A-Splendid-Ruin(34)

“Of course I’ll call upon him. I would do anything to help, Uncle Jonny. You must know that.”

Goldie settled back with a smile. “How very good you are, May. Really, you simply could not be better.”

“You’ll come right back? I want to hear everything.” Goldie lounged on my bed an hour later, watching Shin artfully shape my hair into elegance.

“I won’t delay a moment.”

“Good. Do your very best, Shin. I want him unable to refuse her.” Goldie got off the bed. She took my sketchbook in its leather case from the bedside table and shoved it into my bag.

“What are you doing?”

“Show him these.”

“Goldie, I couldn’t. They’re only sketches, and he’s—”

“It’s a way to gain his sympathies. Ask his advice. Men can’t resist a woman asking for help.”

I would never have thought of it. I knew I could not ask it of him. I knew I would not.

“Good luck!” Goldie blew me a kiss as she left the bedroom.

It was the first time I’d been alone with Shin since the debacle with my aunt. I wanted to ask her why she’d said nothing of my going through Aunt Florence’s drawers. I also wanted not to broach it. Perhaps she’d forgotten; perhaps she’d thought nothing of it. I didn’t want to give her a reason to tell my uncle if she hadn’t realized there was one. In the end, it seemed best to say nothing, to let her bring it up if she wished to do so. Still, I felt ashamed every time I met her eyes. I waited for her to say something about it. When she didn’t, I pretended my nervousness was because of my impending visit with Ellis Farge. That was partially true, anyway. Shin tucked in the last pin and stood back to survey her handiwork. “A ribbon, Miss May?”

I shook my head. “Businesslike is best, I think. Thank you, Shin.”

She helped me into my coat and pinned one of the giant cartwheel hats on my head—this one with a short veil and a bobbing owl perched in a sprawl of web-like silk branches. Shin looked as if she were about to say something, but thought better of it.

I patted the owl. “What is it? Does it look ridiculous?”

She handed over my bag. “You should not show him your drawings, Miss May.”

It was one thing to know myself that a renowned architect would find my sketches juvenile. It was another to be told. Shin’s words stung. That, and my guilt over Aunt Florence made my response sharper than I meant. “Of course not. I know that. I’m not an idiot.”

I refused to feel sorry at her wounded surprise, though I was irritated with myself as I went out to the waiting carriage and asked Nick to drive me to the office of Farge & Partners.

With every block that passed, I grew more nervous. When we reached the Italianate-styled building that took up an entire block on Montgomery Street, I did not want to get out of the carriage. I stared up at the four floors of windows, with restaurants and shops on the street, wondering if I could go home again and pretend that Ellis Farge had not been in. But then Nick was opening the door and I was stepping out, and before I knew it, I was at the door, where a directory indicated that Farge & Partners was on the top floor.

I would have sworn every eye in the place focused on me, and that meant it was impossible to turn around again without looking like a fool. “Remember who you are.” I adopted my most confident air as I made my way up the stairs. It wasn’t only architects and bankers and lawyers who had offices here, but artists. Doors opened to show high-ceilinged, light-filled studios. Men smoking and talking and gesturing were on every landing. It smelled of plaster and clay and paint, something acrid that mixed with the earthy sweetness of garlic coming from a downstairs restaurant.

Then the door was before me. I did not have to go in. No one would know. But my family meant more to me than my nerves. I owed them everything. This was a small enough payment. I took a deep breath and opened the door into an office smelling of paper and tobacco, and a young man pounding on a typewriter. When I entered, he turned to me with a polite expression of inquiry.

“I’m here to see Mr. Farge,” I told him.

“Ah. Do you have an appointment, Miss—”

“No, I don’t. But if you could just tell him that Miss Kimble came to inquire after him? May Kimble.”

“He’s very busy, Miss Kimble. Without an appointment, I don’t think he’ll be able to see you.”

“Please. I won’t take up much of his time.”

The young man sighed, but obediently went down the hall. While he was gone, I glanced at the framed pictures on the wall, photographs of buildings, some sketches. Mr. Farge had been productive for someone his age, which I’d guessed to be early thirties. All of the designs were quite interesting, if not as daring as I’d expected, given everything I’d heard. I was disappointed; I’d expected something more, but I couldn’t say what really. After all, how different could a building be? I knew nothing about real architecture. Perhaps these were visionary. How would I know?

“He’ll see you.” The young man was back, and he seemed surprised.

I was surprised myself.

He led me past a room holding a large table spread with drawings to an office at the back and Ellis Farge. He was just as handsome, but he smiled when he saw me and his blue eyes laughed as they had not yesterday. In fact, there was about him none of the restlessness I’d seen then. I wondered if I’d imagined it. Today, too, he was dressed more warmly than the day warranted, in a thick woolen suit, and the office was heated almost to discomfort.