Nicholas's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 29
Nicholas had been with Weber for two years. The word was that the old man was preparing to retire. He knew his time with the famed builder’s company was drawing to a close. The sons who would soon be taking over had little of their father’s commitment to excellence. Short cuts were sure to follow. He wanted to be gone by then.
Lady Louise’s project would be a welcome next step. He received the plans and was immediately intrigued. The design was ambitious—not just a platform in a tree, but an actual dwelling with distinct areas for sitting, reading, observing, even sleeping. The joinery was meticulous, the proportions harmonious and the relationship to the tree itself looked to have been considered. It struck a perfect balance between childlike wonder and architectural sophistication.
He could imagine her father sitting down to create the plans—a man desperately worried about his daughter, trying to say to her what she meant to him, adding scores of tiny details that would please and surprise a little girl. The pages seemed to his imagination to contain not just measurements and materials but love and fear and hope, drawn in the detail of a place designed for a future that wasn’t guaranteed.
He knew right away that he wouldn’t touch this project unless her father agreed. This wasn’t about Lady Louise hiring a builder; this was about building something deeply personal between father and daughter. He wanted to be the executor of his vision, not someone who inserted himself between their shared creation.
He asked to meet with him, making it clear to Lady Louise that he wouldn’t proceed without his involvement and approval. She arranged it without hesitation, pleased by his insistence rather than annoyed by the additional complication.
The meeting was set for early May at Northwood Hall, the Spencer family estate in Northumberland. Nicholas arrived on a cool, misty morning after taking the train from London, where he’d spent a few days revisiting the British Museum’s collection of historical woodworking techniques. A driver met him at the station and drove him for an hour through rural landscapes until they passed through stone gates and onto a long driveway flanked by ancient oaks.
The house itself was imposing—a stone manor dating from the 17th century, with sections older and newer, the organic accumulation of generations rather than a single architectural moment. It now sat comfortably in its landscape.
Lady Louise greeted him at the entrance, dressed simply in jeans and a sweater, more casual than in Gstaad, but with the same serene confidence. She led him through high-ceilinged rooms furnished with an eclectic mix of genuine antiques and comfortable contemporary pieces.
“Father is in his study,” she explained as they walked. “He’s been reviewing the old plans since I told him about this. I think he’s made some adjustments.”
She paused before a heavy oak door, turning to him with an expression more vulnerable than he’d seen before. “I should warn you—he can be rather direct. Architectural critique is second nature to him.”
“Direct works for me.”
She smiled slightly. “Yes, I thought it might.” Then she knocked and opened the door.
The study was what one might expect of an aristocratic architect—walls lined with books, a massive drafting table positioned to catch northern light from tall windows, models of buildings on nearly every surface. The room smelled of books and pipe tobacco.
The Earl of Northwood stood as they entered, setting aside a magnifying glass he’d been using to examine something on his desk. He was tall and lean, with the same bright blue eyes as his daughter, but softened by age and experience. In his early seventies now, he moved with the deliberate precision of someone who had once been very physical but now had to accommodate the limitations of age.
“Mr. Carter,” he said, extending his hand. “Richard Spencer. Thank you for coming all this way to discuss Louise’s project.”
His handshake was firm, his assessment direct as he took Nicholas’s measure. Nicholas returned it in kind, respecting his authority without deference.
“It’s your project as well, from what I understand,” Nicholas replied. “And seems worth the journey.”
He nodded, seeming to appreciate the directness. “Louise, would you give us some time? Perhaps check that everything is prepared for our site visit later.”
She agreed without protest, leaving them to what was clearly going to be a professional assessment as much as a personal one. Once the door closed, the Earl gestured to the drafting table where the original treehouse plans were spread out alongside newer sketches.
“You’ve reviewed these?” he asked, moving toward the table.
“Yes. Remarkable work, especially considering the circumstances under which they were created.”
Something flickered across his face—a complex emotion quickly contained. “Yes. Well. A situation like that with one’s child does tend to focus the mind wonderfully, doesn’t it?”
He traced a finger along one of the original drawings, a cross-section showing the relationship between the tree trunk and the main platform. “I was not an expert in arboreal architecture. These were ... aspirational, shall we say.”
“But technically sound,” Nicholas observed. “With the right adaptations for the tree’s current state and modern materials, entirely buildable.”
He looked up sharply, studying Nicholas’s face. “You believe so? Without compromising the essential design?”
“Yes. I’ve seen similar structures, though none with this specific combination of elements. The core principles are valid. The joinery systems you designed would work with minimal modification.”
This seemed to please him. He straightened, moving to another section of the table where newer sketches lay. “I’ve been considering adjustments. The oak will have grown. And Louise is no longer eight years old. The proportions and functions need to reflect that reality.”
They spent the next hour discussing technical specifics—load-bearing requirements, timber selection, weather considerations specific to the Northumberland climate, attachment systems that would accommodate the tree’s continued growth. Throughout, Nicholas was impressed by his technical knowledge and by his clarity about which elements were essential to preserve and which could evolve.
He was indeed direct, questioning Nicholas’s experience with specific techniques, challenging assumptions, probing for weaknesses in approach. But it wasn’t territorialism driving this scrutiny—it was a father’s need to ensure that something this important would be executed correctly.
Finally, satisfied with Nicholas’ technical competence, he moved to the window overlooking the estate grounds. After a moment of silence, he spoke without turning.
“She’s told you why this is important to her?”
“Yes,” Nicholas replied.
He nodded, still looking outward. “It was a terrible time. The treatments were brutal. She was such a frail thing. So brave.” His voice remained controlled, but a slight tension in his shoulders betrayed deeper emotion. “The treehouse became our ritual. Each day I would bring new sketches. We would discuss the details—what she would do there when she was well again, how it would be her special place.”
He turned back to face Nicholas. “It was never just a building project. It was a promise. A way of saying that I believed she had a future when the doctors were being noncommittal.”
“I understood that from the plans,” Nicholas said. “The care in the details speaks to its purpose.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You saw that in the technical drawings?”
“Plans always tell more than measurements and materials,” Nicholas explained. “They contain intention, priority, relationship. These showed someone creating not just a structure but a sanctuary. Something meant to protect and nurture.”
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