#kitchen painting services south east london

[jorichingsuk]

Details Presentation MJ King

My passion for decorating comes from my desire to transform people’s homes and workspaces into more beautiful places, whilst enhancing their investment.

Flat 70 Wyndham Appartments,65 River Gardens Walk,SE10 0TZ,London

+44 7809 223884

info@mjking.co.uk

[businessid-uk]

WeKnowHow

Construction Company

London

✅ Construction Company London

✅ WeKnowHow is a leading provider of building and property services in London, catering to estate agents and property owners. They specialize in the installation and design of kitchens and bathrooms, renovations including loft conversions and extensions, and painting and decorating.

[pvccream8]

Building Contractors Certificate.

Metricon Australia'S Largest Home Builder For Second Year Running.

Content

Exactly How The Residential Property Improvement And Also Refurbishment Services In London Work.

Rj Refurbishment Providers.

Start Your Job.

Little Orangery Conservatories And Glass Conservatories.

Newly Constructed Homes.

We can ensure that your store, fashion electrical outlet, or any various other retail area will certainly remodelled and enhanced in such a way that will certainly be both sensible for your employees to use, as well as attracting all possible clients. As a professional repair business based in London, we provide a complete series of solutions to help you attain specifically the appearance you want for your interior. Whatever the instance might be, we at A Building contractor's Group can offer you a few of the most thorough house refurbishment services readily available in London.

Our electrical services include all facets of electric installments as well as fixings for lighting, installations, buttons and also sockets. We are able to supply and also fit kitchen units and also worktops, splash-backs and tiling as well as a series of floor covering. As part of a cooking area installation we are able to look after all aspects of pipes, gas and electrical installations, including components, installations as well as links. We additionally offer painting and embellishing solutions to make sure that every last information of your kitchen area is completed to the highest criterion. We work in both domestic as well as business industries as well as accomplish all sorts of structure work consisting of extensions, loft conversions, and total property repairs.

Is metricon a good builder?

They definitely have the reputation for being a slightly better builder, if you ask me- admin experience was pretty smooth, construction was horrendous. We had an initial walkthrough 2 weeks ago and the quality was definitely good.

You can reach our office refurbishment group today on and discuss your task's one-of-a-kind needs. If you have any kind of issues, don't hesitate to contact us today, as well as we'll do our best to answer any kind of concerns you could have.

When doing a refurbishment there is not better time to iron out the electrics in your house. We usually advise that this is handled early-on in the works, to make sure that any installations can be neatly finished when the plasterer of decorator starts work.

Who builds houses in the UK?

Despite its weak performance this year, Barratt remains the No. 1 house builder in the UK, selling 17,579 homes during 2018 ahead of Persimmon on 16,449, Taylor Wimpey on 14,933 and Bellway on 10,307, the only company to build more than 10,000 a year.

We are simply there to implement them all for you, with the minimum amount of interruption. If you have never ever taken into consideration the services of office refurbishment specialists before, do not fret, that's what we are there for. We boast of the innovative culture within our company, it gives our personnel the self-confidence to supply you innovative remedies for your office refurbishment.

How The Home Restoration And Also Repair Solutions In London Work.

We will hang around getting to know both you, and also your firm, as well as what you are wanting to achieve with the repair. Our group will certainly hang around talking with you and also working how to best achieve whatever you want with the room, whilst still continuing to be on budget. We'll deal with you closely to ensure your house restorations perfectly enhance the design as well as finish of your building. Our group of home improvement specialists in Rayleigh have decades of mixed experience in the construction industry. DesignBuild4U have the knowledge, the abilities as well as the vision to beautify also the most fed up with homes and also remodel your residence or cottage into a space you can be pleased with.

Rj Refurbishment Solutions.

We provide an extensive bar, bar and also restaurant fit-out solution. With years of experience, our firm contains experts that recognize precisely how to make a bar or restaurant pleasurable for a consumer while likewise making it a functional location to run in for your team. We offer you some of the very best store fit-out services in the UK. Our knowledgeable groups include several of the very best professionals in the sector, offering a degree of expertise that few various other firms in the country can use.

We take pride in our capacity to provide to you a high criterion of job done by our friendly building as well as refurb team, who aim to make certain the process is hassle-free for you. At Elite Builders London, we value our partnership with you as well as work. hard to keep it going long-term. Thus, we are devoted to providing the right restoration for you.

We have made an excellent online reputation for our specialist technique as well as commitment to accomplishing total customer fulfillment. We are accepted NICEIC registered electricians, Safe Service provider approved as well as participants of TrustMark, suggesting we adhere to Government Endorsed Criteria. Omniscient Homes Ltd are a building business with wide ranging expertise, implying we can provide a full structure service caring for your project from beginning to end.

Beginning Your Project.

Does Pulte own Del Webb?

Pulte Homes Corp., in a deal that would make it a home-building titan, has agreed to buy Del Webb Corp., a builder of housing communities for older adults, for $800 million in stock.

We are one of one of the most knowledgeable service providers of office refurbishment as well as have actually worked with hundreds of businesses throughout the years. This would be specifically essential if we see a foreseeable concern with the preliminary layout offered by you.We will aim to obtain the most effective out of your project.

Our careful focus to information offers an outstanding coating. Perhaps, you've relocated right into a residence and aren't sure where to start with the renovations? Our team of experts have a broad variety of abilities, suggesting we are able to offer a cohesive structure for providing tasks promptly, and also on spending plan.

choosing the right building services contact And Glass Conservatories.

Ryan Homes has a seperate account that they make use of to spend for a real estate agent for the purchaser.

We're not at our premeeting yet, yet I would certainly like to run some electrical wiring for difficult links to a few more rooms in the house.

Although I had to ensure it was opened prior to I went after they mounted the devices.

Obtaining the offer without the realtor will certainly not provide you additional cash.

The big moving company was Hotondo Homes, which jumped from position 20 to place eight on the listing, with its variety of home construct starts boosting from 879 in the fiscal year to 1,463 in the financial year.

You will not obtain a discount rate during the sales procedure for NOT bringing a real estate agent.

We offer our refurbishment solutions at really affordable prices. To obtain a complimentary remodelling quote to locate our just how much it will certainly set you back to transform your building contact us today. Our goal is to make the job as simple and easy for you as we can, whilst interacting with you at every step to ensure you are educated.

We have more than 30 years integrated experience in the storage space as well as interior industry as well as we understand our things! Our pleasant team are approachable, easy to talk with and also can supply you aid as well as recommendations every step of the means.

Who are the top 10 home builders?

The top 10 residential construction companies for 2020 1. D.R. Horton. 2019 revenue: $17.4 billion. 2. Lennar Corp. 2019 revenue: $20.6 billion. 3. PulteGroup. 2019 revenue: $9.9 billion. 4. NVR. 2019 revenue: $7.2 billion. 5. KB Home. 2019 revenue: $4.5 billion. 6. https://trustedtraders.which.co.uk/articles/how-to-hire-guide-builders : $4.6 billion. 7. Meritage Homes Corp. 2019 revenue: $3.6 billion. 8. Toll Brothers. 2019 revenue: $7.2 billion. More items•

Our expert artisans get on hand to assist change your home, workplace or business development. We offer a variety of home restoration solutions across Forest Hill, East Dulwich, West Dulwich, Denmark Hillside, Brixton, Herne Hill, Crystal Royal residence and bordering areas. If you're trying to find top quality, expert home remodelling, South East London property renovation and also woodworking experts MFW Refurbishments are below to help. We give home improvement solutions in Forest Hill, Dulwich, Denmark Hillside, Brixton, Crystal Palace, Herne Hillside as well as throughout South East London.

Who is the best house builder in the UK?

National house buildersHouse BuilderTotal homes built in 2019/20Homes per NHBC award ratio *TAYLOR WIMPEY15,520235REDROW6,443215BELLWAY10,892272BERKELEY3,69846212 more rows•15 Sep 2020

A house refurbishment is the ideal way to provide your residence the 'renovation' it might need. You might have moved into a home that you saw as a renovation task, but you've yet to begin restoring ... Nevertheless, Anigmar can assist start your residence refurbishment, as well as give your home a new lease of life.

Every one of our refurbishment solutions are custom-made, which implies we can not supply you with the details price quote without factoring your job's measurements and also requirements. To simplify points, we provide a cost-free, no-obligation repair quote and also assessment, which will certainly offer you with accurate numbers for the price of your task-- without any surprise charges. Please contact us to inform us about the remodelling or decor function you need to be completed. From the beginning throughout of your refurbishment job, we will certainly ensure your home is maintained as tidy and also clean as it can be.

[hurt-care]

His Lordship’s Gardener - Part 1

This (exceptionally LONG) fic was co-written with @salamanderskin, with her writing the part of Cartwright and myself writing for Lord Elder. 

This is an allergy sneeze-fic that is set during the end of the 1800s/start of the 1900s. Please be advised that later sections do become 18+. There is a follow-up to this story called “His Lordship’s Visit” which I’ll also post later :) Enjoy!

---

The sun is climbing towards the middle of hot June day. The countryside here is rolling and green, the lanes so thickly hedged that it is almost impossible to make out the pony and trap which moves ponderously along them. It moves in and out of dappled sunlight, setting a course for the most, indeed the only, notable building in the immediate area- a handsome stately home set in acres of untouched parkland.

The trap makes its ponderous way up a long drive, through the bars of shadow cast by the even rows of lime trees which flank the road, and comes to a halt at last with a crunch of wheels on gravel. It's occupant emerges stiffly and stands blinking in the sudden light, casting a critical eye over the imposing building ahead of him. He self-consciously checks his appearance as reflected in the window of the coach, and sees only a slender young man, tall, fair of complexion with a head of chestnut hair which refuses to cease falling into his eyes no matter how often he sweeps it back. He pauses to brush the dust of travel from his jacket, which is in the modern London style though growing threadbare, the shirt underneath it thin but well-laundered. Long fingers tweak the cravat at his throat, which must be stifling in this high weather. He gives a nervous swallow as he approaches the heavy oak front door. Then he squares his shoulders and gives the bell-pull a good yank, his greeting already on his lips;

“Isaiah Cartwright, of London. Your master should be expecting me; he wrote for a landscape gardener.”

An imposing figure in formal service attire stands in the doorway of the ornate entryway. He's in his sixties, with a shock of white hair slicked back with great precision.

“Do come in, Mr. Cartwright; His Lordship has been expecting you,” the butler says. “I am Mister Bishop. Miss Smith will show you into the study.”

He steps back to reveal a young woman waiting patiently to escort the guest. She curtsies and leads the way down a wood paneled hallway with huge urns sitting atop pilasters and several heavy drapes swagged around gilded-frame paintings.

Mr. Bishop disappears into a dark hallway in the opposite direction, in search of his Master.

The Master in question is Lord Jacob Elder, the only son of a long line of nobility in control of the estate at Woodhaven. He was married once, to a young woman of equal social standing, but she’d died of consumption with no heir, and the Lord Elder never remarried.

There was still time for such things, of course. Lord Elder is barely twenty-eight, far from past prime, and is much admired in social circles for his looks and intelligence. He has no intention, however, of remarrying. His attention is much more devoted to his studies and a passion for science and invention than it is to wooing the fairer sex.

In the eastern wing of Woodhaven in a row of rooms on the upper floor, Lord Elder maintains a second study of sorts wherein he conducts his academic experiments and studies. It is there that Mr. Bishop finds his Lordship slumped over a notebook, scribbling furiously.

“Lord Elder?” he asks. “Mr. Cartwright has arrived from London to serve as his Lordship’s gardener.”

Jacob looks up at the interruption, his thin spectacles sliding off his narrow, long nose. It’s past noon but he’s still in his silk dressing gown, feet bare and raven hair all askew. Sweat is beaded on his forehead and dark locks stick there in curled tendrils.

“Is he?” Jacob asks.

“He’s in the study. I can serve him lunch in the servant’s quarters and let him know that his Lordship will receive him later.”

“That won’t be necessary, Bishop,’ Jacob says, shutting his notebook and smoothing back his hair, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. “Bring up some lemonade. I cannot bear hot tea in this weather.”

“Very good, sir,” Bishop says, and departs for the kitchens. He isn’t surprised that his Lordship intends to receive the guest in only his dressing gown and pajamas, but it never ceases to make the butler feel very embarrassed indeed.

Lord Elder ties the sash of his dressing gown and goes down to his library. The room is one of his favorites in the house, besides his east quarters, and the numerous shelves are stacked up to the ceilings with old volumes of academia. Some of the upper ones are novels and inherited tomes that haven’t been touched in ages. Only the occasional cleaning keeps those from gathering too much dust.

“Mr. Cartwright?” Lord Elder asks, entering the room and circling to stand beside his favorite armchair.

“My Lord. An absolute pleasure to see you in the flesh.”

He offers a quick but firm handshake. If Mr. Cartwright is surprised by his Lordship's informality of dress he does not express it, except perhaps by an amused twist to his mouth.

“I apologise for my late reply to your letter, I was detained briefly in the Americas. You will be pleased to know that my admission to the Royal Horticultural Society has finally been completed, and so I find myself completely at your disposal. It is pleasing to find a man with an interest in the science of horitculture as much as in the fads of design.”

He speaks with quiet intensity, holding Lord Elder's gaze almost to the point of discomfort. Even in the low light of the library his eyes show an unusually pale green, flecked with hazel like those of a cat.

“I am rather interested in the science of it, yes,” Lord Elder says, taking a seat in the armchair and indicating for his guest to do the same. Slim fingers extract a cigarette case from the pocket of his robe and he reaches for a match from a nearby box, lighting one with a quick strike. He takes a long drag and continues. “I have extensive grounds here at Woodhaven and little use for them in terms of sport or entertaining. Previously, I had a labourer plant the lime trees out front and a small garden in back, but I have much interest in cultivating a more prodigious garden of herbs and other plants for use both medicinally and for scientific research.”

Bishop enters with the lemonade and offers a glass to each man before setting the silver tray and pitcher on a nearby sideboard.

“Thank you, Bishop,” Jacob says. “I’ll ring if I require you further.”

“Very good, sir.”

He leaves, shutting the door behind him.

“Did you enjoy the Americas?” Lord Elder asks, turning his attention back to his guest as he flicks a bit of ash from his cigarette into the nearby standing ashtray. “I have not been; not since I was a small boy and the sea voyage was enough to scare me off for a good deal longer. I must admit I have a weak constitution when it comes to sailing. I have done a great deal of reading about the rain-forests of the south, though, and I should like to see them someday.”

Cartwright pinches nervously at the tip of his nose, but replies with enthusiasm.

“I can recommend it if your Lordship ever has the opportunity. The extent of must be seen to be believed. I spent a little time in the rain-forests, though frankly it was not pleasant- the humidity was quite insufferable and there are more species of venomous insect than I had believed possible. Indeed, I have come to conclusion that the only civilised way to study the species found there is back on our native soil. It is truly remarkable is how well many of the species can thrive on our continent, given the correct conditions, and they are becoming easier and easier to replicate as technology advances.”

His reserve of conversation runs dry around the same time as his cup of lemonade, which he sets aside with a decisive movement.

“If your Lordship is ready perhaps you could show me the grounds, give me a better idea of what I am working with.”

His eyes narrow fractionally as they register Lord Elder's state of dress and he struggles for diplomacy, “Unless you- that is, if you quite are ready to do so?”

