Nicholas's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 31
Lady Louise Spencer sat on the deck of her completed treehouse, watching the afternoon sun filter through oak leaves. Below her, on the estate grounds, the catering staff were setting up for tomorrow’s celebration. White tents gleamed against the green lawns and the distant sounds of workers’ voices occasionally drifted up to her sanctuary.
The treehouse, although “tiny house in a tree” was a more accurate term, had blown away all her expectations. What had existed for twenty years as pencil sketches and a father’s promise to a little girl had now materialized into something both familiar and wonderfully new. The basic design, while remaining true to her father’s original vision, now had been adapted and enhanced for an adult’s enjoyment.
Louise ran her hand along the smooth wooden railing, savoring the texture. Every element was crafted with extraordinary care. Nothing was an afterthought, nothing functional without also being beautiful. The entire structure expressed both precision and warmth—qualities she now associated with Nicholas himself.
The project had transformed her family. Her father, Richard, the Earl of Northwood, had rediscovered an enthusiasm Louise hadn’t seen since her childhood. Over the past six weeks, she had watched with quiet satisfaction as he and Nicholas formed a friendship that transcended the usual client-craftsman relationship. They spoke the same language of joints and load-bearing capacities, of spatial relationships and proportional harmony.
“They’re like two musicians who recognize each other’s understanding of the same piece,” her mother had observed one evening after dinner, as the Earl and Nicholas pored over modifications to the deck design.
Louise, herself had found unexpected pleasure in participating in the construction. At first, she had visited the site to check progress, but soon she was stopping by daily, then staying for hours, handing tools, holding measuring tapes, even learning to make basic cuts under Nicholas’s patient guidance.
“I feel like I’m eight years old again,” she had admitted to him one afternoon, after successfully cutting a piece of trim to his exacting specifications.
“This is fun, isn’t it?” he had replied with that smile that brightened his usually serious demeanor. “Not many people get to fulfill a childhood dream.”
It was an insight typical of him—practical yet philosophical. Over the weeks, Louise had come to appreciate the unique perspective he brought not just to woodworking but to life itself. His observations often contained deeper truths about the meaning of things.
Walter, the estate’s head gardener for over thirty years, had taken to stopping by daily, ostensibly to ensure the tree’s health but increasingly to assist with heavier tasks and, more significantly, to talk. Walter was by nature garrulous, where Nicholas was reserved. Yet they had developed an unexpected rapport, with Walter’s stream-of-consciousness commentary drawing occasional insights from Nicholas that revealed his quiet humor.
“That lad, he be good for the place, that one,” Walter had told Louise one morning, jerking his thumb toward Nicholas as he worked high in the oak’s branches. “He sim Hees things the rest of us miss. Trees, people, don’t matter—he notices what’s really there, not just what’s obvious.”
The treehouse itself had evolved from platform to proper structure with remarkable speed. Nicholas’s work proceeded with meticulous purpose. Each day brought visible progress—the main support beams anchored with minimal impact to the living tree, the platform extended precisely as designed, the walls and roof framed with joinery so precise it seemed to belong in a museum rather than a recreational structure.
Nicholas and her father had integrated modern amenities without compromising the traditional craftsmanship or the treehouse’s harmony with its environment. Electricity was supplied through discreetly placed conduits, with fixtures designed to complement the wooden interior. Plumbing—a small sink and a compact toilet in a separate compartment—had been ingeniously chased down one of the eight-by-eight supports, virtually invisible unless one knew where to look.
The result was a house in the sky, a fairytale place that honored both her childhood dreams and a new adult purpose.
As the project neared completion, Louise had invited her mother and cousin Amelia to help plan the interior furnishings. That day had been a special kind of fun—three generations of women climbing the elegant spiral staircase to the finished treehouse, happily discussing cushions and throws and lighting options while Nicholas worked quietly on final details.
“My God, it’s magical,” Amelia had declared, spinning slowly to take in the octagonal space with its carefully positioned windows framing different views of the estate. “Like something from a storybook. We’re decorating a giant doll house.”
Louise’s mother had been quieter, more reflective. Having been separated from the Earl during Louise’s illness, she had never seen the original designs, had not been part of that daily ritual of imagined construction that had helped sustain her daughter through treatment.
“Your father captured your spirit in this design,” she had finally said, touching the curved window seat that followed the trunk’s contour. “I can see why it meant so much to you both.”
Now, the day before the promised celebration, Louise sat alone in the completed treehouse, absorbing the reality of this long-deferred dream. The interior was furnished simply, with comfortable cushions in colors that complemented the natural wood, bookshelves built into the walls, a small writing desk positioned to catch the morning light, and handwoven rugs softening the wooden floor.
