Page 16 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms (Tales from Honeysuckle Street #4)

Chapter Nine

‘When was it constructed?’ Florence leant out through the cab window to better inspect the mansion.

‘Good evening, Mrs Murray,’ Johannes said, smirking. ‘It’s nice to see you too.’

Heat crept up her neck. ‘Good evening. I’ve never been inside a mansion like this one, and I am perhaps overeager. Apologies for my abruptness.’

Johannes opened the door to the cab and offered his hand.

Leaning heavily against him, she stepped down and onto the street.

The early days of spring, full of new shoots and fresh green leaves erupting along branches, had lengthened the days but not changed the chill of the nights.

The last vestiges of daylight had disappeared during her drive through the congested roads towards Honeysuckle Street, and against the soot of night, the grand house at the top of the stairs glowed luminescent.

‘There are so many stairs.’ Cascading like a white waterfall, the path from the road to the entry must have been fifty steps high.

She forced herself to take them in the same manner as a stable adult would, one per rise, but after only two strides, her knees cried out, and her hip joined in for good measure.

‘Are you going to be a gentleman?’ Florence chided, balancing against the balustrade. Johannes startled, then offered his elbow. Florence slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and anchored herself between him and the rail.

‘Forgive my lack of manners. I was awestruck,’ he said.

‘It is a beautiful house,’ she said with a rush of relief. Between him and the rail, she could manage.

‘I am not talking about the house.’

The uneven flicker of the gas lamps from the street and the house competed to cast and dispersed shadows that danced across his cheeks and lit sparks in his eyes.

Heat wound through her like a glow from a newly lit stove, but this was not embarrassment.

She’d preened for too long before the mirror, admiring the fall and flow of this new dress—an elegant ballgown of sage green, trimmed with white and a scant few pink ribbons.

The careful seamstress had found a way to conceal her back and highlight her breasts.

Florence knew she looked pretty. She pulled at her short cape, a gorgeous extravagance she’d never even owned before.

‘When was it built?’ She studied the triangular gable, half out of wonder, half as a pretence to cover her slow steps.

Left right. Left right.

‘Guess,’ Johannes replied, his march matching her pace.

She leant harder against him and craned her neck to take in the roofline. It shone a radiant white against the blanket of night.

‘Palladian. Before the battle of the styles?’

‘Delightfully free of that inane war, yes.’

‘1730.’

He sucked in a breath. ‘So close. A decade earlier, and you have it.’

‘Older than the duke’s house?’

‘Oldest house in the street. Still standing, that is. There may have been other places before, but there are no records of them.’

With a gush of relief, Florence took the final step onto the landing.

From the inside, warm yellow light spilled through open doors and arched windows, splashing the odd rainbow prism against the ground.

Johannes led her through the double doors.

Above them, plates of rose-coloured stained glass spelt out the word Sobieski .

Johannes tipped closer, his voice a rough whisper. ‘The rumour has always been that a German archduke bought Miss Delaney this house in gratitude for being her first lover. But no one knows for sure. Rumours never stick with Miss Delaney.’

‘Half her luck. All I got from George was a kiss on the cheek and a sweet dreams .’ Florence clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Goodness, that was obscene. I shouldn’t have said that.’

Johannes smothered a laugh. ‘You are—’

‘Crass?’

‘Refreshing. As honest as a wood beam.’

His looks, his smooth compliments, the perfect cut of his suit… all of him combined was nothing short of dangerous. Florence unbuttoned her cape, and he lifted it from her shoulders.

‘Would you like champagne?’ he asked.

‘I’ve never had champagne.’ Florence spoke as she turned, only to meet his retreating back. ‘I am not used to London society. Don’t leave me to make small talk,’ she pleaded, but he was already walking away.

‘No fear of that. Johannes only speaks in deep thoughts.’

Florence froze. She pivoted, half expecting to find the flawless woman from the Aster dining room, or a variation of her.

But instead, she was faced with two women around her own age.

One with dark hair and a very pregnant belly, dressed in emerald green; the other a blonde wisp with fresh daisies in her hair, wearing light blue. The pregnant woman extended her hand.