“I do doubt if the humidity could ever rival that of a summer spent in London, but I’ll trust you know what you’re talking about,” Lord Elder quips, draining his glass and extinguishing his cigarette. “I will happily show you the grounds if you’ll be kind enough to wait until after I’ve had my lunch. If you are hungry, I am happy to have Bishop set you up with some food in the servant’s hall.”

He’s slightly conflicted about where to rank the young man in the hierarchy of the house. A university education puts Cartwright well above the other employees, but under his Lordship or other visiting persons of the upper class. Jacob decided previously that he’d house the new gardener in one of the guest quarters rather than with the footmen and livery, but dining was a slightly more difficult matter.

“I’m going to ring the bell for Bishop to come clear the drinks away, and if you want to eat, he’ll show you where to go. I’ll meet you in the front foyer in forty minutes.”

He stands, tightening the sash on his dressing gown.

“I look forward to it, Mr. Cartwright,” he says, nodding his head to the young man before he turns and heads upstairs, yanking the pull for the servant’s bell as he leaves the study.

His own chambers are not far from his rooms in the eastern wing. He takes lunch every day at twelve-thirty in his sitting room unless he’s working in which case he takes it in his private study. The dishes are already laid and a footman waits by the table. Lord Elder eats to his satisfaction while he has his valet lay out a linen suit in the dressing room. Lunch finished, he dresses and has his valet trim his moustache before heading downstairs to meet Mr. Cartwright.

By the time they have both eaten the sun is high in the sky. A little wind has arisen, bringing some relief from the heat as it ruffles the tops of the trees. The air holds a hazy, golden quality and the sweet, clean scent of summer grass.

Isaiah Cartwright waits by the door, which is open, allowing him gaze out over the grounds. The sunlight forces him to squint a little, but he stands straight and gracefully despite his height. He has shed his suit jacket and stands in only his shirt and waistcoat, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms for practicality. The exposed skin is tanned a light, golden brown. As Lord Elder had observed, being neither as pale as a scholar nor ruddy as a farmer he occupies that peculiar place somewhere between a labourer and gentleman. Now he holds a notebook open to a clean page, the previous one being already filled with a rough pencil sketch of grounds and some annotations.

Despite his watchful waiting, the very moment at which Lord Elder arrives is one in which Isaiah is momentarily distracted by removing his handkerchief from his pocket. Upon seeing his host approaching he returns it quickly as he turns around.

“Good afternoon, your Lordship. I hope you dined well. I was able to acquaint myself my staff and

have made some preparatory sketches curtesy of your excellent head gardener. He was surprisingly helpful, although I fancy he senses I am about to make his job a good deal more difficult.”

He offers Elder a fleeting, nervous smile, before averting his gaze and pinching at his nose in what is becoming a characteristic gesture.

“Wonderful,” Elder says, heading out into the sunshine. “I’m eager to see what you think you can do with the place.”

As they walk, he shrugs off his jacket, hooking it on a finger as he slings it across his shoulder. The light breeze ruffles his thick curly hair and he squints as the sun glares off his glasses.

The pair make their way down the front lawn, pausing as they get to the wide expanse of land to the left of the property where a huge willow tree dips its branches to the earth. In the distance, a young man paces the far south lawn pushing a grass trimmer.

“It’s a lovely old tree,” Lord Elder says. “I’d quite like it to be trimmed properly. I can’t bear to have the hired man just hack it up willy-nilly. I’m sure you can recommend to him the best way.”

The tree is a favorite of the Lord’s, providing shade and a place for reflection on spring afternoons. Occasionally, he brings his studies outside and stretches out on a blanket with his books.

“The boy there is one of the hired hands,” he adds, pointing to the young man pushing the clipper. “Good lad. He’ll be of service to you, I’m sure of it.”

Cartwright tilts his head at the tree admiringly. “It is magnificent. I'm sure I can certainly-”

Here he pauses, his aspect gone slightly vague. Quick fingers retrieve his handkerchief out of his pocket and he just has time to murmur a distracted “Please excuse me, I-” before he must cup it to his face to catch a sudden sneeze.

“--idtssh!”

It is a slight, convulsive movement, so swift an observer might fancy he had imagined it.

He gives his nose a firm, decisive rub and returns his attention to Elder.

“I'm sorry, what were you saying?”

“Bless you,” Elder says, a brief look of concern flashing across his face. “I was saying that the young man trimming the lawn is one of the hired hands who will be of great assistance to you, I’m sure. He’s a good lad.”

The find themselves at a bend in the path that leads back around the house to the rear lawn. The lush grass is freshly mown and sticks slightly to their shoes as Lord Elder leads on towards a bench overlooking the back of the property. He indicates for Cartwright to sit and takes a seat himself.

“It’s a good plot,” he comments, scanning the wide expanse of land. “Ideally, I’d have a proper walled garden, if you think it would work here. I’ll trust your expertise, but I would rather like to have an area for herbs and then an area for some more exotic ornamentals. Perhaps you can suggest some that will survive in this climate.”

Cartwright makes a note of this in his book and pushes his hair back from his brow in a thoughtful gesture.

“That's quite possible. I see you already have an excellent formal rose-garden. There is space for a walled garden beside it, I think. There, where the land is flatter. Perhaps with some steps leading down. You could have raised beds with box-hedges- they are very fashionable at the moment, but more to the point they help to keep rare species separate from each other.”

His nose is evidently bothering him, and on the pretense of bending down to fasten his shoe he gives a single, very discreet sniffle. It is still audible, however, and has an unpleasantly dampness which seems to have come from nowhere.

“That said, if you are truly interested in exotics you might consider a glass-house. Perhaps you have visited the magnificent example at Kew?”

Before he can say more, his eyelids flutter shut. His long, golden eyelashes rest again his cheek for a moment as he takes an unsteady breath, and then he is overtaken by an emphatic fit of sneezing,

“--idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!”

He cups his handkerchief over his face and his head snaps away from Lord Elder with each one. Although they are not loud the sound has an insistent, ticklish quality. Isaiah blows his nose as politely as he can muster. His expression shifts from started to wary, as though he is beginning to suspect something. He says nothing of it, however, beyond a quiet. “Please excuse me your Lordship. I don't know what's come over m- eh-”

Then it overtakes him again, another series of three which is an exact, clockwork repetition of the previous fit.

“hh- hhih -- --idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!”

He recovers with a slight, surprised shake of his head.

“Goodness,” Lord Elder exclaims, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket and extracting a fine linen handkerchief with an embroidered monogram. “Bless you. Do let me know if I can offer you my own.”

Cartwright waves away his Lordship's offer, hoping to God it won't be necessary- his cheeks are already flushed enough at his unintended impropriety- though he fears he may be overtaken sooner rather later.

Elder keeps the handkerchief close at hand in case the other man requires it but continues their discussion, not wishing to embarrass Cartwright. He’s quite taken with the young man already and is eager to begin work with him, imagining happy hours spent tending to exotic buds and collecting herbs.

“I have been to Kew,” he said. “I went not long after they opened the bamboo garden a few years back and I had the great pleasure of touring the Palm House and the Temperate House. I have a great fondness for some of the orchids they have there; really breathtaking things. I think a glasshouse would be a grand idea.”

Despite his outburst, Isaiah's nose remains so decidedly ticklish that he cannot help but appear a little distracted as he leafs through his notebook to show Lord Elder some sketches in his own hand.

“These are some glasshouses I designed during my apprenticeship. We would need to hire in a builder and perhaps an architect to work on the finer aspects of my plans, but here is an idea of what is possible. There is that initial expense, but there's never been a better moment to go ahead, now that there is no longer the glass tax to contend with. The best site would be an east or southeast plot, unless your Lordship has any other preference? Perhaps we could walk around that way and take a look?”

One finger rubs at the corner of his eyes, which feel unpleasantly gritty, and he hopes he does not appear uninterested in his Lordship's company when quite the reverse is true. His nose is running again, and he sniffs it back as quietly as he can.

“These are lovely,” Elder says, looking at the sketches in the notebook with admiration. “I do wish I had more skill with a pencil. My sketches are fair, but these are really fine work. Perhaps this more tradition looking one would work best with the style of the main house?”

He points to a lovely framed building that Isaiah has drawn with beautiful spires on either end that seem to reflect the peaks of the manor house’s roof. Standing with the notebook in hand, he begins to wander to across the lawn again.

Isaiah waves away Elder's compliment with a certain quiet pleasure, and rises obediently to follow his Lordship around to the southeast side of the house. They skirt the rose garden and he pauses to demonstrate where he would add a walled garden, adding a further rough outline to his plan of the house.

“I think this bit of the lawn would be ideal. I often find myself in this direction during my morning walks, and I should like to visit my garden frequently when it’s complete.”

He pauses, glancing back at his companion. Cartwright’s wide eyes look redder and rheumy compared to their earlier appearance and Elder observes the slight sheen of moisture around the man’s nose. Casually, he checks that his handkerchief is still close at hand so it is ready in case he need offer it again.

The two men have managed to overtake Elder's hired hand, so the grass is longer here and the stems whisper about their ankles as they walk across the space Elder had mentioned. Isaiah examines it approvingly, crossing it in brisk strides to get an idea of the dimensions before returning to his host's side. Though his demeanour is cheerful and focused, he is forced to give a soft blow into his already-damp handkerchief before speaking. Apparently it does little to clear the tickle in his nose for his voice is already wavering as he speaks.

“This will be ideal, it gets the full sun first thing- ih” His voice cracks, his eyelids flickering shut, but he soldiers on. “in 'idTSsh! -excuse me- in the morning- 'idttsh!... 'idttsh!”

The three sudden sneezes force their way from in, completely overtaking his ability to speak. He paces away from Elder and turns his back before doubling over again. He is trying is utmost to stifle the sound, but he cannot control the frequency.

"hh- 'gtsch!... 'gtsch!...h'gitssch!”

With time the sneezes come slower and more forcefully, allowing him to at least catch a breath a few breaths before he is doubled over again. His expression is mortified, the handkerchief clamped firmly around his nose and mouth. His eyes well with irritated tears, and he looks blearily up at Lord Elder with a mixture of shame and confusion.

“Please forgive me, my- 'gtissch!- my lord,” he manages. “I cannot seem to- to- TSSchuh!- seem to -TTSsch!- stop.”

For a moment, Lord Elder is transfixed by the display. He’s never seen anyone sneeze so rapidly in all his life, and from a purely scientific perspective, it is fascinating. The way the young man’s body convulses with each uncontrolled spasm…he finds himself thinking it is much like the male sexual response, which in turn finds a blush crossing his scholarly face as well as a warm tingling in his limbs.

The last two desperate sneezes shake him from his reverie and he fumbles in his pocket for the fresh handkerchief, putting a firm hand on Cartwright’s back and pressing the cloth insistently towards the young man’s raised hands so that he might grab in between fits.

“My dear Mr. Cartwright,” he says, voice low in concern. “We may continue this later. I fear you must have caught a chill on the journey to Woodhaven. Please allow me to show you to your rooms so you might rest and recover. There is no apology or forgiveness necessary. I’m a scientific man, I remind you, Mr. Cartwright, and I know these sorts of things are beyond our control, even in the company of others.”

Isaiah accepts the handkerchief and gives a soft, grateful blow which seems to halt the urge to sneeze, at least for now. A more generous response he could not wish for and yet Elder's surmise does not quite ring true to him.

“Thank you... you're very kind. Please do not be overly concerned; I have a very sensitive nose although not usually this sensitive, I admit. I feel quite well apart from- ” he leans very slightly on Elder for support as he sneezes again, curiously conscious of the weight of the man's hand on his back as his shoulders shudder with the effort of repressing it into a tight, restrained, “-knxt! -knxt! Hih-knxt!”

He shakes his head a little to clear it. “- well, apart from the obvious. Still you must be correct, perhaps the journey was harder on me than I realised. I think I will go to my rooms if I may, at least until this eases a little. Do lead on.”

“Of course,” Lord Elder says sympathetically. He’s slightly distracted by the feel of Cartwright’s back under his hand and the muscles there tensing as the man continues to sneeze. “Please, come with me.”

They make it back to the house with a quick pace and Jacob leads the way to a series of bright rooms not far from his own. The graciously appointed bedroom is not too grand as to befit a more honored, temporary guest, but it is still quite lovely.

Cartwright’s luggage has been brought up by a footman and his things are waiting by the bed. Lord Elder crosses the room and closes the heavy velvet curtains, darkening the room.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he tells Isaiah. “Can I have anything sent up to you? Or fetch anything myself?”

“You're very kind. Perhaps a glass of water, but beyond that I -snf- I already feel much better.” Isaiah says.

He has seated himself on the bed in the shadow of the drapes, and his eyes are large in the dark. They are so reddened now that he looks as though he has been crying but this only emphasises their vivid green. More than that they have swelled so that they are half shut, and he looks at Elder from under heavy lids with an expression of sleepy discomfort. He rubs at them tentatively, afraid to irritate them further. His voice is interrupted with damp sniffles and gives the impression that he might break into further fits of sneezes at any moment, despite this he continues quietly;

“I do not feel I need to rest. You needn't-” he hesitates, unsure what he is permitted to ask of his host, yet torn with the desire to continue in Elder's company. Though he feels well enough now, he imagines that the frustrating symptoms will soon intensify without his Lordship's intriguing presence to distract him. “You needn't leave, if you wish to continue our conversation indoors. I should tell you that I have been taken this way before and in my experience it -snf- passes quickly.”

“We shall have plenty of time to become better acquainted and to discuss the plans for my lands,” Lord Elder says. “There is no need to burden yourself with it. Please, relax and take the afternoon to acquaint yourself with your chambers and the rest of the house if you wish. I’ll have Bishop send up some water and your dinner when it comes time for that.”

He hesitates, wondering if it is out of his place in society to ask what he is considering, but then decides he will anyhow. After all, he is the master of the house and has no other relations to answer to.

“Or, if you prefer, you may join me in my chambers for dinner. I take the meal at five and you’ll hear the bell ring when it is time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to my study to finish a few things. Please, don’t hesitate to ring for Bishop if you require anything further before dinner.”

With a nod, he shuts the door and hurries down the hall and up a flight of stairs to his private study. A thought has taken hold in his mind and he is eager to investigate. The reddened eyes, the sneezing…he’d read about this condition in a journal a few months back…the realization had hit him suddenly when he’d seen Isaiah’s swollen eyelids in the dim bedroom. He moves to the large case of scientific periodicals he keeps in a corner and begins flipping through books, spectacles sliding to the end of his nose as he searches page after page.

Finally, he discovers the passage and sinks into his desk chair with a smirk of triumph. Summer catarrh, or the rose cold…symptoms brought about by exposure to various flowers and ragweed, and for which there is no definitive cure.

If this is indeed what if afflicting his new gardener, then he will certainly have to do something about it. After all, the boy is talented and Elder is eager for the improvements to the land, but it will be impossible if his gardens keep poor Cartwright in paroxysms of sneezing. Perhaps a bit of a scientific experiment is in order.

He continues to read the periodical, gathering as much information as he can before he heads back out into the south yard to collect some cuttings, arranging the flowers and pollen-heavy weeds into an arrangement which he deposits on a sideboard in the dining room before returning to his study to wait until dinner time.

Between managing the still-frequent fits of sneezing and exploring his temporary lodgings, Isaiah too has plenty to amuse him between Elder's departure and the ringing of the dinner bell. His Lordship's invitation has taken him off-guard, but pleasantly so, suggesting as it does that his Lordship does not think him entirely unpleasant company, despite his previous display. As the clock creeps toward five, he begins to think about making himself ready. After some deliberation he adds to his ensemble a dove grey frock coat and ties a green ascot at his neck. As his fingers are adding a little pomade to his hair the fluttering tickle which has been every-present at the back of his nose suddenly flares to a desperate, itching need. His breath hitches unevenly, unsure if he is trying to stave off the release or bring it on.

