, and gesturing to one section with a sweeping hand, said, “This particular section was planned at Miss Evans’ suggestion.”
“Oh, Petter! I simply...,” Phoebe began, a pretty blush coloring her otherwise plain features.
“Ah, yes, Phoebe!” Evans interrupted, and he raised a marble-block of a hand to Phoebe’s face and rubbed a finger along her cheek. “If her womanly attributes did not leave her without the bulk or strength needed, she would be a fine mason, but I daresay she shows promise in architecture. I am sorry for your sake, dear, that you were not born a son.”
The blush on Phoebe’s cheeks warmed anew, and she uncharacteristically cast her eyes down, and back at Petter with an expression he could not name, before saying, “I’m not sorry, Father.”
“No, no, neither am I, my dear.” The man patted at his daughter’s arm as his eyes returned to Petter’s plans. Petter gazed at Phoebe – trying to decipher the meaning of her odd expression, and failing – before returning his attention to Evans and the part of the plans the man was examining. Phoebe’s suggestion for the main foyer was insightful – both an artistic and functional improvement to his original design – but he wondered if her father was doing the girl a disservice to allow her to spend her days in his offices learning a man’s craft. The girl’s mother was deceased for some years and she would benefit more from the company of women – an aunt, perhaps, or cousins – where she might better learn the feminine arts. Lord knew, if Petter was being frustrated by his youth, the girl could only be educating herself into a life of dissatisfaction and disappointment. Petter glanced toward Phoebe again.
And perhaps in the company of women, she could learn to be less plain.
Petter was wrenched from his reverie by another exclamation from Evans: “Magnificent!” The man brought his palm down on the desktop with a bang, and then moved around the desk to place an arm around Petter’s shoulders again. With the other hand pounding Petter’s chest, he said, “There will come a day when you overcome your youth, m’ boy, and then I will need to worry over my own livelihood. I hope when the time comes, you’ll remember that I proclaimed your genius first, and take pity on me.” He loosed a high-pitched twittering laugh setting the flaps of his mustache flying, before releasing Petter to gather his drawings. “Now where was I?” he said, as he strode out of the office and back toward the abandoned journeyman.
Petter watched Evans’ broad back as the man first filled and then moved through the doorway, feeling much lifted by the tonic of the man’s gracious tribute. When he turned to the desk, Phoebe was gathering up Petter’s plans.
“Your father is right, you know. Your suggestion was truly inspired.” He opened the portfolio to allow Phoebe to place the plans within.
“You are kind, Petter.” From any other girl he would have expected the words to come with a coquettish bat of eyelashes, but when he looked up, her large brown eyes met his.
“No, I am…” He faltered under her gaze, and began again. “Miss Evans, I am not…” She did not let him finish.
“Phoebe,” she said. “If you mean what you say, we are co-workers, and perhaps even friends, and you could do me the favor of calling me by my given name, as I have asked.” Rather than revealing any petulance with her words, she smiled as she spoke.
Petter smiled in return, as though they shared a joke.
“Phoebe, then.” He glanced over h
is shoulder toward the workroom, and the journeymen about their various tasks, realizing that other than his employer, Phoebe was the only person on the premises who treated him in a friendly manner.
“Friends, then,” she said, and held her hand out as if to shake his hand in the fashion of a man.
Petter hesitated, and then with a laugh took her hand and shook it once. “As my friend and co-worker, perhaps you should look at more of my plans – to help me improve them where I fall short,” he said.
“It was a lucky inspiration; that is all. The plans are yours and are truly splendid... beautiful.” She paused, shifting her weight between her feet, seeming embarrassed. She cleared her throat and said, “And perhaps, if it would not be an imposition on your time, you could look at my own fledgling plans.”
“You’ve drawn your own plans?” Petter asked, and then saw the folly of his surprise. Until now, he had thought her suggestion regarding his own plans to be blind luck supported only by her familiarity – through her father – with various architectural drawings and devices. Now it occurred to him that her father’s statement that she showed promise in architecture insinuated much more than that. Before she could answer his question, he said, “I would be pleased… Phoebe.”
She smiled at his use of her name, but said nothing more.
“Now I must earn my keep as your father’s journeyman, or soon seek other employment. Please excuse me.”
Petter worked the remainder of the day, sleeves rolled up. With mallet and chisels, rifflers and sanders, he masticated the immense marble block on which he had been working for some days until the elaborate carved column capital stood gleaming and ready for delivery. He stood back, pleased to be finished with the piece, glowing with his exertion and the pleasure he took in his craft. His failure of the morning was forgotten for the moment. His self-satisfied smile faded as he turned toward a neighboring journeyman – wanting to share his triumph – and met a sneer. He glanced away and around the room, seeking refuge in a friendly face, before remembering – or realizing anew – that as Evans’ obvious favorite, he would find none. Even the two people who had extended friendship to him did not share his momentary pleasure: Evans had left his establishment for a meeting, and Phoebe sat at a drafting table in the far corner engrossed in a project of her own.
Drawing architectural plans? It amazed him that he had not considered the possibility before today, as she was often ensconced behind the same table.
Just as his eyes were releasing her to turn to his next project, her head lifted and her eyes fixed on his. His smile was born anew, and was answered with the warmth of her own.
A friend. It is good to have a friend in this place. In silence he turned, and began with ropes and rollers and wedges to move the next piece of roughed-in stone into place. The page attached to the stone described it as part of a frieze to be mounted above a bank entrance. He began the process of preparing the surface for the carving of the large letters.
