10. Chapter 10
Zane tilted his head and scrutinized the drawing he'd been working on for Mr. Clayton.
A client wished to add an ironwork veranda to the front two stories of his Italianate villa and Clayton had tasked Zane with creating a design that would blend seamlessly with the existing architecture.
A test of his readiness for larger projects.
Determined to prove himself, Zane had spent several days consulting design books, drawing the existing house, and making sketches of the ironwork fence surrounding the property.
All added to his inspiration. A teardrop-shaped finial sat atop each fence post, adding a bit of softness to the angularity.
The veranda would need to stay true to the rectangular shapes and flat roof dominating the house itself, but the corners could be softened in the same style as the fencing.
Rectangular shutters flanked each of the rectangular windows, but above each one, affixed to the red brick edifice, sat a rounded ornamental molding.
One that curved at the outer edges and came to a point in the middle, as if someone had grabbed either side of a teardrop and stretched it wide enough to match the width of the window.
His design incorporated similar elements.
The proposed veranda and its ceiling formed stark rectangles.
Ironwork railings created a boxy border.
Iron support posts stood tall and straight, placed in four pairs of two.
Yet he'd softened the design with iron teardrops eighteen inches from the top of each slender pillar.
Then he'd created an arch effect with lacy iron filigree reaching out from either side of the teardrops, like corner-hanging spiderwebs touching at the highest point in the center.
"I like what you've done with this project.
" Nicholas Clayton peered over Zane's shoulder.
He reached past and planted a finger on the sketch of the porch corner.
"I think we'll need to add a third pillar on each of the front two corners for added stability.
Your design will still work. It just needs to be expanded.
Make the adjustments tomorrow, and we'll take it to the client for approval next week. "
"We?" Zane's breath caught.
Mr. Clayton's bushy mustache twitched as a smile stretched his face.
"Only right that the designer meet with the client, don't you think?
I'll want you on hand at the construction site as well.
Calculating angles and load-bearing limits on paper is one thing, but seeing those calculations take shape in three dimensions is critical for broadening an architect's grasp of structural engineering. "
Zane rose from the drafting table to face his mentor. "Thank you, sir. I'll make those revisions, and once you approve, I'll ink a fresh copy of the plans on drafting linen and have it ready by the end of the day tomorrow."
"Good." Clayton thumped him on the back. "Keep advancing like this, Mr. Erickson, and it won't be long before you're assisting me on larger projects."
Zane's breath caught in his lungs, making his chest ache in a most satisfying manner. "Like the Ursuline Academy?"
He'd seen some of Clayton's initial sketches. It rivaled the cathedrals of Europe in craftsmanship and Gothic styling.
Clayton chuckled. "That one's probably a few years away yet, lad. I have several residences in the works that will need more immediate attention."
"Of course." Zane fought off a wave of disappointment as practicality asserted itself. "I'd be delighted to assist on any company project."
"You're bright and capable, Mr. Erickson. Perhaps by the time the Ursuline Academy job is ready for us, you'll be ready for it."
Zane grinned. "I look forward to that day."
"As do I," Clayton said. "After finishing construction of the Ursuline Academy in Dallas three years ago, people have been wondering why I haven't yet designed a building equally grand for our dear sisters here in Galveston.
" He leaned in and winked. "What they don't know is that the one in Dallas was a trial run.
I have even bigger plans for the one here in my backyard.
" He swept a hand out in front of him as if painting a picture.
"It will be my crowning achievement. Towers, turrets, spires, and flying buttresses.
All eyes will be drawn to the heavens, to the Master Architect, Designer of the universe.
" His hand lowered as he gave a small shrug.
"The sisters haven't officially commissioned the work yet.
I imagine it will take some time to raise sufficient funds for such an undertaking, but Mother St. Agnes has been dropping hints. "
"I have no doubt that you will surpass all her expectations."
Clayton nodded, his expression growing serious.
"I always give my best to each project, but there is something special about working on a building that is dedicated to the Lord's work.
A feeling of higher purpose. A melding of pressure and privilege, responsibility and reverence.
The striving for perfection is both exhausting and exhilarating. "
"A study of contrasts," Zane observed. "Like the strength of stonework supporting an airy vaulted ceiling."
"Precisely." Clayton thumped his shoulder again then tipped his head toward the veranda sketch. "File your work. I've delayed you long enough."
"I will, sir. Thank you."
As Nicholas Clayton fetched his hat and departed the office, Zane cleaned his work area and made sure all the other draftsmen's work was properly stored.
As an apprentice, the menial office work fell on his shoulders, but he didn't mind.
Looking over the work of more experienced men served as an education all its own.
Yet he dared not take the time to examine the drawings of George Sealy, the associate architect, or any of the other draftsmen tonight.
Not if he wanted to escape his mother's wrath.
She expected him to be home by five-thirty, and according to his pocket watch, it was already five-forty.
Zane fit his hat to his head then made sure to lock the office door behind him before he hurried home. In truth, he'd rather go out with Max tonight, tell his friend about his conversation with Mr. Clayton, and celebrate his good fortune with a game of billiards or a good gallop on the beach.
Instead, he'd be stuck inside, pretending not to be bored stiff while his mother introduced him to whichever female she'd scraped from the bottom of society's barrel to foist upon him in hopes of stirring his interest. Why did mothers think it their duty to find brides for their sons?
Much more sensible for the sons to do their own choosing.
Was she really so desperate for grandchildren that she must do all in her power to hurry things along?
Or was it Father's ambition motivating her desire to pair him with an appropriately well-positioned society miss?
A sigh escaped him as he marched at a fast clip down Avenue J toward home.
