Page 3 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms (Tales from Honeysuckle Street #4)

Chapter Two

Johannes nuzzled into his scarf as a small flurry of snowflakes brushed past him.

Flecks of ice clung to his woollen coat, and when he stretched into his leather gloves, he tugged sharply to close the gap between wrist and coat sleeve.

At the edge of the court, in the small alley that led onto the main street, he threw a glance over his shoulder towards the front window of the office.

Snow had already collected on the window ledge and along the top of the painted wooden sign that read Holt - Architect .

He searched the dark glass with an off-handed hope that the woman with eyes the colour of a cyanotype might be lingering there, but she did not prove so indulgent.

The window remained empty and opaque, except for the curtain drapes gathered at its edges.

So that was the elusive Mrs Murray.

Huddling into his coat, he tramped through the shadowed alley and into the bright street.

Grey clouds hung low over the city today, and it would be dark by the time his workday ended.

The calico cat who always perched on a barrel outside the fishmongers mewed as he passed, and he scratched its head.

A little further along, a newspaper boy shouted the morning’s headlines into the crowd.

Ice built thin bridges between the cobblestones, and as the night cart lumbered by, Johannes held his breath before exhaling a puff of mist into the morning chill.

A week into his employment with Mr Holt, he’d almost forgotten the comment that his employer had made in passing—that he would be occupying the rooms above the office as his home along with his wife and widowed daughter.

Mr Holt had followed the information with a warning that Johannes was not to venture beyond the ground floor but ought to confine himself to the lower rooms. Not an unreasonable request. Johannes had been so elated to obtain a position in a practice he would have confined himself to a broom closet if Mr Holt had asked it of him.

Anything to be finally given the chance to apply himself, to step into his own, to set out on a path of his choosing.

Mr Holt must have been in his sixties, and Mrs Holt looked about the same.

Yet the widowed daughter appeared to be closer to his own age, a few years beyond twenty.

When he’d stepped into the office to spot her at his desk, surprise had stuck him in place by the door.

And as she mixed the water with the paint powder and reached across the parchment, that surprise had morphed into curiosity, then admiration.

She adjusted the prongs of the nib pen with confidence, studied the plans with a keen eye, moved with deft purpose.

Had Mrs Murray been trained by her father?

If she had, why did she not work alongside him?

Johannes had never known of a woman architect before, but if his life on Honeysuckle Street and watching his sister Rosanna work alongside their father had taught him anything, it was that a woman could conquer most things with ambition and a little encouragement.

But then, it had also taught him that a woman who stepped too far beyond the confines the world placed around her always had to pay some kind of price.

Johannes ducked out of the path of a messenger boy running at full pelt, then moved beneath the stationer’s stretched canvas awning.

On the threshold, he shook the ice from his coat.

The bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside, and even though it wasn’t much warmer in here, the dry air and rich aniseed scent of ink made it feel cosy.

Behind the counter, Mrs Papel clapped her hands together. ‘Mr Hempel! How lovely to see you. I’ll get the menus. They’ve come up a treat. Your sister has an eye for design, no doubt about it. Is she well?’

‘As bossy as ever. I thought she might become a little quieter as she approached her confinement, but not Rosie.’

Mrs Papel slid a large parcel wrapped in brown paper onto the counter, the name of the family and the words Hotel Aster written across it in proud, swirling ink.

‘Would you like to check them?’ she asked. ‘Your sister is very particular. Never wrong, though.’

‘No, never wrong.’ He laughed. Wasn’t that the truth about Rosie. ‘Would you mind if I collected these later? I’m here for Mr Holt, the architect. I’ve started as his assistant.’

‘An architect?’ She turned back to the shelves and scanned the parcels. ‘Well, I never. I just assumed you’d join the family business.’

‘Doesn’t everyone,’ he said, a little grumpier than he should be.

His father had, after all, gifted him his education.

Even if he never stopped reminding him of it.

‘Thank you,’ he said, as she placed the smaller package onto the counter.

Johannes tucked it into the crook of his arm and headed back into the cold to trek the path back to his workplace.

As he stepped out of the alley and into the courtyard, the door to the office opened. A bundle of lace and frills emerged first—Mrs Holt. After her, tucked into her woollen coat and as lovely as she’d looked in the office, came Mrs Murray.

‘We shall start with my old acquaintances, the Wilsons. Then we can cross over to Lambeth and see if the Andersons are still resident in London. Never burn a bridge, Florence, one never knows when one might need to cross it again. I never thought we’d return to this city when we set off decades ago, and yet, here we are.

Oh, Mr Hempel. Back from an errand? It is so good to have you doing these things for Mr Holt, he is so busy, and heaven knows, Florence isn’t up to the task—’

‘What paper?’

Mrs Murray cut over her mother with an abruptness that snapped their focus to her in a flash. She bowed her head and tapped her gloved fingers together. ‘I mean to say, what type of paper did you collect, please? Is it for drawing or correspondence?’

‘It’s eight by eleven inches. So just correspondence,’ he replied.

‘Monogrammed?’

‘Forgive my daughter,’ Mrs Holt said, her voice tight and firm. ‘She has clearly forgotten propriety since we arrived.’