Now that he is alone he does not repress the sounds, but allows them to bend him at the waist with a satisfying forcefulness which would be quite inappropriate for company.

“hiih...! IGTsssh!-IGHTssshh!-ii'HGktSSchuh!... ah.”

For a moment his reflection in the gilt mirror looks every bit as snifflingly miserable as he feels. Then he masters himself, splashes his face with cold water and rearranges the soft waves of his hair where the sneezing has shaken them loose. He smiles nervously at himself in the mirror, tucks two clean handkerchiefs into his trouser pocket just in case, and when the ring of the bell comes he makes his way to Elder's dining room with only a little concern for the state of his health.

Cartwright meets Elder in the dining room and greets him with a fleeting smile. His usually graceful movement is somewhat hampered by his self-consciousness in evening dress, yet the change flatters him- the suit making him appear as lean as a hare, his shoulders strong and slender.

“Good evening my Lord. It is very good of you to have me.”

“Of course,” Elder replies. “Please, sit down.”

There remains a hoarse edge to Cartwright's voice, and he clears his throat with a soft cough. Yet however much he attempts to focus upon Elder's reply, his attention is drawn inward by the return of that insistent itchiness which last assailed him when out in the grounds. It is as though the moment he enters the room his formerly clear nose wells both with liquid and with fluttering, intangible tickles which make him pinch unconsciously at the tip of his nose. He makes an effort to breathe steadily through his mouth lest the feeling should wax, but this is difficult when he is equally drawn to sniffle wetly. He fervently hopes that Elder does not notice as he remains standing, wavering on the verge of an explosion.

Then as Bishop offers him some wine, his efforts are distracted and one singular sneeze escapes him.

“h'knxt!”

It is a slight, almost silent motion which represents monumental self-restraint. For a moment he is foolish enough to assume he has escaped with just the one, but he manages a pause of only a minute or two before the urge overtakes him again. “'knxt! Id'Knxt!”

“I beg your pardon,” he says, eyes cast downward. “I rather hoped I had finished with that for the day.”

“Had your condition improved until you entered this room?” Lord Elder asks, intrigued. He feels positively awful for subjecting the kind young man to this nasal torture, but he’s sure there is a way to help him if he can only figure out exactly what causes the fits.

“And since coming out here to my estate, have you spent any time during the summer months in this region?” he adds, eyes glancing over at the large spray of flowers on the sideboard. He knows that several are very populous in this part of the country and are less common elsewhere.

Isaiah considers this, his face expressing confusion although he is game to answer any question Elder throws at him.

“I was feeling much better, or I would not have burdened you with my company. But it seems to be worsening ah- again- idtssh!- oh. I was the county before, but only the once. Why do you ask? As I remember, I was taken with a shocking cold at that time, too.” He sniffs wetly. “It is a very strange coincidence, I- hah- idtssh! Idtssh Ih'tssch-uh!”

This time, the man's irritated sinuses are not content to stop with just three. He manages a wavering, “excuse me-” before taking a few urgent paces away from Lord Elder so that he might turn his back completely. He is not entirely fast enough, and so treats Elder to a perfect view of his pre-sneeze face; eyes narrowed, eyebrows arching and nostrils delicately flared like an animal taking a scent. The next moment his face is hidden in his steepled fingers as his body rocks with sneezes.

“Ih'TSSh! ITSShh! Id'TSSh! ah-” He hovers for a moment, breath panting, before sneezing again with almost painful force. “Ah-ITtsh-uh! ii'HGktSSchuh!”

The needling itch in his nose abates at last, if only because he is growing too congested to feel it.

Isaiah gives Elder a fleeting look over the handkerchief, eyes damp with tears and cheeks flushed with effort and shame. He says softly, “At least one of us ought to enjoy this meal. Perhaps I should leave...”

The raw power and severity of the sneezes is so overwhelming that Lord Elder finds himself growing hot in the cheeks as a strange sense of arousal rises in him. Though he has two intimate friendships with other men who come to Woodhaven when they are visiting nearby, he has not felt this sudden lust for another since he first met Lord Tennan, a handsome blond fellow from Highgate. Of course, he loved his late wife with all the husbandly duties required, but he’s always had relations with men, finding he prefers the sharp lines of a male body over the curves of the female.

Swallowing hard, he pulls himself together and shakes his head, offering an apology.

“My dear Mr. Cartwright, I assure you, I know what is causing your suffering. There’s no need for you to be embarrassed. We will take dinner in my sitting room; I’ve had Bishop set an extra table in the likely event that this would happen. Please, come with me and I will explain all.”

He begins to lead the way out of the room, wanting to relieve Isaiah of the company of the offending plants. His sitting room is not far down the hall and he opens the door, ushering the sniffling man inside.

“Sit and make yourself quite comfortable. There’s a stack of spare handkerchiefs in the table drawer there. Now, tell me, Mr. Cartwright, have you heard of the modern affliction known as the Rose Cold, or Summer Catarrh?”

Isaiah settles himself, expression nonplussed. He does, however, help himself to a fresh handkerchief and blows his nose wetly to clear his voice.

“I have never heard of it. Medicine was never my area of expertise.” He gestures for Elder to go on, but then pauses, catching something in His Lordship's face. He has been watching his host with such closeness that the intensity of the man's gaze, and the deliberate way in which he steels himself, can hardly go unnoticed. “Are you quite all right? I do hope this isn't catching.”

This is said with another quick volley of stifled sneezes, but he recovers quickly with a little shake of his head.

I most certainly am,” Elder says, affecting the detached air of a man of science instead of a man who is genuinely worried about Cartwright. “I do not believe what is afflicting you is catching at all. I cannot say that medicine is my area of expertise either, but I am interested in all aspects of science and do keep up with medical journals. And from one of these journals I have deduced what is causing your nasal irritation.”

He reaches for a book he left on a side table earlier and flips through to the article about summer catarrh.

“The rose cold, or summer catarrh, is a relatively modern ailment that is caused by a great sensitivity to the reproductive products of plants and flowers, pollen, as well as dust, smoke, and other natural irritants,” he reads.

“That would certainly be an explanation,” Cartwright says slowly. He rubs tiredly at his temples as he takes the information in. The young man has a quick mind but in this case it is blunted by both a combination wilful denial and a brewing headache. “Still, steady on, your Lordship. This may be purely academic to you, but if you're right it will certainly change the path of my career. Please do not be so quick to extrapolate a summer cold and a fanciful article into a diagnosis.”

“It is unfortunate, my dear Mr. Cartwright, that a man who is such an expert in plant life seems to have such a debilitating reaction to our more common northern flowers and weeds,” he adds with a wry smile. “Woodhaven is home to a great many wild plants and I can only surmise that one of them must cause this sneezing. I took a cutting of some of the more populous ones and arranged them in the vase in the dining room as a bit of an experiment. Judging by your subsequent reaction, I think we both can safely say that you are quite sensitive to at least one of them. I do hope you’ll forgive me for invoking further misery on your part.”

After a moment the other implications of Elder's diagnosis dawn on him.

“Do you mean to tell me that I have been an unwitting part in some kind of scientific game? It hardly seems fair- to- ii'GSSChuuh!” Another sneeze comes on suddenly, keeping him from completing his point.

“Bless you,” Lord Elder replies distractedly. “And I do apologize for subjecting you to what you call a ‘game’, but I was genuinely concerned for your welfare and when I saw the adverse effect the sneezing had on you, I had only hoped to help you avoid the culprit.”

But, perhaps he is rushing into things again. He’s never been a terribly organized man and sometimes his passions overtake logic.

“And I may have been impertinent in my diagnosis,” he admits, feeling a hot flush in his cheeks. He has not intended to offend his new friend. “You are correct that it may be a summer cold, but if it is not, there is no reason to change your career, as you have shown your considerable talents just in the short time I’ve known you. There are many suggested treatments to this ailment, if it should prove a continued nuisance, and I am more than obliged to assist you in seeking these treatments.”

Bishop enters with the first course, setting it down on the small tea table between the two men.

“I suggest that we take dinner and you take a day’s rest to recover from whatever it is that ails you,” Elder says to Cartwright. “Once you’re sufficiently well, perhaps we might take a trip to visit Kew Gardens and look upon some of the glasshouses you spoke of so that I might get a better idea of the type I want for my own estate.”

“And,” he adds, taking in the sight of the man’s reddened nose and watering eyes. “If you wish to take you dinner alone in your rooms so you might retire to bed, I will not be offended. Please remember I care only for your health and have little regard for rules of polite society, being just a bachelor here at Woodhaven and not accustomed to following them regularly.”

At Elder's apology, Mister Cartwright visibly relaxes. He leans back in his chair and momentarily covers his eyes with one hand, giving a soft, congested groan, yet his expression is somewhat softened and he smiles at Elder.

“I did not mean to speak to quickly against your wisdom... I am not feeling my best. A visit to Kew would be an excellent next step, regardless of my own condition, though I dearly hope that this nonsense will pass in a few days. It must be a great nuisance to you- hh-”

Once again that vague, ticklish expression crosses his face and he turns away from Elder abruptly. He gives a few audibly panting breaths, raises the handkerchief to his face- and then lowers it, frustrated. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, and gives a little shake of his head to indicate that the urge has, for now, retreated.

“I think then that I will go to my rooms, and trouble you no further. I assure you I will be quite alright. Above anything else, I would not have you think me frail.”

He rises and straightens his ascot, not taking his eyes off of Elder as he murmurs softly,

“Good night, your Lordship.”

His composure is not so great that Elder cannot hear him stifling an extended fit of sneezes in the hallway, the sound diminishing as the man walks away.

Elder does not think Cartwright frail in the least; in fact, as he listens to the fit of sneezes echoing down the hall, he’s struck by the sheer strength of the outbursts and the masculine, throaty sneezes of his new gardener. The aroused feeling is stirred in him again as he’s left alone with his dinner. It’s a few moments before he’s comfortable enough to ring the bell and request that Bishop send up a tray to Cartwright’s room.

Over the next day the high weather breaks in quick, summer showers which liberally douse the grounds of Woodhaven and provide an excuse for Isaiah to keep to his rooms. Despite the weather, or unbeknownst to him because of it, he found himself much improved. He is still prone to fittish sneezes which come upon him in sets of six or more, and the congestion in his head has him keep a handkerchief nearby at all time, but other than that he is quite his usual self. His mind is sharp and busy with drawings and calculations, and with reading widely from Elder's ample library. Through these preparations he is more than ready to accompany Lord Elder to Kew upon the designated date.

Elder keeps himself occupied over the next few days, avoiding Cartwright somewhat as he continues to read about the summer catarrh and its treatment. And there are several more projects he has in the works; various inventions and ideas for research. The few times he’s emerged from his study in his customary dressing gown and bare feet, he’s caught glimpses of the handsome young man with his nose buried in a book instead of a handkerchief, and he’s both relieved and a little disappointed at the sight. There was something terribly endearing about seeing the man so afflicted with the sneezing fits.

When the morning of their trip comes round, Elder dresses in a new suit with a straw boater for their journey to Kew. It’s not a terribly long trip; only a few hours by motorcar. He has Bishop pack a small lunch for travel and he plans for them to take tea in the garden’s tearoom.

Carefully waxing his moustache and grooming his hair, he preens in the mirror for a little longer than usual, observing the reflection of his own thin, dark-haired figure. Spectacles tucked in his shirt pocket, he grabs an observation notebook for making his own jottings at Kew and goes to the foyer to await Cartwright, a small pit of anticipation building in his stomach.

Cartwright descends the stairs with a light step. Though he too thought it best to allow his host some thinking space, he has missed the man's company more than he lets on, and upon seeing the familiar, slight figure he offers Elder a genuine and very charming smile. He wears his other suit, a light one in pale tan which makes his skin appear golden even in the half-light of indoors. His habit of pinching at the tip of his nose has become so frequent that his nostrils are a permanent, light pink, but otherwise, the man glows. One might say on first sight that the country air suited him, though of course they would be mistaken.

He politely admires the motor before seating himself beside Elder. They are forced into unusual though not unwelcome proximity by the arrangement of the seats, and he takes a quiet, muted pleasure in being close enough to smell the man's cologne. The only disadvantage is that when he taken by a sudden fit of sneezes- a characteristic set of three released into his wrist with a ticklish “'idttsh!-iddtssh!-h'ittsh!”- he is uncomfortably aware that must be Elder able to feel the tremors running through his body where their thighs touch on the seat. “Excuse me,” he murmurs. “It will be a relief to get into the temperate house at Kew. At least I know those plants never troubled me when I was abroad.”

“Bless you,” Lord Elder replies, though his gaze is outward at the passing scenery and not at the man so close to his side, for fear of a blush. The sneezes were indeed felt, as translated by their touching legs, and Lord Elder feels the familiar flush growing around his collar. He tugs at his cravat uncomfortably in an effort to remain cool and collected.

“The temperate house is lovely,” Elder agrees as the car breezes down the country road towards the gardens. “I am a great admirer of the palm varieties. I saw Lord Portsmouth’s arboretum last May and he has the most splendid collection of palms there in his atrium. It’s remarkable how tropical it felt inside while outside, we had the most dreadful rain showers.”

They eat a small meal of sandwiches during the few hours of the journey before they arrive at the gates of the magnificent botanical gardens. Lord Elder’s drive helps them out of the automobile at the entrance and Elder tells him to take his lunch and then remain nearby should they choose to alter their time of departure.

Elder loosens his cravat in the hot summer air and gestures for Cartwright to follow, beginning the stroll down the long gravel path towards the main glass houses. The grounds are replete with graceful trees, their branches both dipped to the earth and up to the heavens. Here and there, couples dot the lawns, picnicking and observing the plant life.

When they’re about halfway down the entry path, Lord Elder spots a familiar face and tenses. Strolling in the opposite direction is Lord Lenley, a casual friend and relation of Lord Elder’s. He’s a flashy young gentleman, with thick blond hair and looks that cause many a female to swoon. But he, unbeknownst to the ladies, rarely beds females.

“Jacob!” Lenley cries upon spotting the pair. “What a lovely surprise. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Elder replies coolly.

“And who might this handsome gentleman be?” Lenley asks, extending his graceful hand to Cartwright. “Your cousin?”

“My landscape architect, actually,” Elder mutters. “We are here to gather some ideas for the grounds.”

“Well, that will be just lovely. I’ll have to come spend the weekend when they are complete. A pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Albert Lenley. I’m an old school mate of Jacob's."

“Isaiah Cartwright.” The architect says simply, taking Lenley's hand in a light grip. He offers a pleasant smile, but the next moment the corner of his mouth twitches and his expression takes on an expression of fleeting dread. Isaiah breathes a shallow gasp before turning away and- to his great horror- sneezing a quick fit over his shoulder.

“'gtsh!-'gttsh!-'gttssh!!”

He shakes his head with a soft, self-conscious laugh as though hardly concerned, but his green eyes dart to Jacob both in apology and begging to be reprieved from the pressures of company. Sneezing in front of one Lord is bad enough, but in front of a pair of them it hardly bears thinking about.

“...please, do excuse me.”

Lord Elder’s hand travels to Cartwright’s back, giving it a surreptitious pat of reassurance.