Father might prioritize him selecting a bride who came with advantageous business connections, but Mother simply wished for him to be settled and content.
She wasn't so much trying to run his life as she was trying to help him find happiness.
He couldn't blame her for good intentions even if he didn't care for her methods.
It might rankle that she didn't trust him to take care of matters himself, but with his increased focus on building his career in architecture, he'd not exactly been seeking courtship opportunities.
Until a mysterious siren saved his life then disappeared all in a single afternoon.
He'd been seeking her every time he was out in public.
Sometimes without even realizing it. Yet any time a flash of red hair crossed his periphery, his head swiveled and his feet diverted their path to follow, until she either vanished or he got a good enough look to recognize that she wasn't the lady he sought.
A few days ago, he'd come up with a scheme to seek her with purpose.
Starting this Sunday, he planned to visit every church on the island until he found her.
She'd been singing a hymn, so she likely attended church somewhere.
He just had to figure out where. His mother wouldn't care for him not being beside her at their own services, but if his absence meant finding a bride, he doubted she would protest too vehemently.
Still, he needed to treat whatever young lady he found in his parlor with kindness and respect.
She didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his frustration.
So, as he jogged up the stone steps of the large Queen Anne style house he called home, he set his frustrations aside and prepared his mind for gentlemanly attentiveness.
The front door opened before his hand could reach the latch. Grandpa Clem waved him inside and relieved him of his leather drafting case.
"Best hurry yourself in there, boy, before the bees in your mama's bonnet start churning out honey. The situation's sticky enough already."
Zane removed his hat and hung it on the rack in the entry way. "How do you mean?"
"Your mama's not pleased with the little gal the matchmaker brought.
Heard her whispered accusation to the woman about tryin' to pass off a defective miss as an acceptable bride when she's obviously not Erickson material. All because the lady don’t talk.
Ain't her fault her pipes don't work. The rest of her seems to be in good working order.
She ain't dimwitted or nothin'. Walked straight over to the bookshelf and snagged a tome on shipbuilding to read while the hens pecked at each other on the other side of the room. "
The lady couldn't speak? Good heavens. They really were scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Compassion, Zane. The poor girl can probably sense Mother's disapproval.
He knew what it was like to be scrutinized and found wanting.
None of Clayton's staff had expected him to possess any actual talent or be willing to do the grunt work required to gain the required skills.
They'd seen him as a pampered rich kid on an architectural lark.
Their prejudice created barriers that had taken months to wear down.
Least he could do was offer a bit of kindness to a young lady in an awkward situation.
Though, he'd need to take care not to give her any reason to expect a future courtship.
He'd never toyed with a woman's affections, but on one or two occasions in the past, young ladies had jumped to incorrectly optimistic conclusions that had made things rather unpleasant for all parties involved.
"Quit dawdlin' and get in there." Grandpa Clem planted a hand on Zane's back and shoved.
Zane chuckled as he stumbled forward. Grandpa had never been a big proponent of subtlety.
Smoothing out his gait, Zane ran a hand over his hair to make sure no stray pieces were standing at attention after removing his hat. Reaching the parlor door, he hesitated, needing a moment to breathe. If Mother was in a state, he'd need his wits about him.
"Don't worry," his grandpa murmured from behind him. "I think you're gonna like this one."
Zane's head swiveled in time to catch his grandpa's wink before the cagey codger darted past him on his way upstairs with Zane's satchel. Was the entire family plotting the demise of his bachelorhood? He'd thought Grandpa Clem his ally, but it seemed he'd turned mutineer.
He grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. The sooner he got this fiasco over with the better.
"Zane! Finally." Mother stepped away from a striking older woman with silver hair wearing a dark violet walking suit.
The woman's attention suctioned onto Zane like a starfish latching onto a rock. Cool. Assessing. Calculating.
Slightly disturbing.
His mother grabbed his arm and dragged him deeper into the room and thankfully broke him free of the matchmaker's gaze.
"Where have you been?" she hissed. "You were supposed to have been here twenty minutes ago."
"I apologize. Mr. Clayton wanted to go over a few details with me."
Her grip tightened. "Far be it from me to compete with the almighty Mr. Clayton."
"Mother," he warned in a low voice.
She bit back whatever other complaint she'd been ready to fire at him and sighed instead.
"Well, you can make it up to me by putting your best foot forward with Miss Quinn.
She's a little unusual, but then, none of the usual ladies have captured your fancy, so perhaps Mrs. Underhill knows what she is doing. "
Lifting her face and her voice, Mother crossed the red and gold Turkish carpet to the small sitting area in front of the hearth. "Miss Quinn, I apologize for my son's tardiness, but he has arrived at last."
He'd kept his gaze on his mother to this point, not comfortable searching the girl out in the room while his mother discussed her in less than flattering terms, but he marched a smile onto his face like a good little soldier and prepared his tongue for a gracious greeting.
But the moment he spied the carefully coiffed red hair, his mind ceased functioning.
As did his feet. His mother strode forward, but he remained rooted to the carpet.
Some part of his brain registered Mother's frown when she cast a confused glance over her shoulder.
She was saying something, probably making introductions, though for the life of him he couldn't decipher the words.
Not when his siren, dressed in an elegant sea-green day dress, rose from the sofa like a mermaid rising from the waves.
Her gaze met his with a shy eagerness that immediately tripled the speed of his pulse. A smile blossomed across her face, crinkling her hazel eyes in a way that made it impossible not to smile in return.
It was her. He had no proof, but he didn't need any. His heart recognized the truth.
Unfortunately, his brain failed to recognize the truth of his addled state and allowed his tongue to move when it should have remained firmly locked in place.
"I found you."