Despite her distaste for sentimentality, Louise was unexpectedly emotional. For a family who typically didn’t show emotion, this was physical evidence of her father’s love for her both back then and now.
The celebration planned for tomorrow had grown beyond Louise’s original intention for a simple family gathering. Word had spread among relatives and friends, and what had begun as an intimate event had evolved into something approaching a royal occasion. Second and third cousins from various European houses had asked to attend, curious about this unusual project that had captured the Earl’s attention so completely.
Everybody, it seemed, loved a tree house. Louise smiled at the thought of Nicholas’ reaction to this infiltration of the aristocracy. He had accepted her family’s position in society with the same equanimity he brought to everything—neither impressed nor uncomfortable, simply acknowledging it as another fact to be navigated. But tomorrow would test even his remarkable composure.
“Planning to move in?” a familiar voice called from below.
Louise looked down to see Nicholas standing at the base of the staircase, tools packed away in the leather case he carried everywhere, a sign that the day’s work was complete.
“Contemplating tomorrow’s invasion,” she replied with a smile. “You’re welcome to flee before they arrive. I wouldn’t blame you.”
He climbed the stairs with the easy grace that characterized all his movements. “I’ll stay through the official handover. The client should have the builder present for final inspection.”
Louise laughed. “This is hardly a conventional client-builder relationship at this point, Nicholas.”
He acknowledged this with a slight nod as he joined her on the deck. “No. It’s been ... unusual. In a good way.”
Coming from him, this qualified as effusive praise. Over the weeks, Louise was no closer to understanding this remote man. He kept himself hidden behind walls thicker and higher than those of the White Tower of London.
“Father wants to commission you for other projects,” she said. “He’s been talking about rebuilding the boathouse by the lake.”
Nicholas’s gaze moved toward the distant water, assessing. “Maybe. It’s a good site. It has interesting technical challenges.”
“So, you’ll consider staying in England longer?” Louise tried to keep her tone casual, though she found herself genuinely hoping he would agree for her father’s sake.
“Possibly. After some time back in Germany to close things out properly with Weber.” He turned to look at her. “This project has been satisfying. Much more so than I anticipated.”
For anyone else, this would have been a minor comment. From Nicholas, it was a significant admission.
“For all of us,” Louise agreed. “Watching Father with you these past weeks ... I don’t think I’ve seen him so engaged, so energized in years. And for me...” She paused, searching for words that wouldn’t sound sentimental. “It’s helped us complete the circle. Something I didn’t realize was unfinished and unstated.”
He nodded. “Promises need to be kept, even decades later.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the sun begin its descent toward the western edge of the estate. The treehouse caught the golden light, the varnished wood glowing with inner warmth.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Louise asked eventually. “Half the royalty of Europe will be wandering around, examining your joinery and asking painfully ignorant questions about carpentry.”
A hint of amusement crossed his face. “Sure, I’ve built for billionaires and politicians with Weber. Royalty seems like a logical progression.”
She laughed. “They’re just people. Unusually privileged and occasionally peculiar people, but still just people.”
“All clients are just people,” he replied with that subtle humor she had come to appreciate. “Some are more aware of it than others.”
As dusk approached, they made their final preparations for tomorrow’s event. Nicholas checked each element one last time, ensuring everything was perfect for the official “unveiling.” Louise arranged the small touches that transformed the space from project to personal sanctuary—favorite books on the shelves, a cashmere throw over the window seat, a small vase of flowers from the estate gardens.
When they descended, as the first stars were appearing in the sky. The treehouse’s discreetly placed exterior lights activated automatically, highlighting its elegant lines against the darkening foliage.
“It’s beautiful,” Louise said, stepping back to take in the full effect.
They walked together toward the house, where lights glowed welcomingly in the windows.
As they reached the main house, Louise’s father appeared in the doorway, his face lighting up at the sight of them.
“All finished, then?” the Earl asked, his voice carrying the same excitement it had when Louise was eight and he was showing her new treehouse sketches in her hospital room.
“All finished, sir,” Nicholas confirmed.
“Then come in, both of you. I’ve opened a rather good bottle to mark the occasion.”
Richard Spencer, the Earl of Northwood, stood on the terrace overlooking the expansive lawn where white tents had been erected for the celebration. At seventy-four, he had hosted countless gatherings at the estate over the decades—diplomatic functions during his years of government service, yard parties for his wife’s many charities, and the obligatory social occasions that came with his position in society. But this one was different—more personal—more important.