“Yes, please pardon Mr. Cartwright,” he says to Lenley. “His health is not entirely well at the moment, so I beg our leave so we go observe the glasshouses and then return to Woodhaven. It was a pleasure to see you, Albert.”

“And you, as always, Jacob,” Lenley says with an unctuous smile, his hand lingering slightly too long in Elder’s as they shake. “Do come and visit me soon. I’ve missed your company.”

Elder gives no specific reply, simply nodding and turning to walk past Lenley, a little embarrassed by the man’s rather overt display of their relationship. He fiddles with his spectacles nervously, keeping close to Cartwright’s side as they continue their walk down the main path, nearing the ornate structures of timber and glass.

“Thank you.” Isaiah murmurs to him as they make their escape. They have crossed much of the lawn before he turns his astute, perceptive gaze on Elder. “Lord Lenley is a close friend of yours?”

It is more statement than question, and he does not expect much of an answer as the great temperate house rears ahead of them like a vision from the future. Though the building is open it is by no means complete, for the larger second wing stands as a skeleton of wooden struts and metal piping. “It has been under construction since 1860,” Isaiah tells his employer. “I promise you Woodhaven's more modest version will not take so long.”

“Not terribly close,” Elder says, equally distracted by the stunning display of exotic plants as they enter the glasshouse. “We’ve spent some time at each other’s estates, yes. He’s…rather a social creature, one might say.”

He leaves the subject at that. Lenley is a notorious flirt and rather well-known among a certain circle of both British men and women.

The two men enter the glass house. They are assaulted not by a shock but by a gradual creep of humidity. It is not so startling as the palm house, but still warm enough that Isaiah's hands move immediately to loosen his collar. A moment later he pinches reflexively at his nose and an uneasy expression paints his face. It passes quickly and he turns to Elder with an undisguised smile. Here at least he is in his element. They are surrounded on all sides by greenery. Fruit trees and palms tower overhead. Vines cling limpidly to the glass on the southside to press their leaves towards the sun, lending the light a mellow, dappled quality, whilst the narrow paths are skirted by blooms of every colour. Other visitors move to and fro inside, their voices hushed as though in a library or museum.

Elder's attention is now on Cartwright, who is flush with the excitement of the beautiful plants. Jacob keeps his pace a few steps behind, watching the young man as he admires a fruit tree, his graceful hands toying with his handkerchief.

Isaiah moves instinctively towards the wall of branching citrus trees which are familiar to him from his travels. “Feel free to wander, and let me know what catches your interest.”

He absentmindedly draws out the handkerchief and touches it under his nose, but his attention is entirely elsewhere.

“I think these are magnificent,” Elder says after a moment, siding up to Cartwright. “Do you have a favorite? The idea of having my own fruit trees is a thrilling one, I must say, and I don’t think Missus Harrison, the cook, would mind either.”

He takes out his small notebook and jots down the names of a few of the trees so he can read more about them later. The two men wander a bit farther down and Elder branches off towards a display of beautiful exotic flowers. There are several he’s never seen before, even in books, and their loveliness is so exquisite that he takes a few moments to make amateur sketches of each. They are nothing compared to Cartwright’s, but feels they are at least a good effort.

“These, here,” he calls to Cartwright, who is at a slight distance. “These flowers. Do you think any of them would be possible? I quite like this variety of orchid, actually.”

At his host's summons, the man returns immediately to Elder's side and joins him in squatting down that they might examine the blooms more closely. He lifts one of the blossoms with a delicate, almost reverent touch, and as he does so his arm brushes against a flowering bush which grows behind him. The air is filled with a sweet, heady scent. In the beams of summer sunlight it is possible to make out a cloud of yellowish pollen drifting through space where Isaiah's clumsiness has dislodged.

Isaiah's hand flies instantly to his nose, and then to his eyes. He stands abruptly and his expression is at once surprised and desperately ticklish. The mild, disconcerting running of his nose which had troubled him only a little upon entering temperate house is overtaken by a high, needling itch as though something tangible is caught deep in the back of his nose. With slowly dawning dread he pinches his flaring nostrils closed, for though it does nothing to ease him it may at least buy him a little time- he is seized by the certainty that when he begins sneezing he will be quite unable to stop.

Against his will, Isaiah's breath comes in low, hitching gasps. “hh- hheh--”

He attracts his companion's attention with a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“L-Lord -heh- Elder-” He manages.

“Goodness,” Lord Elder sputters, his cheeks flushed. “Quickly…out of this glasshouse. You need cleaner air.”

He takes Cartwright with a hand firmly around his shoulders, guiding the trembling architect to the nearest door and out of the temperate glasshouse. It’s a different door than the one in which they entered and it leads to a screened-in hallway that is connected to another glasshouse. This one is new, having just been completed the previous season, and it houses native species, allowing the Kew horticulturalists to grow British plants year round.

“Here,” he said, pushing the door opening with his hip as his other hand searched his coat pocket for another handkerchief. “At least these are familiar to you and perhaps won’t irritate your nose.”

He desperately hopes that whatever grew in his own lands isn’t cultivated in this garden. There’s a low stone barrier alongside several shrubs and Elder presses Cartwright down with a supportive hand so he’s sitting on the wall.

“Here,” he says, guiding his linen hankie into Cartwright’s grasp. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I think we’re alone here anyhow. It’s a medical affliction, that is all, so don’t keep up airs for me.”

Isaiah gives an odd little shrug, perhaps suggesting that he could not keep up airs if he wished to. He turns his face away from Elder as he draws a series of hovering, panting breaths and then-

“hheh—idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!-- h'iddtsh!-'idtsshuh!--h'idtsshuuh!”

The sound is soft and only slightly percussive, each release followed by a momentary sigh of relief and then another hiccuping gasp for air. He manages a very wet, gurgling blow and a tear-dampened look up at Elder before he is overtaken again.

“--'idtsh-ittsh-idtsh--idttssh!-idttsshuh! ihk'gtsssh!”

Isaiah sits with his elbows resting on his knees and the handkerchief cupped in his steepled hands, shielding his nose and mouth. The motion of his head into his hands is sharp but delicate, such that a distant observer might almost think the man was crying, though Elder is close enough to see that the man's shoulders shake with far more violence than that- the muscles and sinew in his slender neck clench with each sneeze. They come in runs of six, between which he is only able to wipe his nose and wait for the next fit, keeping his face averted. After a while one of his hands goes to his diaphragm, pressing to ease the burden on his seizing muscles.

With time his sneezes change from quick, irritated bursts to become heavier and more forceful, at least allowing him to draw a few breaths between them. Now he must wait between each one, his breath scissoring as the tickle waxes and wanes, never quite leaving him.

“hh.. heh... ii'HGktSSchuh!-GSSHuuh! ...ugh” He breathes a tired, congested sigh as the sneezing finally begins to relieve him, and fumbles in his pocket for a clean handkerchief with which he begins to mop his face. He wipes gingerly under his eyes, but finds himself unable to ease them- his eyelids are so thickly swollen that he can scarcely see, yet they still itch like the devil.

“Forgive my- hh-GTSSChuh!-- my Lord. I'm afraid my eyes are...” Isaiah pauses, thinking he might begin sneezing again, but no matter. The sorry state of him is quite clearly evident.

At first, all Lord Elder can do is watch in astonishment. The familiar flush of his own arousal grows in a hot burning of his neck and cheeks as the gardener at his side succumbs to the violent fits. The bursts are so rapid and physical that Elder can barely distinguish where one sneeze ends and the next begins. The poor man’s face quickly becomes red, wet, and swollen with the mix of congestion, sweat, and allergic tears.

The severity of the attack eventually rouses Elder from his state of shock and he wracks his brain for a memory of some of the suggested cures for rose colds. It is clear that the native species greenhouse isn’t helping matters; in fact, he’s sure he’s made things worse. Suddenly everywhere he looks, he sees the criminal evidence; yellow dust covering leaves and clinging to the edges of the glass window panes.

He cannot think of anything to ease any significant suffering on Cartwright’s part, but he does have another spare handkerchief and he leaves Cartwright’s side for a moment, finding water flowing from a valve nearby. He soaks the cloth and quickly returns to his friend’s side, sitting alongside the allergy-ridden man and guiding the cloth to Isaiah’s face.

He cannot do much for the man’s nose here in the glasshouse. He knows he’ll require an eyedropper and some tinctures he has back at Woodhaven. Instead, he focuses on making the man as comfortable as possible until he can get him safely home.

“Please,” he says softly, a hand pressed to Cartwright’s seizing back. “I’m going to wipe off your eyes and then I’ll help you walk back to the auto. We’ll get you home straight away, okay?”

Carefully, he sponges Isaiah’s swollen eyelids, clearing away sticky residue as the man’s head bobs in rhythm with ticklish sneezes.

“Stand and I’ll guide you back,” he says, curling a hand around Cartwright’s torso.

The feel of the man thrusting and shaking at his side sends a shiver through Elder as the hot arousal returns in full force. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the feverish feeling in his limbs.

“C’mon then. We’ll walk quickly.”

Isaiah gulps and sniffs wetly but closes his eyes and allows Elder to tend to his irritated lids without a whimper beyond a hoarse “Thank you” when the soothing cloth touches him. The man is so very gentle- that would take Isaiah by surprise if he had any energy with which to register it. The arm about him is also a surprise and he stands obediently.

The walk back across the lawns is excruciating but thankfully brief. With Elder's arm about him he is able to steer a straight line despite only being able to see a tiny sliver of the path ahead of him: his eyes sting as though he has been cutting onions and it only worsens when he opens them more than a crack. He is aware that he is making a spectacle of himself as he is forced to halt several times to double at the waist with further fits of sneezes, and besides which his suit is crumpled and his hair disheveled and damp with sweat. Frankly he feels too uncomfortable to care.

Otherwise he reaches the motor without incident and leans an arm on the bonnet for support. From there Cartwright makes an attempt at chivalry. “We don't have to leave, my – ih-gtssh!- my Lord. If you have more to do, I'm happy to wait here and- iih- 'gtssh! 'gtsshuh!... oh hell.” He finishes with a heartfelt curse and a thoroughly congested sniffle.

“Now you’re being completely daft,” Elder says, helping Cartwright into the vehicle and climbing onto the seat beside him. The poor gardener sounds exhausted and the sneezes are quickly becoming breathier and less violent, though certainly as frequent.

With a nod to the driver, Elder signals for the car to start up and the engine sputters loudly as they begin the drive back to Woodhaven.

The dampened handkerchief is still in Elder’s possession as the car turns onto the main road. He thinks back to his research on the hay fever condition and what he might be able to do to ease Cartwright’s suffering.

“I can imagine you’re exhausted,” he says softly to the man. “My readings tell me that these sorts of attacks can be helped by rest, especially when they come on with this severity. You’ll have a chance to do that back at Woodhaven, but if you’d like to lie down across the seat, you could put this cold cloth over your eyes. It would likely reduce the swelling and allow you to recover some of your energy.”

He removes his jacket and folds it into a small bundle on his lap, forming a makeshift pillow with which to prop up Isaiah’s head. Placing the jacket across his thighs, he pats it, suggesting that Cartwright make himself comfortable.

“I’ll tell you again, there is little need to maintain airs. You are unwell and I wish for you to recover, not to keep up manners for my sake.”

Cartwright hesitates. He wants to believe the man's assertions but years of polite society and restraining himself in the company of his betters has made him nervous. Still, the congestion and brewing headache are powerful enough that he simply settles himself with a quiet groan, and as he lays his head down into Elder's lap he realises that there is nothing he needs more that this. Beyond the chance to rest, Elder's presence is supremely soothing to him; the supportive, non-judgemental touch is as healing as the cool fabric across his eyes. The jolting of the motor muffled by Elder's body cradling his own is intensely relaxing and he falls into a light sleep.

For the rest of the journey home, Mr. Cartwright scarcely stirs. Just once his features shift from slack to ticklish and he turns his head towards Elder's stomach to give vent to a soft, ticklish “'iptssh!” He seems only vaguely aware of it, enough to rub at his itchy nose with the heel of his hand, but it does not wake him and he simply settles deeper into sleep.

The weight and warmth of Isaiah’s head on his lap sends an imperceptible shiver through Jacob and he’s grateful for his bundled-up jacket separating them, even more so when Cartwright sneezes directly towards him, his head bouncing slightly against Elder’s thighs.

He observes the gardener, who looks even younger and gentler in sleep. The poor man’s nose is scarlet now, turned red from its earlier more permanent pink hue. He’s breathing through his mouth, shutting it every so often when he sniffles in his sleep. With a gentle touch, Elder adjusts the cloth over the man’s swollen eyes and smoothes back his thick brown hair, exposing ivory skin where fringe usually shaded from sun.

The grounds of Woodhaven rise into sight as the auto sputters down the last stretch of road. Bishop meets the car at the front drive, his expression one of slight surprise upon seeing the sleeping man on his lordship’s lap. Of course, he’s aware of the close male friends Lord Elder has kept over the years, but he didn’t expect the gardener to be one of them.

“Did he faint, your lordship?” Bishop asks in a hushed voice. “It’s certainly warm enough out in the sun.”

“No, but he’s taken sick with hay fever,” Elder explains. “I’ll need his room prepared, straight away. Make sure all the curtains are drawn, the bed turned down, and you have Miss Smith bring up a basin of water, some clean cloths, and a pitcher of drinking water with glasses. Do stay nearby once I’ve got him settled; there are a few things I’ll need you to fetch from my study.”

Bishop bows and departs to ready the rooms while Jacob turns his attentions to Isaiah.

“Mr. Cartwright?” he says tentatively, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Wake up; we’re back. I’ve just sent Bishop to turn down the bed for you.”

A light summer breeze is blowing, fragrant with the fresh grasses of Woodhaven’s vast yard. Elder is eager to get Cartwright safe and settled inside, away from the irritants both in the air and coating the shiny black automobile.

The sleeping man stirs under Elder's touch, opening his eyes a crack. He rises stiffly and climbs out of the car, blinking in the bright light. The sudden exposure to sunlight coaxes the localised itchiness throughout his nose into a sudden focused need and he sneezes a sudden, damp “-iptssh! -ptssh! Ih'ptssh! followed by an unconscious groan- the force makes his head pound. He had not meant to sleep for so long, and feels more than a little disorientated as he obediently follows Elder into the house.

The walk to Cartwright’s chambers isn’t terribly long, but it suddenly feels very far to Jacob. The gardener seems a little unsteady on his feet, so he plants a firm hand on the man’s shoulder as they walk down the long hallway.

Isaiah’s chambers are dark and his bed is turned down when they arrive. Steering the exhausted man to the bed, Jacob presses him down to sit and tips his head up, assessing the man’s still-swollen eyes.

Isaiah gives himself over to Lord Elder's grip, tilting his head obediently.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Elder says after a moment, releasing his grip on the man. “I recommend you remove your suit and put something else on; the thing that affects you could cling to your clothing and make your condition worse. I am going to fetch some things from my study and I will return, if you will accept my assistance?”

“Please do not worry yourself over me.” Isaiah says, observing his host's agitation. “Though of course I will accept your assistance. Anything that will stop this blasted sneezing would be appreciated. The action may have eased for now, but I can assure you the desire is still quite present in- in-”

As though the need was summoned by his words he wrenches forward over his lap in another fit of sneezes. They are no longer the soft, muffled releases of earlier in the attack but seem to take a lot out of him, tearing an irritated groan from him as he doubles over. “-GSSHuuh! --ii'KSShhuh! -h'iGGSHuuh! ...ugh.”

He looks up from the handkerchief with newly damp eyes as he says thoughtfully. “It seems I am in your Lordship's hands... if you will have me.”