Through the rest of the day – whether stopping his work for water or for a brief rest – he sought Phoebe’s steady gaze and warm smile. For reasons he could not name, a certainty rose in him that today was a turning point to his time in London, and that success soon would be his.
CHAPTER 3
A DECISION IS MADE
Christine ran her fingers through the loose, ruddy mane of her mare as she waited for Erik to dismount. Her breathing was returning to normal after their gallop back to the stables, although her mare still puffed and blew and stamped as the handler patted its muzzle. The exhilaration of the final gallop and the pleasure of their morning ride together still glowed within her.
Erik came around to her side of the horse, smiling up at her, his eyes searching her face. She knew why he examined her so intently, and a spasm of guilt knifed through her. She hoped it did not show on her face.
What is wrong with me? The thought was followed by another, more vehement inner voice. There is nothing wrong with missing your child, with worrying about him… with wanting to protect him!
Erik reached his long-fingered hands up as she pulled her foot from the single stirrup and lifted her top knee over the saddle horns. She slid from the saddle into his waiting arms, and he lowered her to the ground. His careful tenderness and his closeness pulled her away from thoughts of Petter, and, grateful, she pressed her cheek to his chest. She could feel his own ragged breathing as he embraced her and held her close.
I do love this man so. I am happy with him. She lifted her face to his, and looked into his large, round eyes. The small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as his smile grew. She concentrated on losing herself in the love reflected there, and to focus for the moment on Erik, only Erik. She barely noticed as the handler led the horses away, the animals nickering their affection at the capable man.
“Gazelle was in rare form today,” Erik said, turning and taking her arm to lead her from the stable entrance.
“She is a beautiful mare,” she answered. “We should ride more often. That last gallop was glorious!” She put all the enthusiasm into her voice that she felt, and forced herself not to think of the third horse in the stable – the horse that had not joined their ride today.
“Then we shall!” Erik responded. She thought his exuberance a bit forced, but could not blame him. Even she found her despondency over Petter’s absence confusing and annoying at times and she knew Erik was trying to help her overcome her surprising feeling of loss. Unfortunately, there were times, like now, that his forced cheerfulness brought back the loss, rather than alleviated it.
“What shall we do now, wife?” he asked, turning to face her, and walking backwards before her as they made their way down the path toward the gardens and the manor. “You could read to me – the new book by that Doyle fellow is rather interesting.” When she did not answer, he continued, “Or if reading strikes you as too mellow, perhaps we could make another trip to Stockholm – the excitement of the city…”
Erik would continue in this vein if she did not answer, so she put him off as gently as she could. “Erik, my love, what I want most is a pleasant walk with my husband, and a moment to catch my breath before we begin another enjoyment.” She smiled as she spoke, and hoped that Erik could read the love and gratitude in her eyes, rather than the mild exasperation – directed at herself or at Erik, she could not tell – which was growing as he planned the next distraction.
Erik smiled and kissed her cheek, and then strode beside her, hands gripped at his back, eyes roving over the sky and the surrounding scenery, down to the white pebbles of the path on which they trod. His wholehearted effort to do as she had suggested settled as a weight against her, and she wondered if any of his apparent pleasure of late was genuine.
If not, it is purely my own fault. She could acknowledge this much, although she felt helpless to change.
The past months had been full of time together; singing and reading and trips to both Korsnäsborg and Stockholm, dinners with the few close friends who accepted Erik’s deformed features as of no more consequence than the clothing he chose to wear. Erik was unstoppable in his efforts to fill her every waking moment with activities and distractions, all meant to keep her from brooding on Petter’s absence and worrying about their son’s fate in London. As she thought through the last months, she realized that Erik had not even taken the daytrips he usually took to see his old friend, Mattis, the sailor, and to work on the man’s boat as a common fisherman – an escape Erik enjoyed. She spoke without thinking.
“You have not been to see Mattis lately.”
“No,” Erik answered, and a brief cloud crossed his features. Then he turned to her, smiling again, interpreting her statement as a suggestion for an activity. “Would you like to sail? Mattis would be more than happy to see you again, or take you out on the water, if you wish.” The childlike eagerness reflected in his face at the thought of seeing his friend while also providing another activity in which to engage her drew a laugh from Christine.
“No, dear,” she answered, and laughed again. “I just thought you must be missing his easy friendship. If so, you should go.” The tone of her last statement was sharper than she intended, sounding in her own ears as if she were asking him to leave her in peace for a time. She put her hand on his arm, and continued, softening her suggestion. “I love you, Erik, truly, but I need not monopolize your time – especially when doing so steals your time for relaxation and denies your companionship to a man who loves you, as Mattis does.” She rose to her toes to kiss his chin.
Neither of them spoke, and she saw in Erik’s eyes both his desire to visit with his friend and his concern for her. When he spoke, his concern carried the greater weight.
“I would rather be with you, my love.” The quiet sadness that crept into Erik’s voice confirmed Christine’s suspicions about the forced nature of his constant cheerfulness of late, although his face still bore the stale leavings of a smile. Lifting her hand, he bent and brushed his lips against her riding glove.
This must stop. In her sudden frustration, she almost pulled her hand from Erik’s gentle grip. Then it came to her that Erik was entertaining the identical thought – this must stop – and her heart filled with compassion for her husband’s effort; an effort made necessary by her own melancholy behavior, and made possible by his love for her.
This must stop. But how?
Erik released her hand, and she brought her palm to his face, where he covered it with his own.
“Then I shall be happy to oblige you, husband. I am still winded from our ride, so… something quiet. Would you be interested in besting me in a game of chess?”