A treehouse warming.
Not just any treehouse. This was his promise finally made whole. The realization of a design he and his daughter had created twenty years ago when that daughter’s future had been uncertain, when each day at the hospital had required some new reason for hope. Now that frail pale child was a self-possessed woman of thirty, and his sketches had been transformed into a remarkable structure through the hands of a remarkable craftsman.
Richard adjusted his cufflinks—silver oak leaves, a gift from Louise for his seventieth birthday—and surveyed the arriving guests. The event had grown beyond his expectations. What had begun as a simple family celebration had expanded to include distant relatives, friends of Louise’s from her fashion world, various neighbors from surrounding estates, and a surprising number of minor European royalty. Two second cousins to the Danish crown, a Luxembourgian prince, and several German aristocrats. William, Kate and the children were on their way.
“Quite the turnout,” laughed his sister Margaret, appearing at his side with a glass of champagne. “For a treehouse no less.”
“It’s not just a treehouse,” Richard corrected mildly.
Margaret softened, patting his arm. “Yes, I suppose you are correct.” She had been there during Louise’s illness, had seen the daily ritual of drawings and plans that had sustained both father and daughter. “Though I suspect half these people came because they heard you’d hired that American builder. He’s become something of a curiosity.”
Richard followed her gaze to where Nicholas stood near the base of the oak tree, discussing some aspect of the construction with a small group that included a renowned architect and a conservation specialist. Even in this social setting, the American maintained the same focused attention and economy of movement that characterized his work—no wasted gestures, no unnecessary words, yet not awkward or withdrawn.
“He’s more than a curiosity,” Richard replied. “He’s an exceptional craftsman with a philosopher’s mind. Rare combination these days.”
“And he’s helped you complete something important,” Margaret acknowledged. “I can see why you’ve become attached.”
Richard didn’t correct her assessment. Over the past weeks, he had developed a fondness for the strange American. Working together reminded Richard of aspects of himself he had neglected in recent years—his belief in the significance of creating beautiful, functional spaces. Nicholas had approached their collaboration with a deference that acknowledged Richard’s original vision while offering improvements based on his own considerable expertise.
The result was far more than he could have imagined, a structure that honored his initial design while transcending what would have been possible twenty years ago. Most importantly, it had brought genuine joy to Louise, had healed something long-unresolved between them.
The party was now in full swing, with guests circulating between the champagne bar, the buffet tables laden with local delicacies, and the main attraction—the treehouse itself, which could be viewed from the ground or visited via timed small-group tours to prevent overcrowding. Nicholas had designed an ingenious queuing system with numbered wooden tokens that guests exchanged for their turn to ascend the spiral staircase.
Richard was pleased to see how many guests seemed genuinely interested in the craftsmanship, asking substantive questions about techniques and materials rather than merely treating the structure as a novelty. Nicholas answered each inquiry with the same thoughtful precision, neither dumbing down the technical aspects nor showing impatience with those less knowledgeable.
“Father!” Louise appeared at his side, looking elegant in a simple blue dress that complemented her eyes. “The Danish contingent is asking about the estate’s history. Would you mind...?”
“Duty calls,” he smiled, squeezing his sister’s hand. “You’ve done a wonderful job with all this, my dear.”
“Hardly my doing,” she demurred. “The catering staff deserves the credit.”
Richard glanced at the American, who was now demonstrating some aspect of the joinery technique to an elderly duke with a keen interest in traditional crafts. “He’s more socially adaptable than he first appears.”
“He contains multitudes,” Louise agreed with a slight smile, using one of her mother’s favorite phrases.
“They’ve completely taken over the treehouse,” Louise laughed, accepting the glass of champagne Prince William offered her. “I’m not sure I’ll ever reclaim it now.”
They stood to the side of the main celebration area, watching as a cluster of security personnel hovered anxiously at the base of the ancient oak. Above, faint shrieks of delight occasionally filtered down through the leaves.
“George has been talking about nothing else since he heard about it,” William admitted, his expression softening at the mention of his son. “A proper treehouse built by an American who was schooled by Swiss master carpenters? It’s like something from one of his adventure books.”
Louise smiled, remembering her childhood fascination with the original designs. “I felt the same way at his age. Though my treehouse remained theoretical for twenty years.”
“Better late than never,” William offered, glancing around the impressive gathering. “Half of the relatives seem to have turned up to see it.”
“I think they came to see Nicholas, honestly,” Louise replied. “The mysterious philosophical carpenter has become something of a curiosity.”
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