“ I think I might have something that will bring down the severity of the irritation in your nasal passages, at least according to my research.”

Elder's voice is quick and anxious, and he pushes up his spectacles in a nervous reflex. The flush he feels all over he knows must be registering in his cheeks. Suddenly, he feels very like a school girl stammering and blushing. He rushes out towards his study with the air of a flittering bird.

When Lord Elder has absented the room, Cartwright hesitates and then dresses himself in his pyjamas. They are the blue-and-white striped kind, very much of the fashion and just smart enough for him to feel decent. He just cannot muster the energy to dress in more formal-wear, but given Elder's apparent penchant for dressing-gowns he doubts the man will mind.

Elder returns to the bedroom carrying a tray with small bottles and several instruments balanced on it. He’s managed to improvise with some of the required tools, collecting similar items from his varied scientific materials. Setting the tray on the bedside table, he draws back the blankets and has Cartwright sit in bed, propped up against the headboard.

The poor gardener looks dreadful with his watering eyes and dripping nose. Elder offers him a sympathetic smile as he goes about preparing the nasal solution, dispensing a small bit of quinine into a bowl and dipping in a fine camel brush.

“We’ll try quinine first, as it’s a relatively common cure-all. If it fails, I have a sodium bicarbonate rinse for your sinuses that involves slightly more discomfort, so we’ll wait to try that until we know if the quinine isn’t suitable.”

“But first,” he adds. “To help your eyes.”

He dunks a clean towel into a bowl of cold water sent up from the kitchens and wrings the cloth out until it’s just damp. Carefully, he wipes a bit of crust from around the man’s red eyes before he presses the washcloth to Isaiah’s eyelids, holding it there with a steady, calming hand.

“Let it lie there and try to relax,” he says, releasing the pressure on the cloth. “Tilt your head back and I’m going to apply the solution. I’ll work quickly. My readings say that it shouldn’t cause any irritation, but do let me know if something contrary happens.”

He cups Cartwright’s soft chin, feeling the slight stubble beneath his fingertips, and tilts the handsome face back, slipping the brush up a reddened nostril. With deliberate strokes, he paints on the tincture.

The moment the brush enters his nose, the young man starts in surprise. His nostrils twitch and immediately redden further but he sets his face stoically and allows Elder to continue. Then the brush touches the inside rim of one nostril, and he gives a tiny, irritated groan.

Isaiah tries to keep his breath steady. If nothing else the act of concentrating upon it might distract him from the intense tickle. He counts in his head as his chest rises and falls. It is no good, of course. Each breath inwards coaxes the irritated sensation higher into his sinuses, and entirely against his will he draws a ragged gasp.

“My Lord-” He manages. The act of speaking tilts Elder's hand slightly, only plunging the brush deeper into his nose. The reaction is immediate.

“hih'KKSSHT!”

It is a sudden, reflexive sneeze, out before he has time to draw a full breath. It's force bends him away from Elder and he moves gratefully with the motion, slipping down on the bed and averting his face into the pillow for a moment as he gets his breath. His nose, however will not let him rest for long. In response to the extra irritation it is dripping freely and he is quickly forced to rise, one hand cupped over his nose to provide a modicum of propriety.

“My Lord, please...” he looks up at Elder with appealing eyes, “go easy on me. And in the mean time may I -snf- -snf- may I have a handkerchief again?”

His mouth twists in amused apology. At least he is able to retain a sense of humour about his situation. “This remedy is all very well, if one can get the quinine to stay -snf- where it is intended. I'm afraid most of it is now on your pillow.”

A smile flits across Elder’s lips at the gardener’s plight and he gives a sympathetic nod.

“Apologies,” he says, gathering a fresh handkerchief from the stack provided by his maid. “I will try to be gentle. And don’t worry a bit about the pillow case. I employ the best laundress in the village.”

He unfolds the handkerchief with deft hands and reaches forward to cup it around Cartwright’s inflamed nose, drawing it down over his nostrils with a slight pinch, clearing a stream of congestion. He folds the cloth to a clean edge and cups it there again, his free hand pushing some of Cartwright’s fringe away from the man’s reddened eyes.

“Blow,” he instructs.

Cartwright's eyes widen but he does as he is asked and blows thickly, his eyes narrowed with effort.

The feeling of the delicate nostrils through the cloth is incredibly intimate, Elder finds himself thinking. The very action in itself is intimate and it’s too late to remove his hand. He feels a blush spread across his cheeks instead.

“Forgive me,” he says, pinching Cartwright’s nose gently to help clear it. “I just want to ease your suffering.”

“It's been a very long time since someone's done that for me... it's less painful when you do it. Perhaps you should have been a physician. Still, do you mind if I rest for moment? I don't think my nose is ready for another dose just yet.”

In the moments that follow, as Elder draws the handkerchief away from his face, Isaiah simply allows himself to relax and slip down on the bed so that he is lying flat with his knees bent. His pyjamas have slipped open at the neck to reveal a sliver of pale collarbone, and his hair falls back off his face in a halo of chestnut curls. His eyes mark the flush in Elder's cheek, and the back of his fingers find the man's face in a tender yet teasing gesture.

“Ah, you're warm. So there's more to you than science and booklearning, after all. Don't be embarrassed, my Lord. You're not the one who's been making a shameful display of himself, and I'm -snf- quite over my pride so you may as well be, too.”

The fingers on his cheek make Elder flush all the more and he twines his fingers through Cartwright’s, holding them near his face for a moment before releasing them away from his cheek.

“Rest as long as you like,” he says simply, depositing the used handkerchief on the floor by the bed for the maid to collect later. “I’d’ve liked the idea of being a physician, but it was not my father’s opinion that a man of my standing hold a practical job. My studies were in Latin and French and all sorts of classics and mathematics. Training to be a physician was never an option, I’m afraid. I think it’s why I’m so fond of science now; I never did get the chance to pursue that passion as a boy.”

The flush in his cheeks is fading. He feels at ease with the young architect, as if he’s known him much longer than a few short weeks. The attraction he feels his strong, yes, but he is also keenly aware of a kinship growing between them aside from his own desire for the man.

Isaiah’s upper lip is slick with congestion and Elder gathers a fresh handkerchief, reaching out to dab it away.

“You’re dripping a bit,” he says as the soft cloth cleans up the rheumy edges of Cartwright’s sensitive nose. “Perhaps you should just rest for now and we can resume treatments later, when you are not so fatigued. A cool cloth should bring down the rest of the swelling in your eyes, and I can check in on you later.”

Isaiah Cartwright listens carefully to Elder's story, nodding his head thoughtfully without anything to add. He sniffles softly under the man's touch.

“I- I didn't mean that you were to leave. I'd quite appreciate the company, if I'm not too- knxt!-knxt!-hi'knxt!-” He seizes with a quick fit of soft, itchy sneezes. Rather than bend into the handkerchief Elder is holding he turns his head and represses them to tight painful swallows then winces, clearly regretting it.

“-excuse me- if I'm not too unbearable.” He finishes, and gives Elder a tentative smile. “Would you stay? It's miserable to be ailing and alone.”

Taken aback by the request, Elder stammers nervously for a moment before he can reply coherently.

“Why, yes, I mean, yes of course,” he says. “You’re not unbearable at all. In fact, I’ve very much enjoyed your company these past few weeks and have been meaning to tell you such.”

He wrings out a clean washtowel in the basin of water and drapes it over Cartwright’s eyes, smoothing back his fringe. His hand lingers a moment in the soft chestnut hair, gathering it in his fingertips and brushing it away from Isaiah’s face.

“There,” he says soothingly. “Now rest, and I’ll gladly stay. And no more holding in your sneezes. There's plenty of handkerchiefs here and it isn't healthy to do that. You've got to get the irritants out.”

There isn’t a chair in the bedroom, only in the adjoining sitting room, so rather than drag one in, Elder sits on the far side of the bed, opposite the resting gardener. He kicks off his shoes and tucks his legs up, leaning back against the headboard.

“Yes, your Lordship.” Cartwright says meekly, but with obvious pleasure that Elder responded well to his request.

With his eyes covered, when he feels Elder join him on the bed he makes a little startled sound, which he tries to pass of as a cough. He finds his handkerchief and brings it to his nose for a long, wet blow he hopes will clear his voice somewhat before he speaks, resuming their conversation from earlier.

“You seem free enough to pursue your passions now... your father- he passed away?"

“Yes, several years ago,” Elder says. “Not long after my wife, actually. I’m still not entirely used to the idea that it’s just me here. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the solitude, though.”

It’s dark and quiet in the room, save for Cartwright’s congested breathing, and Elder feels more at ease sharing these sorts of things. It’s a bit like the confessional at church, though Elder rarely goes there any more. He’s afraid he’s gained a reputation in the village as an eccentric and a sinner, and he’s not keen to fuel that fire by appearing at church. He worships God in his own way, by appreciating the natural beauty and intricacy of all the sciences of the world.

“I don’t think I could be a physician even if I was still totally keen on it,” Elder confesses. “I have the sole responsibility of maintaining this estate; a job I was given by birth and the status of only male heir. I could not leave to join a university for study, and I’m too old now anyhow. I’m content here with my books and articles.”

He leaves the sentiment of his loneliness unspoken.

A soft knock sounds at the door and Elder looks up, startled by the interruption. Swinging his feet out of bed, he goes to answer it, opening the door only a crack as to not disturb Isaiah.

Bishop is standing outside, looking impatient.

“You’ve had a telephone call from Lord Andrew Sussex. He’s inquiring about paying a visit this next weekend to stay.”

The sole telephone is in the front foyer of the house and rarely used. Few other estates have one, but occasionally he receives calls from friends and infrequent lovers.

“Tell him I’m not available,” Elder replies quietly, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the prone form of Cartwright. “In fact, I’m not receiving visitors until further notice, and please inform any gentleman who calls of this fact.”

He pushes his spectacles up with his usual nervous tic and nods to Bishop.

“I’ll pass along the message, sir,” Bishop says drolly. He’s well aware of Elder’s occasional consorts with the various Lords and Gentlemen who come to call at Woodhaven.

“Thank you,” he replies, shutting the door softly as Bishop retreats.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Isaiah, climbing back onto the far side of the bed. “He really shouldn’t be interrupting your rest. I’ll speak to him later.”

Isaiah tilts his head thoughtfully. He thinks he may be putting together more of the pieces which represent his lordship's intimate life, but refrains from commenting on that for now. Much as he tries to lie still and quiet there is an enduring sense of irritation lingering in his nose. He cannot help but feel that he is due another fit of sneezing, but cannot be sure precisely when. He pinches hesitantly at his nose, then shakes his head and responds to Elder's words.

“I shouldn't be monopolising your time.” He says, then “It is quite the burden to be the eldest son. Thankfully I have an older brother who is serving the family well as an accountant, leaving me free to pursue a- hah-”

The last word comes out in a cracked and hurried gasp as the itching in his nose becomes a sudden, insistent need. Isaiah feels his features go slack as he draws a series of mounting breaths and he raises his hands nervously to his face. Then just as rapidly the sensation retreats and he gives at irritated little sigh.

“-snf- I'm sorry, what was I saying?” He sits up slightly, taking a moment to readjust the cloth where his almost- sneeze has dislodged it. He looks at Elder from beneath it, shyly.

“It must be a -snf-rather a soliatry existence for you here my Lord, though very conducive to study.”

“Yes, and I like it that way, I suppose,” Jacob replies once he’s certain Isaiah has recovered from the almost-sneeze. “Though I entertain occasional visitors when the time presents itself to do so.”

He’s settled on the bed again, watching the dim figure at his side with a slightly wistful look.

“But I must confess, I do enjoy having someone else in the house besides the usual help,” he adds. “I hope you’ve found Woodhaven to be suitable and enjoyable, despite this little hiccup with your health. You are not monopolizing my time at all. In fact, I count you amoung friends now and I hope you do the same for me.”

With a small smile, he puts a tentative hand over Isaiah’s where it rests on the bed and gives it a slight squeeze before releasing it.

“Enough of my affairs,” he says, taking off his glasses and polishing them on a shirttail in feigned distraction. “Your brother is an accountant? Have you other siblings, or parents still around? They should be quite proud of your accomplishments, I imagine.”

Though Isaiah's face is obscured, it is possible to see his face flicker in surprised pleasure at Elder's touch, though at the comment about his family he gives a soft little half-laugh. “Something like that.” He plucks at the cloth over his eyes. “Can I take this thing off? I- want to look at you.”

In fact he does not wait for permission, but peels it off gingerly and looks at Elder with eyes that are puffy but much better than they had been. He rises to a half-sitting position, looking up at his host.

“I lost my father some years ago, but I also have three sisters, two of whom live with my mother in Tunbridge Wells. My career is neither here nor there. My mother thinks it a little impractical, what with it being so modern.” He smiles shyly and shrugs. “I'm afraid I'm very much the baby of the family- if I became the prime minister they would still think it was a charming little hobby. I- hah'KSSSH!”

Isaiah barely has time to press his wrist over his mouth before he doubles with a wrenching sneeze. He looks up, startled, to find that he has unconsciously steadied himself with one hand braced on the nearest available surface- Lord Elder's thigh. Though he sniffles and pinches nervously at his nose, he does not remove it but gives Elder another sheepish smile.

Elder is startled by Cartwright’s desire to look upon him, but he is happy to see the man’s bright eyes one more and fights off a blush. As Isaiah’s hand grasps his thigh, he feels the strength of the sneezes wracking the man’s body and he cannot help but to shiver in a kind of strange pleasure. A twist in his stomach wrenches his insides with a feeling somewhere between pity for the man’s ailment and a desire for further displays of the man’s spectacular sneezing.

“By the way, I appreciate what you said- that you count me a friend. I take it as a -snf- great compliment,” Cartwright adds.

The next moment, two more sneezes overtake him and he dips his head into his shoulder rather than break contact. “KSShuh! Hah'KSSH-uh! … excuse me.”

“Bless you,” Elder barely manages to get out. His neck and ears are glowing hot and he feels the palms of his hands begin to dampen with sweat as his heartbeat doubles.

“I can hardly imagine they count your career as trivial,” he adds, trying to give off a sense of composure despite the thundering in his chest. The handsome young man is so near him now and so….well, vulnerable. He once more feels the part of a giggling school girl.

“Your condition doesn’t seem to be improving,” he says after a moment; his hand hovering close to Isaiah’s where it still rests on his thigh. The fingers settle first, then the palm, enveloping the strong hand beneath his more delicate scholar’s one. “We can try another treatment, if you’re feeling up for it, or I can leave and let you rest. I can’t promise a different method will bring you relief, but if you wish to try, there’s no harm in trials.”

Isaiah shifts his fingers slightly under the touch, and rasps his his thumb thoughtfully against the edge of the other man's knuckle, exploring the contours.

“You may try anything you wish, My Lord. I am... in your hands,” He says again, with a wry smile.

A flush is creeping over Isaiah's face too and he keeps his eyes averted, concentrating his gaze on their interlocking fingers- pale on tan- and trying to pretend that he does not desperately need to blow his nose again.

The very words send goosebumps up Jacob’s arms. For a moment, he’s afraid to move because his body has betrayed him and he’s sure that the other man will take notice. But there is a familiar look in Isaiah’s eyes and they are so very close…

Elder reaches over the younger man for a fresh handkerchief and carefully curls it around the gardener’s nose, careful not to touch the irritated edges too harshly.

