Page 6 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
‘We’ve been over this.He can teach you until you are the best drafter in the city, but it will not matter if no one will hire you.Which they will not because the associations will not grant any woman membership.If it were purely a question of skill, you know he would not hesitate.’
Walls had defined her life.The walls she watched her father draw, the ones that he’d supervised as they were built.And now, the professional architectural associations created walls that kept her out, too.
Before, back in Australia, she’d settled against walls.There had been no need to rail against them.Her father had indulged her curiosity with her own notebooks and toolkits.And when she’d learnt to apply the formulas that helped him with the calculations for arches and lintels, he’d been so delighted to share the workload he’d never hesitated to rely on her.Even George, in his own doting way, had indulged her love of buildings and design by having her colour his plans while chatting to her about this row of workers’ cottages or that row of shops.With men who made a little space for her, it had all seemed enough, even though the government refused to acknowledge her or any woman for anything other than their domestic duties.The land of opportunity promised women afemininefuture—tending homes and birthing the next generation.It saw no reason to encourage them to pursue their own professions.That opportunity was only reserved for men, and even then, only for certain types of men.
On the long boat journey, she’d convinced herself that this place—bigger, more sprawling, and with the Queen visibly seated at its heart—might be a little more nurturing than its dominion.But no.Here it became obvious that the only reason she’d been given a seat at the drafting table to begin with was because of a lack of choice, not because of her skill.Like the lace, the bolts of fabric, the places to dine, and everything else, London swam with a million meaningless choices.Her father had no need of her, not when he could have a strong, young, eager man at his beck and call.
‘I thought things might be different here.But it’s all the same, isn’t it?’
Mama patted the back of Florence’s hand.‘Thingswillbe different.Just perhaps not the different you wish them to be.’
The doors squeaked as the seamstress re-entered the front shop.She juggled a jumble of fabrics—bright yellows, tangerine orange, violets and even greens, but no blue.‘These are fresh from a factory up north.A new designer.I thought you might like this pattern.’
The bolts spilled over the counter.A length of bright yellow with small white flowers spread as it rolled over the wood.Mama chirruped with glee.She pulled out a swatch of pale lemon and held it against Florence’s cheek.
‘Oh, divine.We shall have a walking dress in this.And this orange and green for afternoon dresses.Do you have something heavy for a ballgown?And Florence, look at this shade.It is perfect for a dinner dress.’
‘Mama, we don’t have the money for these.’Florence stripped off her glove, then brushed her fingers over the heavy weave.‘What did you sell?’
Mama waved a dismissive hand.‘Never you mind.We have enough,’ she reassured the seamstress.
As Mama continued clucking and fawning over the fabrics, Florence studied her dress, her jewellery, her—
‘You sold your earrings.The opals.You adored them.’
‘They’ll do you more good as coins than as fancy decorations in my old ears.’Mama tugged at her earlobe where she now wore simple jet studs instead of the brilliant blue and green gems her father had bought home after a commission.‘Promise me you’ll try to find a husband.Give me that comfort.’
The seamstress bent over her notebook.
‘How can I love another man after everything that happened?’she asked.
‘You don’t have to love him.At least not at the start.’Mama draped a long length of green across Florence’s chest.‘And honestly, maybe it would be better if you didn’t.Love hasn’t done you any favours.’
Some days began with a whimper.Others with a persistent ache that dulled over the morning.Some began with an eye-watering slap of pain that shocked, radiated, and did not let go.
Today began with a slap.
Florence splayed her palm against the cold, uneven wallpaper.She pushed hard to roll onto her back.The pain flared, then faded, and with a teeth-clenching effort, she rolled again and forced herself upright.Unwillingly, the mantra from the early years chimed in her ears and found voice on her lips.
A test.A penance.A suffering.
Like her pain might have an end or a set allocation of torment she just had to withstand before it would fly from her body.At the start, she’d been convinced that if only she were good enough, stoic enough, and pious enough, then it would all end.
She knew better now.
The fogginess of a broken night leeched into the morning.Florence breathed until the pained haze cleared.In the hall, the clock chimed out eleven steady bongs.After it had finished, she listened for a chair scrape or a cough or muttering, but the upper floors remained as silent as dust.Her mother had a way of sensing when Florence needed to sleep, and had likely spared her the tedium of errands and visits today.
With a wobble, she stood.Mama had laid out her wrapper, and Florence wrestled herself into her corset, then slipped it on and pulled the tie at her waist.Today would be an inside day, but that did not have to mean it was a wasted day.She would read the latest issue ofThe Builder, and in the afternoon, she might begin the book her father had bought or flip through some catalogues.And that meant a trip to the office.
Left right, left right.Florence gripped the banister as she descended from the building’s home layer to its work layer.In the entrance, the scent of dry paper and paint powder and ink laced the air.She set off down the hall, her mind already bounding with thoughts of innovations and articles.
Thenhestepped into the doorframe.
She stopped.The hallway narrowed to a rectangle of light, now partially blocked by the tall silhouette.Only a bright flash reflecting off a buckle or a button, or a shimmer from his waistcoat, gave any definition to the man who spent his days at the drawing table where she had once sat.He stood before the bookcase, one hand resting on the shelf.The other held a book in one substantial, splayed hand.He licked his fingertip, then turned a page.A tingling ran from Florence’s heels along her calves and right through her torso.From there it spread to each point in her body, warming and pinching in an appalling betrayal of her disdain for this man who had so effortlessly taken her place.The cotton of his shirt hugged his muscular biceps, and the floral embroidery on his waistcoat was at odds with his rude strength.His trousers sat just a little tighter over his firm buttocks before they fell to a straight line of obedience down the length of his legs.Every bit of him appeared hard and unwavering, without a hint of indulgence or weakness.He perched his reading spectacles on the top of his head while rubbing his eyes, then lowered them again.
Licked his fingertip.
Turned another page.