‘I’m not too sure on propriety myself,’ Johannes offered, when she shrank a little under the criticism. ‘I am sorry I surprised you earlier, Mrs Murray. I was not expecting to find someone in the office.’

‘Florence should not have been in the office. It won’t happen again,’ Mrs Holt said through clenched teeth.

‘No offence taken.’ He offered his hand. ‘Johannes Hempel.’

This time, she shook it. Leather against leather, the impression of her palm was barely enough to send any sensation against his own. She seemed smaller out here than she had in the office, as light as a wisp of wind. So tiny he could tuck her under his chin.

‘If you are walking this morning, I’d suggest avoiding the park. It’s still foggy in those areas.’

‘We are going to call on some old friends so that Florence can meet some people,’ Mrs Holt replied.

‘I can help.’ Johannes raked his hand through his hair, knocking his hat from his head.

It tumbled to the ground, and with a scramble and a curse, he caught it and replaced it.

‘That is, I mean, my sister may be able to help. She’s very well connected.

And my neighbour Elise sits on every committee across London, I swear it.

She likes to be busy, especially since my sister married.

They’re quite firm friends, and as Rosie gets closer to her confinement, she can’t ride…

’ Fool—fumbling words, blurting them out…

his tongue had become as mindless and uncoordinated as his fingers.

‘That is to say, I can ask about an introduction. If you’d like. ’

Mrs Holt had been flicking through her envelopes, but looked up, eyebrows arching. ‘Married? Would we be familiar with her husband and his family?’

‘I don’t think so. Phineas, that is, Mr Babbage, he doesn’t have any family save ours. He’s a bank clerk. Or he was. He helps our neighbour with her ledgers now, you might have heard of her though, she’s—’

‘Thank you for the offer, Mr Hempel, but we can forge our own connections.’ Mrs Holt tapped the edges of the envelopes against her gloved hand.

‘Come, Florence. Time to go calling. Let us see who is still alive.’ And she flounced the front of her skirt and set off.

Mrs Murray took a few steps. Johannes reached for the door.

‘I like to draw,’ Mrs Murray said, just loud enough to cover the crunch of ice, yet low enough that her mother likely wouldn’t hear.

‘Although I am not so good with portraits. Or flowers and still life. Or the sorts of things that most ladies like drawing, but I do like to sketch and sometimes paint. If you know of any groups or societies where a woman such as myself could… draw and talk about these things, I would be most obliged.’

‘I will think on it.’ Johannes nodded and adjusted the parcel in his arms. ‘There are so many societies across London. I am certain I can find something.’

She flicked him a glance and a conspiratorial smile, then spun away to follow her mother across the courtyard and down the narrow walkway.

Johannes pushed the door open. He placed the papers onto the table in the entrance hall to remove his coat, scarf, and hat. After he had hung them on the rack, he picked the parcel up again.

There were societies and groups for architects at different stages of study, for those wanting to learn and those willing to teach.

There were groups for those who wished to discuss buildings and archaeology and drawing.

He had attended a great many of them and regularly sat in on the Friday night lectures at the Architectural Association as a supplement to his own education.

But did any of those groups allow women?

Some lectures allowed women to attend, but only on select introductory topics: how to read a house plan or an introduction to classicism.

Mrs Murray had adjusted the rule pen and set about her work with focus and skill, not as an eager amateur.

As Johannes stepped into the office, he could still see her poised over his desk, lost in her work, the lines of her body as fluid as a flourish, her eyes fixed and shining.

Completely lost to the moment of creation, she had looked how he felt when he sketched out an idea or measured a room and painted it onto a page.

She didn’t want to draw just anything. She wanted to draw buildings .

Mr Holt barely nodded as Johannes slid the papers into their place on the shelf. Hunched over a copy of The Builder, he plucked the pencil from behind his ear and made a note on the page.

‘Here is one,’ Mr Holt said, not looking up.

‘A water fountain. Prize of one guinea.’ He grumbled with the same frustrated tone he always carried when searching The Builder .

‘I missed many things about London, but I did not miss the system.’ He closed the magazine and held it out to Johannes.

‘I’ve made a note against the competitions that might be worth entering. Compile a list, and we can begin work.’

Johannes took the book. At his desk, he pulled out a loose leaf of note paper and began to list all the competitions his employer had placed an asterisk against. He’d undertaken this same ritual while he’d been articled to Mr Goodman, who had taught him the practicalities of the profession.

Like everyone, they called the process the system , as if architects submitting drawings in the hopes of winning a contract was a normal thing, even though no other occupation in London forced its professionals to fight one another for work in the same way.

He hated it, Mr Holt clearly hated it, and every other student and member of the Architectural Association hated it.

Yet, every week, they all scanned The Builder or poured over newspaper columns, hunting for architectural competitions to enter.

They applied their skills to some design or vision, then sent their best ideas off for assessment by committees who, from what he could tell, simply picked the drawing that looked the prettiest. They only received payment if they won.

The free, competitive market at its most extreme.

As Johannes took up his pencil, he couldn’t help but smile a little when he spotted the rule pen that Mrs Murray had adjusted to her preferred width. While he made note of competitions, he raked his memory, trying to think of some society or group where she might fit in.