“Blow,” he instructs, untangling his other hand from Cartwright’s in order to smooth back the man’s dampened hair. “You’ll feel better.”

He’s shifted so that they’re laying face to face, their legs inches apart.

Isaiah's mouth twists slightly but he obeys and blows his nose, features scrunching with effort. It takes him several long minutes to get his nose clear, and even then the congestion in his head is apparent as he touches briefly at his temple with fleeting dizziness. Elder's touch is supremely soothing and he moves toward it, close enough to feel the other man's breath tickle his cheek.

His eyes close, and Elder is close enough to see the delicate tracery of pink veins running through them, where they are still vividly pink. A long moment passes, filled only with the sounds of their quick breathing.

Then Isaiah kisses him.

It is only a chaste, tentative touch of lips to lips, and it lasts only for a lingering moment before Isaiah's realises what it is he is doing and pulls back. For a moment he opens his eyes, and his pupils are small with shock, then he quickly closes them as though to pretend that he is not there. Though he lies still enough, his pulse is violent enough to be visible as a point of flickering tension at the base of his throat.

For a brief second, Elder’s heart stops in surprise before regaining its quickened pace. The gentle touch of lips is so very intimate, so very sweet, that he barely can think.

As Cartwright lies prone, eyes closed, Elder observes the straining of the man’s neck and the blush creeping up the tanned neck of the young gardener.

Scholar’s hands curl around the gardener’s neck, tilting his head back as Elder leans in, kissing Isaiah deeply. Their noses brush briefly in the act and Elder can feel the slight dampness of the other man’s nostrils. He pulls away, running his hands down the gardener’s broad chest, where he lets them rest for a moment.

“I…I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says, flustered. His spectacles have slipped from his face and are lost in the sheets now. “I only meant to care for you in your infirmity…but if you feel…if it is okay….I…”

He’s unable to choose the right words to express the sentiment, but he hopes the pounding of Cartwright’s heart under his hands means that the other man understands.

Apparently, it does, because Cartwright nods and his hands joins Elder's on his chest, encouraging.

His cheeks are flush and his eyes bright. He looks stunned- as though something inconceivable has happened- but happily stunned.

“It's okay.” He says, and then he leans forward to meet the other man.

They kiss again. Cartwright arches his back in Elder's arms, his body going as soft and pliable as toffee and as sweet, as he opens his mouth to the other man's more confident explorations. This time his eyes are open and fixed on Elder's own with a kind of drunken wonder. He rolls slightly to one side, snaking a hand around the small of Elder's back and pulling him closer.

Then he pauses, and draws his face away with an expression of dismay. Perhaps some pollen is caught on Elder's clothing or perhaps it is merely lingering irritation, but that expression of ticklish desperation creeps over his face as his nostrils flicker and flare with the need to sneeze. His mouth turns up at one corner and his eyebrows tilt inexorably upwards in an expression of quiet dread.

“I- hh- I just- hh-”

He tries to warn the other man but it comes out as an inarticulate gasp and the next moment his body shudders as he wrenches his head down into the mattress, as far from Elder's face as he can muster, sneezing hard;

“hh- tdSSshuh!-- T'SSCHuh!-- hih-”

He hovers for a brief moment, diaphragm kicking so hard with desperate breaths that Elder can feel it, before it overtakes him again with a spraying- “hk'IISSHuuh!”

Isaiah looks up guiltily, belatedly raising a hand to his damp nose.

“I am so sorry...” He says in a low voice.

The thrust of Cartwright’s body against Elder’s as the sneezes tear out with such incredible force makes Elder tense in surprise and pleasure. The throaty growl of Isaiah’s irritated sneeze makes his toes curl in delight and he darts his head forward, kissing the vulnerable skin of Isaiah’s neck.

“No need,” he murmurs between caresses. His fingers curl under the cuff of his shirtsleeve and he reaches up, tenderly clearly the gardener’s runny nose. What he cannot express in the gesture is how Cartwright’s sneezes affect him. Perhaps it is because the spells brought them together, or perhaps, as he theorized before, that the spasms remind him of a more sexual form of release. Whatever it is, he is enchanted by the man and his reddened, rose-cold afflicted nose.

His lips find Cartwright’s once more and he kisses him deeply again before pulling back, holding the man close to his chest and tucking Cartwright’s head against his breast.

“We can’t exert you,” he says, stroking the man’s thick hair. “My pamphlets say the best remedy is quiet rest until the episode passes, and judging from that recent display, it has not.”

“I-”

Isaiah thinks to protest that he is not at all against this form of exertion, but he is taken by another fit of sneezing. Now at last he truly believes that Elder is not troubled by his affliction, and so does not trouble to wrench away from the embrace; he merely turns his head and muffles them against Elder's sturdy frame. The sound is almost nothing, though the muscles in his back clench and his head bobs under the comforting weight of his Lordship's hand.

In the aftermath his whole body relaxes and he finds his eyelids drifing closed. It is a strange sensation- he feel spectacularly tired, weight with more exhaustion than he mere sneezing out to provoke, yet at the same time it is as though Elder's presence has woken him up and every cell of him is hyper-aware of the other man's body, of the scent of him and bass thud of his heart under Isaiah's ear. He hovers between the two states, deciding not to say a word lest he provoke the other man to retreat from the embrace.

Elder’s hand pauses, tangled in Cartwright’s thick hair, as the man sneezes and sneezes. Jacob is grateful for the dim room and the man’s distraction, as he is sure his face is glowing with flushed delight. When the poor man finally goes limp against him, he resumes stroking the man’s head, torn between his desire to care for the man by letting him rest and his desire to explore full landscape of the young gardener’s body.

There will be time for that later. He gently extracts a hand from around the prone man and wedges a pillow by Isaiah’s head, making it easier for the congested man to breathe.

“Rest,” he assures the man. “It’s near evening and you’ve had a long day. In the morning, all will be brighter, I’m sure of it.”

His lips brush the top of Isaiah’s head gently.

“I’ll tarry a little longer, if you like, but I must see to Bishop and the rest of the staff before evening falls so they know the schedule for tomorrow’s activities. The rose-cold should lessen at nighttime any how. I do hope you can have a bit of relief.

The other man simply nods, nuzzling his itchy nose into the pillow like a child. He sniffs wetly. “You can go.” He murmurs. Though it's the last thing he truly wants, he is suddenly, coldly aware of Elder's status over him, his own very small place in the clockwork running of this house. When Elder leaves him the kiss on his forehead seems to burn, as though he were truly fevered and not merely sniffling.

Isaiah fears that in this state- agitated by both his nose and the fluttering feeling of arousal which flits through his limbs whenever he remembers what has recently transpired- that he will hardly be able to sleep. Yet sleep claims him suddenly, as though it is a rug which has been pulled out from under him, and he knows nothing more until the fingers of morning sunlight are creeping through the heavy drapes.

CONTINUE TO PART 2

[wornahfullcleaningservice]

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[architectnews]

Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021 Shortlist News

2021 Stephen Lawrence Prize Shortlist, Architecture, UK Low Cost Buildings, RIBA Award News

Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021 Shortlist

Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) Award for projects with construction budget of less than £1 million

14 September 2021

RIBA reveals shortlist for Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021

Chapel by Craftworks photo © Edmund Sumner

The Water Tower by Tonkin Liu

photo © Dennis Pedersen

Walmer Castle and Gardens Learning Centre by Adam Richards Architects

photo © Brotherton Lock

Wooden Roof by Tsuruta Architects

photo © Ståle Eriksen

Floating Church by DENIZEN WORKS

photo © Gilbert McCarragher

Maggie’s Cardiff by Dow Jones Architects

photo © Anthony Coleman

The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has today (Tuesday 14 September) announced the shortlist for the Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021.

The Prize was established in 1998 in memory of Stephen Lawrence, a teenager who was on the road to becoming an architect when he was tragically murdered in 1993. Supported and founded by the Marco Goldschmied Foundation, the Prize is intended to encourage new architectural talent and award the best projects with a construction budget of less than £1 million. The winner will receive a bursary of £5,000 from the Marco Goldschmied Foundation.

The six shortlisted projects are:

Chapel, London, by Craftworks

A contemporary family home carved from a derelict chapel, with bold features including a pulpit-like mezzanine and towering fireplace.

Floating Church, London, by DENIZEN WORKS

A bespoke Art Deco-style narrowboat with kinetic pop-up roof to maximise space and function.

Maggie’s Cardiff, Cardiff, by Dow Jones Architects

A clever, compact building that follows Passivhaus principles and carefully configures spaces to provide warmth and comfort to its visitors.

The Water Tower, Norfolk, by Tonkin Liu

A historic steel water tower, restored and converted into a sustainable family home.

Walmer Castle and Gardens Learning Centre, Kent, by Adam Richards Architects

English Heritage buildings transformed into an engaging Learning Centre and café.

Wooden Roof, London, by Tsuruta Architects

A unique timber conservatory constructed using traditional Japanese joinery techniques.

The 2021 Stephen Lawrence Prize jury comprised: Baroness Lawrence of Clarendon Doreen Lawrence OBE; Past RIBA President and Founder of the Marco Goldschmied Foundation Marco Goldschmied; Founder of Mary Duggan Architects Mary Duggan; and winner of the 2019 Stephen Lawrence Prize and Director at CSK Architects Dido Milne.

Marco Goldschmied said:

“I am very pleased to announce the 2021 Stephen Lawrence Prize shortlist. It is an exceptional list of buildings including both new build and restoration projects. As always, the architect’s originality and inventiveness shines through every one of the entries.

Due to Covid shielding precautions I will, for the first time in the 22 year history of the Prize, be delegating the chair of the visiting jury. Mary Duggan, a past winner of the Stephen Lawrence Prize, has kindly agreed to take my place and will be a more than able replacement.”

The winner of the Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021 will be announced at the RIBA Stirling Prize ceremony on Thursday 14 October at Coventry Cathedral.

Chapel, London

photo © Edmund Sumner

RIBA region: London Architect practice: Craftworks Date of completion: March 2018 Client company name: Project city/town: London Contract value: £725,000.00 Internal area: 225.00 m² Cost per m²: £3,222.00 / m² Contractor company name: Habitat Construction LLP

Consultants:

Structural Engineers: Cooper Associates Landscape Architects: Jane Brockbank Gardens

Awards: • RIBA Regional Award

photo © Edmund Sumner

Jury Report

This project converted a derelict chapel into a two-storey family home with a pulpit-like mezzanine under the roof. Unusually, the chapel is in the middle of a domestic garden. As it is also in a Conservation Area, the planners demanded that the existing ruin was rebuilt, leaving the architect scope to transform the interior. The architect reused bricks from the original building and left the pre-existing window openings unaltered.

Despite flipping the usual internal arrangement, the layout is logical: four bedrooms are on the lower ground floor, with living quarters at entry level above. The open-plan living quarters have a fanciful, dream-like quality heightened by a captivating ceiling that is reminiscent of muqarnas, the ornamented vaulting in Islamic architecture. The bold, Mannerist geometry has an ethereal quality, with triangular roof-lights allowing daylight to wash over the angled plasterwork.

photo © Edmund Sumner

A fireplace towards one end rises to reach the Mannerist plaster work of the ceiling and allow its chimney breast to immerse itself into the geometry of the ceiling. Looking like a pulpit or church organ, the structure holding up the mezzanine occupies the space near the entrance. It hides a cloak room and leads up to a study area overlooking the upper floor living area. A beautifully detailed, dark-stained timber staircase leads to the lower floor, opening onto the bedrooms.

The garden, beautifully landscaped, accessed from the living quarters and overlooked by the bedrooms, its fantastical, undulating topography and skillful arrangement of wild planting complements the house perfectly.

photo © Edmund Sumner

This may not be a house for everybody, but the architect has met the brief with wild imagination, creating truly inspiring and unique space.

The Water Tower

RIBA region: East Architect practice: Tonkin Liu Date of completion: February 2020 Client name: Dennis Pedersen Project city/town: Norfolk Contract value: £575,000.00 Internal area: 160.00 m² Cost per m²: £3,594.00 / m² Contractor company name: MNB Services Consultants:

Project Management: Dennis Pederson Structural Engineers: Rodrigues Associates Environmental / M&E Engineers: Integration

Awards:

• RIBA Regional Award • RIBA National Award

photo © Dennis Pedersen

Jury Report

The Water Tower is an extraordinary family second home in Norfolk, where a derelict structure has been brought back into viable use. It is situated above and to the north of the local village, down a lane, surrounded by fields. Its prominent position led to concerns from local residents about overlooking and light pollution, and the impact of inhabiting a structure that once provided functional utility to the village but lay dormant as a decaying local landmark.

The building is divided into two elements, in Kahn’s terms ‘served and servant spaces’: accommodation to the north, served by a stair tower to the south. Accommodation comprises ground floor kitchen/dining, two floors of bedrooms and an upper living/dining/kitchen tank room at the top.

photo © Dennis Pedersen

The stair and lift tower has no windows and faces towards the village, resolving the overlooking and light issues. The stair is formed from two layers of CLT, with an interlayer spacer, with balusters reusing reinforcement from the original tank room. It is a delightful helical stair, spiralling within its rectilinear box and lit from a rooflight at the top. A glazed ‘bridge’ link provides access to the northern accommodation tower, with each room enjoying a fully glazed elevation looking out across arable fields. At the top, the stair tower gives access through a rooflight to a terrace above, with PVs and balustrading.

The new structure sits within the original metal framing and is made from CLT. It provides structural stiffness to the original tower, which had previously been provided by the weight of the water, but which otherwise would bend and twist under wind loading in its absence. The interior spaces within the new structure are exposed CLT, wrapped in corrugated reflective metal on the exterior. The interior has warmth and a visual ‘weight’ to it from the exposed CLT finish. Externally, the play of light on the corrugations and the reflectivity picking up the colour of the sky and passing weather is a delight. It is a complementary visual contrast to the ironwork of the original structure, which criss-crosses in front of it.

photo © Dennis Pedersen

The upper tank room enjoys a ribbon window around three sides, neatly cut through the middle of the tank, providing panoramic views of the Norfolk countryside, and a rooflight giving views of the sky. The interior retains the original exposed metal panels from the plant room, with the original ballcocks and valves being retained as decorative features. The exterior is wrapped in insulated render, painted grey, which transforms the original tank room into a ‘look out’ with a 1930s architectural language.

The client is a photographer, who, in order to achieve the vision and bring it in within an affordable budget, became the main contractor. The care and attention that has been given to the details, with the photographer’s eye, is evident throughout, as was the approach to retain as much as possible of the original building structure, and to reuse any elements that were surgically removed during construction.

photo © Dennis Pedersen

The Water Tower is an example of how an unloved redundant structure can be given a new sustainable life through intelligent design, carefully and diligently applied by a committed and driven client. The effort to preserve and retain as much of the original structure as possible and the rigour of the execution is exemplary. It shows how good retrofitting design can combine low embodied energy and architectural delight.