‘Rosanna. I am Johannes’s sister. This is our neighbour, Miss Elise Hartright. And you are Mrs Murray.’ The sister raised her eyebrows with a pointed look at her companion, but the silent conversation was over before Florence could decipher any of it.

‘I am. Please, call me Florence.’ She stuck out her hand, then pulled it back. ‘Heavens, do ladies shake hands in London? My mother has so many books on etiquette, and I’ve read none of them. I never thought it would be so complicated. But this city is a puzzle in a puzzle in a package to me.’

Elise pressed the back of her hand over her mouth. Her eyes creased at the edges, and with the smallest glance at Johannes’s sister, the pair of them burst into companionable laughter.

‘You are in good company, Mrs Murray. We aren’t so skilled at society either.’

When they laughed again, Florence couldn’t help but join in.

They were infectious young people, both bright and fresh as rosebuds.

But then she was too, wasn’t she? She’d never really had young friends before, not since school.

As George’s wife, the wives of his friends had become hers, and all of them had been older.

Her visits with her mother’s acquaintances were sometimes dotted with daughters who accompanied them, but they were usually married, their children toddling about or in prams.

Johannes returned and passed her a thin glass of golden bubbles. She took a small sip. ‘It tastes like fizzy butter,’ she said. ‘It’s delicious.’

‘You aren’t from London?’ Rosanna asked.

‘Sydney. We arrived shortly after Christmas. Before that, we lived in Melbourne.’

‘Melbourne?’ Elise framed the city as a question. ‘Do you know the McIntyre family?’

‘McIntyre cordials? Everyone knows them!’ Florence’s tongue tingled with another hurried sip of champagne. A familiar topic at last. ‘Best mixes for the table.’

‘But do you know them?’ A tension rippled the air. Elise took a step closer. Her voice lowered but stayed dark and urgent. ‘Do you know the family? I’ve been trying to find Sinclair. He’s their youngest son.’

‘I was only a girl when we left Melbourne for Sydney. Perhaps we crossed paths, but I don’t remember more than Mama buying their tonics. I can ask my parents. How do you know of them?’

‘I…’ Elise blinked back tears. ‘Please excuse me. I have spoken of things I shouldn’t have. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Murray.’

And she pushed her way through the crowd, hastening away. Rosanna sent her brother a worried frown, then followed.

Florence gulped the last of her champagne. ‘I told you I am no good at small talk. Why did you leave me?’

He shook his head. ‘That isn’t your fault.

It’s a long story, and a sad one for Elise.

Her sister brought scandal to the family, not just once, but twice.

Their reputation has never recovered, and Elise bears the brunt of it.

But beneath all of that, I think she just misses her sister.

They were close.’ He threw back the last of his champagne, then placed both their glasses on a table.

‘Enough sad stories. I promised you an architectural wonder. What do you think?’

Florence’s eyes darted about the throng of people.

Poised and elegant, their clothes a patchwork of luxury and wealth, they all shrank against the vaulted ceiling beneath the large dome.

She took a few steps through the crowd, tracing the inlay of parquetry beneath her feet.

Compact alcoves lit by overhead lamps glimmered with different types of artwork: a statue, an oil painting, a large vase.

Small groups gathered before each piece, talking or gesticulating.

Large arched windows, at least twice her height, spilled the sparkling light of the chandeliers onto the balcony and into the faint, dark green depths of the gardens.

And at the centre of the room a grand piano rose.

Against it leant a woman so beautiful that if it weren’t for the warmth of her smile or the sophisticated precision of her movements, she could have been a piece of art in the alcoves.

Her necklaces and bracelets caught the light, rippling with her laughter when the man beside her said something amusing.

Even the coquettish lift of her chin was perfect.

Johannes sidled up to her. ‘You’ve spotted our host, Miss Delaney. What do you make of her house?’

‘It’s beautiful. Truly beautiful, but it’s not made for living, is it? It’s not made to be a home.’

‘I agree with you. For a change,’ he added, laughing.

‘Miss Delaney hosts parties and displays her artworks, but I couldn’t imagine a family in here.

The house is a performance, and she is always on stage.

I like to believe that she has a room that is perpetually untidy.

That she picks her teeth with a fish bone and is a complete mess in there. ’