Walmer Castle and Gardens Learning Centre

photo © Brotherton Lock

RIBA region: South East Architect practice: Adam Richards Architects Date of completion: August 2019 Client company name: English Heritage and the Heritage Lottery Fund Project city/town: Kent, England Contract value: £935,000.00 Internal area: 200.00 m² Cost per m²: £4,675.00 / m² Contractor company name: Walker Construction Ltd

photo © Brotherton Lock

Consultants:

Structural Engineers: Historic England Services Engineer: Martin Thomas Associates Landscape Design: LUC Play Equipment: Studio Hardle Quantity Surveyor / Cost Consultant: Press and Starkey

Awards:

• RIBA Regional Award • RIBA National Award

photo © Brotherton Lock

Jury Report

This understated, well-detailed building fits a huge amount into a small space. Brickwork and the shape of windows reflect the neighbouring historic buildings, and an old greenhouse is reused as part of this development. Good consideration is given to the use of the spaces; they are comfortable and practical issues like storage are well considered.

photo © Brotherton Lock

This collection of small buildings have been carefully positioned using existing sight lines, and are almost unnoticeable behind the existing tree when viewed from the Tudor fortress. This compact scheme achieves a big task of providing a comfortable and engaging space for education for all kind of users and age groups through the architect’s careful and considerate multi-function design features.

photo © Brotherton Lock

This project offers delightful little surprises everywhere; changing ceiling heights responding to the functions and volumes of the spaces, to unobstructed views from carefully aligned windows providing visual connectivity to the gardener’s shed, or the seated gathering space formed from the cleverly detailed concrete base of the building. The form of the ‘vitrine’ window takes cues from the original fortification’s gun embrasures, opening into a kitchen garden that supplies produce to the new adjacent café.

photo © Brotherton Lock

The detailing of the little café is contemporary, referencing the historic building in its materials and form, and it reutilises the existing lean-to greenhouse to create a light-filled and spacious, yet carefully articulated, space serving visitors to the garden. Overall, this is an very good example of repurposing an existing structure in a creative way to sustainably generate income that supports the current usage. Red text indicates information is confidential.

Wooden Roof

photo © Ståle Eriksen

RIBA region: London Architect practice: Tsuruta Architects Date of completion: May 2019 Client company name: n/a Project city/town: London Contract value: Confidential Internal area: 19.00 m² Cost per m²: Confidential Contractor company name: JK London Construction LTD

Consultants:

Structural Engineers: Webb and Yates

Awards:

• RIBA Regional Award • RIBA National Award

photo © Ståle Eriksen

Jury Report

The simplicity of adding a conservatory to a house provides architects with an incredible range of expressive opportunities. Wooden Roof takes this opportunity to a new level of sophistication and elegance. Clear constraints imposed by its grade II listing – limits on the overall height and the need to remain subservient to the main building – has prompted a bespoke contemporary solution that utilises digital manufacturing techniques. The result is a uniquely crafted timber structure that draws on valuable lessons from traditional Japanese joinery.

The judges were without exception hugely impressed with the rigour with which the project has been carried out. The precision of the faceted glazed roof extends to the way the timber ring beam is jointed and even to how the perimeter gutter is detailed to provide a genuinely considered elevation to the upper rooms of the house.

photo © Ståle Eriksen

The design emphasizes timber’s expressive qualities by putting the language of carpentry at the heart of the project. It exemplifies how timber, which is intrinsically sustainable, can and should become the structural material of choice for small- and medium-scale projects and confounds assumptions that timber structures are inevitably heavy, simplistic and limiting.

Setting the extension partially below ground level required a meticulous negotiated section. The detailing of the external surfaces was no less carefully rendered than the roof itself. Even the placement of stone slabs within the lawn to make an outdoor seating area has the compositional skill of an artist.

photo © Ståle Eriksen

Internally, the quality evident in the structural joinery of the roof runs throughout the furniture. The clarity of detailing gives a sense of repose while providing all the storage and utility that a house has to provide for its inhabitants.

This is not an uncompromising architectural statement. Although it adds visual balance, clarity and beauty to the listed house, it does so in a way that facilitates domestic life. The judges have put the project forward for the national ‘Small Project’ award.

Maggie’s Cardiff

photo © Anthony Coleman

RIBA region: Wales Architect practice: Dow Jones Architects Date of completion: June 2019 Client company name: Maggie’s Cancer Care Project city/town: Cardiff Internal area: 240.00 m² Contractor company name: Knox and Wells

Consultants:

Structural Engineers: Momentum Environmental / M&E Engineers: Mott MacDonald Quantity Surveyor / Cost Consultant: RPA Cardiff Project Management: Maggie’s Landscape Design: Cleve West Art Curation: Mike Tooby

Awards:

• RIBA Regional Award • RIBA National Award

photo © Anthony Coleman

Jury Report

Maggie’s Cardiff is the 19th completed Maggie’s Centre and adds to the pantheon of architects that have made these buildings a vital part of the contemporary British architectural scene.

The Velindre cancer care centre in the north-west suburb of Cardiff is the usual depressing hospital landscape, surrounded by a sea of parking. But of course, the inhospitable medical setting was the very reason that the late Maggie Keswick Jencks set out to counter in providing a place where those having to face the diagnosis of cancer can find an oasis of hope and support. ‘If you look after the carers, the carers can really look after the patients – you create a virtuous circle’, said Charles Jencks.

photo © Anthony Coleman

This building occupies an awkward triangular plot at the back of a car park. On first sight it is at once striking and surprisingly diminutive – but with its orange carapace formed of rusty corrugated sheeting, it stands out from the bleak surroundings. The architects talk about the form reflecting the silhouette of the Welsh hills and the repetitive gables of Valley towns, and the colour referencing the region’s red sandstone or the autumnal colour of bracken on the nearby hills, or the industrial buildings of the Valleys – the vibrant colour zings off the evergreen tree canopy that sits behind the building, offering a perfect backdrop in a sea of drabness.

The building adopts the roughly triangular site, leaving a strip of space to the rear and the trees so the resultant plan form is then given order by a serrated 45 degree pitched roofs that runs perpendicular to the rear wall. When the roof pitches meet the angled perimeter walls, the gable profile is formed by the meeting of the geometries to great effect.

photo © Anthony Coleman

The entrance sits on the southern corner of the plot and offers an open portal. Once within, a small courtyard embraces the visitor, and an immediate transition occurs from the institutional to the domestic – from the hostile to the familiar.

The mostly open plan is given order by three ‘freestanding’ timber elements; one containing toilets; another acting as a storage unit of the reception; and a third at the heart of the building is a ‘cwtch’ – a tall, intimate space lit from above inspired by the big chimneys of the Welsh vernacular. These elements sub-divide the space and takes you directly to the central kitchen and dining area common to all Maggie’s centres, offering a recognisable and safe place where we all know how to behave – making a cup of tea or perching on a chair for a chat.

Above the exposed raftered roofs play out their geometry and seem like waves washing over the plan. Apart from the three timber elements which are strictly orthogonal, no other space has square walls as the angular geometry of the plan prevail, so the sense of informality is further enhanced.

The back of the building opens up with two very wide glazed screens to the wall of trees and the polished concrete flooring slides out through glazed doors to provide seating space.

The architects also infuse the building with art – including bollards originally from a scheme in Peckham by Antony Gormley that were recast and stand as rusty sentinels, guarding the public sides of the building.

Hospital authority constraints did not allow PVs and a gas boiler was used for primary heating, but the building compensates by using a highly insulted pre-fabricated timber frame system that follows Passivhaus principles, minimising cold bridging, maximising air tightness and exceeding thermal Building Regulations standards.

The building is about 25% smaller than most Maggie’s and less than half of the average cost – it seems that due to complex NHS land deals, a new Maggie’s will be built on the adjoining hospital site in the 2030s, so this beautiful little building will have to be repurposed – it would be perfect as a kindergarten.

Infused with ideas of Welsh vernacular, art, and a deep concern for materiality, it creates truly restorative and poetic spaces as an antidote to the shadow of cancer.

This is a distinguished addition to the Maggie’s legacy. Through the architect’s skills, it benefits from the much-reduced budget and tight site.

Floating Church

photo © Gilbert McCarragher

RIBA region: London Architect practice: DENIZEN WORKS Date of completion: January 2020 Client company name: Diocese of London Project city/town: London Contract value: Confidential Internal area: 45.00 m² Cost per m²: Confidential Contractor company name: Turks Shipyard

Consultants:

Marine Fit Out: ANR Developments Naval Architect: Tucker Designs Sailmaker: Jeckells the Sailmakers Furniture Designers: Plyco Lighting Design: Arup Consulting Engineer: Elliot Wood Junior Consultant: ATB

Awards:

• RIBA Regional Award • RIBA National Award

photos © Gilbert McCarragher

Jury Report

A barge rather than a building, this mobile community facility occupies and makes use of the city’s underused canal infrastructure. The concertina roof structure is kinetic, allowing it to lie flat so that the barge can pass under bridges when moving between destinations.

Inside, there is good head height for a canal vessel, providing for a range of functions from cinema to church. A central rooflight oculus creates a pleasant pool of light to the main function area, complemented by the transparent sides of the pop-up roof which let in additional daylight.

photos © Gilbert McCarragher

The joinery details are neutral and carefully considered to allow sufficient storage. Where there is decoration, it features Art Deco design motifs and patterning finished to a high quality.

The Art Deco theme is continued on the outside through the colour scheme and horizontal stripes. When illuminated from the inside at night, the pop-up roof glows like a beacon.

photos © Gilbert McCarragher

The scheme was conceived as a product rather than a traditional building and has successfully maximized all the space inside and around the boat. Its flexibility of uses ensures that it can fulfil its brief to be a vital community asset for the neighbourhoods along the London canal network.

Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021 Shortlist buildings and architects information received from RIBA 140921

Previously on e-architect:

Stephen Lawrence Prize Winners

2019 RIBA Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner

Cork House, Berkshire, Southern England photo © Ricky Jones 2019 RIBA Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner

2018 RIBA Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner 2018 RIBA Stephen Lawrence Prize Shortlist

2017 RIBA Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner The Houseboat, Poole Harbour, Dorset, Southern England Design: Mole Architects and Rebecca Granger Architects photo © Rory Gardiner The Houseboat near Poole Harbour winner of Stephen Lawrence Prize 2017 – Stephen Lawrence Prize 2017 Shortlist

2016 RIBA Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner House of Trace, London by Tsuruta Architects photo : Tim Croker House of Trace – Stephen Lawrence Prize 2016 Shortlist

2014 Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner photo courtesy of RIBA House no 7, Isle of Tiree

Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner in 2013 Montpelier Community Nursery, Brecknock Road, N19 by AYA photo : Nick Kane

Stephen Lawrence Prize Winner 2012 Kings Grove London – Stephen Lawrence Prize 2012

Royal Institute of British Architects Awards

Stirling Prize

RIBA Awards

RIBA Royal Gold Medal

RIBA Manser Medal

Stephen Lawrence Prize 2009

Stephen Lawrence Memorial Lecture

Comments / photos for the Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021 Winner page welcome

Website: RIBA Stephen Lawrence Prize

The post Stephen Lawrence Prize 2021 Shortlist News appeared first on e-architect.

[sofiahssolden-blog]

electrician South East London

Cities are big places. Great cities have two other qualities alongside their size: they are also sophisticated and cosmopolitan. If thus applied, these three criteria deny the attachment of "great" to all but a handful of cities. But one the passes all the tests, and has done for centuries, is London. In his latest novel, Capital, John Lanchester celebrates London and its life via the sophistication and cosmopolitan identity of its inhabitants. Perhaps paradoxically, he largely ignores size by housing all his characters on a single street in Clapham called Pepys Road. And of course the capital of the book's title refers not only to London's status, but also to the finance industry that enriches it and especially the asset value of the properties along that suburban street, values of which the occupiers and owners of the houses have become fully aware.

There is a plot in this novel, by the way, but not one that really need bother the reader unduly. It is eventually resolved, rather inconsequentially, but the person or persons who covet the real estate value of these properties and put cards bearing the words "We Want What You Have" through their letterboxes soon become less important that the characters' relations to their own lives. It is this theme that truly enlivens Capital and makes it such a joy to read. It perhaps illustrates that lives are the only plots that fiction needs. Thus a book like John Lanchester's Capital could have been South East London builders  written at almost any time in London's history. Family pressures, financial dealings, relationships with power, snobbery, social class, profit and loss, and cultural clashes were present when Dickens wrote Bleak House a century and a half ago. In that era, however, the real money was still hidden under the country seat on the landed estates, decrepit though they may have become. Challenged by new money, the task was to hold on to what tradition might serve to stave off threat. In Capital, the houses are far from bleak, especially when done up by a competent and honest Polish builder like Zbigniew.

The Younts provide Zbigniew with a good deal of work. Roger Yount is a manager in an investment bank. His office is actually in Docklands, though his work, he would claim, was still very much based in the City, since it claims the same kinds of bonuses to be found there. At least that is what he hopes when the annual review comes round. Arabella, his wife, is a compulsive consumer who values nothing and ignores all prices. She regularly has her walls repainted because she doesn't like the colour, but, like most consumers, she operates with no apparent working understanding of the word "like". Zbigniew, whom she calls Bogdan, for some reason, services her needs, as does her maid and nanny, her close friend and her husband, as the world rotates around her whims. Her two children were probably picked from a catalogue because they fit the colour scheme. Petunia at number 42 has lived her life in the street. Her house has not seen a lick of paint in a generation and is in much need of renovation. But she has reached the age when the holes in the kitchen lino are not even visible. She has other concerns, such as her daughter, Mary, who lives with her husband Alan in Essex and a son called Geoff who does things out east. Oh, and there is the matter of her health as well...

Michael, who regularly parks his expensive car in Pepys Road, has other kinds of concern. He is an agent for a professional footballer, an apparently clumsy young lad called Freddy who hails from Francophone Africa. He has arrived with his dad, Patrick, to play for a Premiership club. Pepys Road is as good a place to live as anywhere, especially now that property prices have risen so much. Quentina is from Zimbabwe. She is a refugee working illegally as a traffic warden. She likes to hang tickets on Michael's expensive car and then stand back to photograph the evidence.

The Kamals have links with Pakistan. They have the shop along the street that never seems to close. They too have two young children, but there are brothers in the family with differing interests, some of which have led in the past to an excursion to Chechnya aimed at helping fellow Muslims resist the violence to which they are being subjected. Mrs Kamal the elder makes a visit of her own to south London from Lahore. She stays with her daughter in law in Pepys Road. Sparks will surely fly.

So this street in Clapham is pretty much like most others in this great city. The inhabitants are sophisticated and cosmopolitan, the properties they live in have values that have shot through their roofs, and much of daily life is an oft-repeated, but sometimes vicious farce. Capital thus presents an impressionistic portrait of a metropolis in microcosm. And, as such, it offers a completely plausible and compellingly convincing picture of one slice of contemporary London life. Forget the plot, since most of the characters do. Just enjoy being in this great city, made great by those who live in it. The real joy, of course, is that the next street's story would be just as good and probably different as well.

[biofunmy]

The Fifth Avenue Home of Jayne Wrightsman Goes on the Market

The palatial Upper East Side home of Jayne Wrightsman, a celebrated arts benefactor and grande dame of New York’s high society, is now up for sale, seven months after her death at age 99.

The 14-room residence, once filled with priceless paintings and rare books and collectibles, encompasses the third floor of 820 Fifth Avenue — the exclusive limestone apartment house facing Central Park at 63rd Street, where units rarely go on the market.

Mrs. Wrightsman had moved there in the 1950s with her husband, Charles B. Wrightsman, an Oklahoma oil tycoon who died in 1986, and held court over the years with various socialites, aristocrats, politicians and museum curators who attended her elegant soirees.

The co-op apartment, roughly 7,000 square feet with 100 feet of park frontage, is being sold by her estate, with an asking price of $50 million, according to the listing broker, John Burger of Brown Harris Stevens. The monthly maintenance is $22,801. A separate, three-bedroom unit on the first floor, purchased in the 1980s and used by her staff, is also being listed, at $2.5 million, with $6,783 in monthly maintenance.

Since Mrs. Wrightsman had no children, proceeds from both sales, as well as sales of additional artwork and personal items, will go to charity, according to Beverly Fanger Chase, the executor of the estate and her longtime personal lawyer. Christie’s plans to hold a live and online auction next April of paintings, furniture, carpet, ceramics, silver and other items.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, where the Wrightsmans had long served as trustees, also recently announced that she had bequeathed more than 375 works to the museum, along with $80 million to the Wrightsman Fund for use in future acquisitions. Over the years, she and her husband had donated many of the museum’s most important European paintings and finest collections of 18th-century French decorative arts. Among them: Delacroix’s 1835 “Portrait of Madame Henri François Riesener” and Monet’s “The Garden of Monet’s House in Argenteuil.”

“She was an amazingly generous person,” said Ms. Chase, describing her also as very private. “The Met was her great love. It was the principal object of her philanthropy.”

Another great love, of course, was the Fifth Avenue apartment, which served as her primary residence. (The Wrightsmans had also owned homes in Palm Beach, Fla., and London.)

The Wrightsmans reportedly purchased the Manhattan apartment from the Baroness Renée de Becker, a member of the Rothschild banking family and also a noted art collector. Mrs. Wrightsman transformed the already grand space into a showplace for old masters artwork, as well as fine French furnishings and décor, with the help of Maison Jansen, a prominent Paris decorator that also did work in the Kennedy White House.

“She curated the apartment,” Ms. Chase said. “It wasn’t a museum, but at the same time, she was surrounded by museum-quality art and decorative art.”

The apartment itself became an objet d’art. Throughout the rambling space, with its 12-foot ceilings and oversize windows, are imported parquet de Versailles floors, sumptuous crown moldings with gilded trim, and intricately carved boiseries, or wooden panels, acquired from European homes. Every major room also has a wood-burning fireplace (there are seven in all) with French marble mantels mostly from the 18th century, one with a faux finish, and decorative cast-iron firebacks donning mythical or religious designs.

Some modern touches were brought in as well, like central air-conditioning.

Mrs. Wrightsman kept the unit’s original floor plan largely intact, including separate wings for the entertainment space, bedrooms and staff quarters, though she did enlarge some rooms by reducing or eliminating others. The home is currently configured with five main bedrooms and six full and two half baths.

From a private elevator lobby, the apartment is entered through imposing double doors that open to a formal gallery, 46-by-12 feet; a wood-burning fireplace sits at one end and a spacious coat room at another. (Mrs. Wrightsman would typically escort departing guests to the elevator, Ms. Chase recalled.) The space once contained shelves of rare books, many since donated to the Morgan and Watson libraries, and various furnishings and artwork, including paintings by Canaletto and a large portrait of King Charles IX of France by Clouet.

The gallery leads to the main public spaces — a formal dining room, an enormous drawing room and a library — lined up enfilade style. Though now devoid of art and most furniture, each park-facing room remains anchored by an ornate fireplace.

The dining room is done up largely in pink, one of Mrs. Wrightsman’s favorite colors, from the pinkish marble on the Louis XVI fireplace to the decorative floral wall covering. A round table with pink upholstered chairs and an 18th-century crystal chandelier still remain (though aren’t included in the sale). The room contains a service door that connects to the kitchen, and a few feet away, a “false door” to make the room symmetrical, Ms. Chase said.

The 31-by-21-foot drawing room, detailed in gold and featuring a Louis XV mantel of Breche d’Alep marble, was perhaps her favorite room, according to Ms. Chase. “It had comfortable plush chairs and couches,” she said. “It wasn’t all frivolous.”

Mrs. Wrightsman also spent much of her time in the library, where she would study 18th-century art and literature. “She was an avid reader,” she said. “She was a scholar.”

The south wing holds the main bedrooms, each with an en-suite bath, as well as an office. A long corridor there offers an abundance of storage space and closets (a large safe was hidden away in one of them).

The master suite, which faces the park, had contained an elegantly furnished seating area with a writing desk. It opens to another large bedroom with a walk-in closet/dressing area that Mrs. Wrightsman had used as a private sitting room.

The staff quarters, which connect to a professional kitchen and prep room, contain two small bedrooms, one and a half baths and a family room.

The last time an apartment sold at 820 Fifth was about 10 years ago, Mr. Burger said.

Those looking to move there, though, will need to have deep cash reserves, not to mention unimpeachable credentials: The building prohibits financed purchases, and its persnickety co-op board is notorious for rejecting buyers, even billionaires. (The casino mogul Steve Wynn was reportedly turned down, as was the investor Ronald Perelman.)

The 12-story building was designed by Starrett & Van Vleck in a neo-Italian Renaissance palazzo style and erected in 1916. It includes 12 apartments, 10 of which are full-floor units, and two on the lower floors are duplex maisonettes.

Notable residents have included the New York Governor Alfred E. Smith, the designer Tommy Hilfiger, the Greek shipping magnate Stavros Niarchos, and the hedge fund manager Kenneth Griffin, who now owns the nation’s most expensive single-family home, a $240 million penthouse at 220 Central Park South.

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[slapmeagain-blog]

Thanks to “The Rock”

July 25th, 2017.  9:01 a.m.

Sam, Mel and Charlie head back to the UK today.  It’s been great having them here.  It’s been 15 years since their last visit for my 50th birthday party at Long Tan.  I can barely remember it!  Let’s see, we did it as a benefit for CASA  NY -- Court Appointed Special Advocates (for children in foster care).  I charged $50 a head.  Only one person I know of remarked (not to me, but I know who you are!), “I’m not paying $50 bucks to go to a birthday party.”  It was a good crowd, and it seems we all had a great time, though I confuse that party with the restaurant’s opening party which was a year or two before.  Anyway, Sam and Mel and some other friends from England, from Italy, etc. joined us and most stayed at our house, which wasn’t even completely finished yet, and as I recall, even had some people camped out on the kitchen floor, empty still of appliances and counters.  It was fun, wasn’t it? 

I met Sam back in my days on Wall Street, probably around 1991, when I was working at a hedge fund, running the strategy desk for currency and fixed income trading.  Sam’s older brother worked at one of the banks, Chase I think, that provided us with execution services in the fx markets.  Steve (Sam’s brother), affectionately known in the markets as, The Rock, for his love of rock music and his vinyl collection, called one day and asked if I could arrange tickets to a Guns n Roses concert coming up at Madison Square Garden for Sam and a friend coming over from Nottingham.  Steve had bought their plane tickets, saying it was Sam’s first trip to New York.  I said, “Sure.” and got one of the other banks to come up with a couple of tickets for them.  They arrived in NY the night of our first Christmas Party in our new apartment on Park Place, and I invited them to join us at the house.  As I recall, it was December 7th and I’d instructed the bar tender to make up pitchers of kamikazi’s for Pearl Harbor day and everyone was pretty plastered.  It took Sam and ‘Gut’, his pal, a while to find me at the party, and I was impressed that they’d made the effort to come to Brooklyn.  Years later, he told me how intimidated he was with the place, the crowd and the party when he arrived, but that I’d made him feel at ease and that they’d ended up have a great time. 

The two of them stayed at the Chelsea Hotel -- then still a cheap bohemian tourist hotel -- known for it’s famous residents (Dylan Thomas) and the fact the Sid Vicious probably got away with murder there (his girlfriend was found stabbed but he was never charged apparently.)  Turns out Sam was a real rocker, and had his own band back home in Nottingham.  So here in NY, they partied all night at places like CBGBs and Kenny’s Castaways, where the Smithereens, one of Sam’s favorite bands’, front man used to wash dishes between sets.  Sam wore a leather jacket with their name painted on the back as I recall.  I don’t think I went out with him on that trip, but if I didn’t, I can’t imagine why not.  In any event, the two of them got by for a week on 3 or 4 hours a night sleep, spending their days sightseeing and their nights crawling around the bars in the Village and the Lower East Side. 

Well, that week was the beginning of a long friendship, that remains strong to this day.  I haven’t seem Sam in a long time, though I made annual trips to Nottingham every summer for years after that first meeting in NYC.  We’d go out on pub crawls -- trying to hit up to 6 or 7 before they closed -- with Sam and 15 or so of his mates every July, and when the pubs closed we’d end up at the local night club, Central Park, to dance to Nirvana and Metallica, throw back shots of Jack Daniels, and finish the night with the usual public urination, a burger from a street truck, sometimes eaten laying down on the sidewalk as the summer dawn cracked at around 4 a.m., getting a car service home, then climbing through a kitchen window as we’d forgot the keys or come home without Mel who had them. One acquaintance of Sam’s called late one night, after we’d got home but before we’d passed out, drunk as a skunk, to apologize for giving me a hard time for how long it took the ‘yanks’ to get on board and enter the war.  Not sure if he meant WWI or II and I didn’t remember the incident at all, but I was touched by his heartfelt apology nonetheless and assured him no offense was taken, and he took quite a bit of convincing!

I remember going up there one summer weekend with my then business partner, Steven Jacolow, just before we started our asset management firm in the UK, down south in Winchester.  Must’ve been 1996, the year after we left Caxton when they downsized and cut my group from 12 to three people.  Mel and the ladies loved that Steve was wandering around their house the next morning in nothing but his Calvin Klein’s.  He always was a tease. 

Over the years, as Sam and I became close, the other Steve, Sam’s brother, even became a bit jealous of our friendship, though he frequently joined us on my weekend visits to Nottingham.  His wife Annette often questioned my sexuality and motivations in a gossipy tone, an old guy hanging out with all those young people.  Well, she wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last, though I never got lucky even once, not that I was pushing.  It was pretty clear none of them was gay.  And it didn’t seem to bother any of them.  Later, I learned, they were fine, just waiting for me to come out.  In fact, 1996 was the year I did, to Hedy.  Owed that to her, at least, before I could come out to anyone else.

The years passed. I moved back to the US, then in 2000 had another job in the the UK, London this time, but on my own, working for JP Morgan.  When I got the offer, Hedy and I decided to separate (Cole had just left for school), and the offer seemed timely for us.  Sam and Mel came down to London at one point that year and spent a month with me in my flat in Shoreditch, when Mel’s company sent her for some training.  I moved to Italy in January 2002,right after 911 -- and finally back to the US at the end of 2004, when Claire was born.  

So many years passed, so quickly.  In 2015, Sam’s brother, Steve, died at 57, after a heart attack at Paddington Station, and with Jim Martin’s and Hedy’s urging, I decided to attend the funeral in Cardiff, Wales.  It was a quick trip -- 36 hours -- but it was a watershed for Sam and me.  Jim and I met at Heathrow, and had a driver take us to Cardiff for the service.  Sam and Mel, and Sam’s mom, Jan, whom I had also developed a relationship with over the years seemed so glad I had come, and Jim and I spent the evening chatting with them about Steve and his life and shared memories.  It was a good, meaningful evening for all of us.  I promised to make the effort to get up to Nottingham, which I did the following summer, in 2016, and we did a pub crawl with the old gang, though I have to say none of us was sorry it didn’t end in a night club, with shots, any public urination, or breaking and entering -- we were all home in bed by midnight.... 

Their visit this week, with their 13 year old son, Charlie, comes on the heals of mine with them, and our rekindled efforts to spend more time together after the loss of Steve.  Part of his legacy will be the lasting gift of friendship that he unwittingly gave to our families over 25 years ago.

Charlie, Claire and Carter have been getting on very well, and Claire asked me the other day, if, when we go to Paris for her 16th, we can stop for a few days in England to visit Charlie.  Ah, the hearts of 13 year olds!  And even Marco, after hearing stories of our Nottingham pub crawls has decided that we should make a trip to the East Midlands some time in our future.  All good.  Thanks, Steve Nicholson, for keeping us all close...

[architectnews]

Brixton Windmill Education and Community Centre, London

Brixton Windmill Education and Community Centre, Lambeth Architecture, South London Eduction Building News

Brixton Windmill in South London

16 July 2020

Brixton Windmill Education and Community Centrel

Architecture: Squire & Partners

Location: Lambeth, South London, England, UK

Squire & Partners have completed a new Education and Community Centre adjacent to Brixton Windmill for Friends of Windmill Gardens (FoWG) and Lambeth Council. The centre will support activities hosted by the Grade II* listed heritage building, and secure its use for future generations.

Brixton Windmill is a Grade II* listed structure built in 1816 as a working flour mill – locally known as Ashby’s Mill after the family of millers – set within Windmill Gardens at the end of Blenheim Gardens just off Brixton Hill.

The mill ceased production in 1934, and was first opened to the public in the 1960s when the land around it was laid out as a public park. Following intermittent periods of use and neglect the windmill was restored by Lambeth Council with Heritage Lottery funding and returned to public use in 2011. Since then FoWG volunteers have opened it to visitors.

FoWG offer regular guided tours and host a programme of events for the surrounding community, including the popular Beer & Bread festival and workshops for local schools. The charity also mills Brixton Windmill flour which is used by local bakeries, restaurants and retailers and plan to run baking workshops in the new centre.

The project to design a new Education and Community centre and support the future of Brixton Windmill was introduced to the practice in 2016 by local print designers Eley Kishimoto, who were acting as cultural ambassadors in the windmill’s bi-centenary year, and created their iconic ‘Flash’ sailcloth.

Squire & Partners were asked by FoWG – the charity that promotes the Grade II* listed windmill – to design a flexible building for a range of community activities, creating a catalyst to release funding from Lambeth Council. Submitted for planning in 2016, the building was completed in July 2020.

The Education Centre will serve the local community and allow FoWG to generate funds to continue their work preserving the heritage of Brixton Windmill. In addition, the building supports the expansion of the social enterprise, which mills flour using traditional techniques.

Conceived as a simple and beautiful timber framed space, the building is designed to serve a variety of users – including school groups, adult education initiatives, community groups and local residents – and act as a platform for FoWG to showcase the historic mill and host Open Days and festivals. The main space and cafe are also able to be hired for events from birthday parties to weddings, to create revenue for FoWG.

Designs respond to the original miller’s outbuildings with a contemporary crafted pitched roof structure using a Douglas Fir frame with tapered columns, and cladding the exterior in a dark weatherboard. A series of full height bi-fold glazed doors open onto a decked terrace overlooking Windmill Gardens and the Windmill. Sliding panels with vertical slats allow light into the space, and provide security when the building is unoccupied.

The structure is book-ended by two gable walls in a soot-washed Staffordshire Blue engineered brick to reference the black painted Windmill tower. A dark grey roof is punctuated with skylights to flood the internal space with natural light.

Internally, the main space celebrates the exposed timber frame and creates a warm muted palette with an under heated pale grey screed/resin floor, ply-lined walls and suspended pendant lights. Bespoke plywood joinery defines the café serving area and a pop up shop with in-built display areas. Low level units were designed to be used in multiple ways – as tables, storage, museum/shop display or seating.

Behind the main space, a series of smaller rooms provide a grain store, kitchen, administration, cycle parking and WCs.

NAS Vanguard School, Lambeth, London – Building Information

Architects: Squire & Partners

Client: Lambeth Council End user: Friends of Windmill Gardens Cultural ambassadors: Eley Kishimoto Structure: Heyne Tillett Steel Services: Hoare Lea Cost Consultant: Equals Consulting Oak Frame: Carpenter Oak Contractor: Logan’s Construction Bespoke Joinery: Modwood

Photography: Jack Hobhouse

NAS Vanguard School in Lambeth, South London images / information received 150920

Location: Lambeth, south London, England, UK

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Website: Visit London

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