Page 7 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
If a man was to take her place, he might as well be a well-composed man.
Florence kept a hand half-raised for balance as she inched through the last few feet of the hallway.On days like today, when the cold bullied its way beneath the door and between window sashes, she would normally use her cane, even around the house.But seeinghimin the office filled her with a determination not to show weakness.This city would not beat her.
As she stepped into the room, the assistant looked up from his book.He flicked her a small smile and bent his head.
Then he raised his gaze once more, and it was as if he was blinking his way free of a stupor.‘Mrs Murray.Your father isn’t in.He is meeting with a client.A potential one, I mean.’He snapped the book closed and took two steps back, colliding with his drawing table.A brush rolled and dropped to the floor.
‘I’m not here to see my father,’ Florence said.The man was as skittish as a new foal—probably scared at being caught distracted.He bent and picked up the brush from the floor, then set it back into place.
‘You aren’t?’That same lazy smile turned his lips.He tugged at his waistcoat.‘I had been wanting to speak with you about—’
A knot of pain tightened in her shoulder, and his words were lost in the flare.‘I am here for a book,’ Florence snapped, before adding, a little more softly, ‘I wish to read by the hearth.’
‘I can suggest… I mean, might I recommend… if you are wanting a recommendation, that is…’
Florence had never been lost for words.How could she be, when she had so few opportunities to voice them?They jostled against one another as she itched to wedge them into small spaces as egalitarian observations, begging to be taken seriously beneath it all.The imposter, perhaps, had space in spades for words, for heerredandahhedsome more, then strode forwards and drew a weighty tome from a shelf.Even he had to clasp it with two hands.She would never be able to carry it upstairs, but as she read the spine, she huffed her dismissal.She didn’t want to read it anyway.
‘Ruskin?’
‘The Seven Lamps.Have you read it?’he asked.
‘Yes, and I regret every minute spent with it.’Florence crossed to the shelves and scanned the spines.Reference material, old catalogues, manuals, and guides—where were the newer books?The latest edition ofThe Builder, or theArchitectural Magazine?What was the point of being in London if she could not read the news while it was fresh, instead of receiving it months late, after it had crossed the seas?
‘You don’t like Ruskin?’
Florence paused, her finger still flat to a book’s spine.That was interesting.When provoked, it seemed the lackey had spirit.
‘My father has hired a Ruskinite.’She pivoted to face him, but moved too fast.Pain flamed in her knee, then across her back.Florence bit the inside of her cheek.‘He’s an eloquent writer.And an excellent illustrator.Men in Sydney used his drawings as templates for stonework and motifs.’
‘And no one summarises a solution to free the cities from the vices of industry like him.If, like he says, industry took second place and society placed more emphasis on craft and workmanship, on creating proper handmade things again, then the poor would be able to provide for their families once more.One of the greatest losses to the modern world is the loss of the craftsman.’
‘The craftsmen hoarded knowledge.Ordinary people could not access the teachings they needed, nor could they learn from them to improve their lives.Why would they not exert their power again if they returned?’
‘I am not talking about guilds in the cities.’He picked each word with delicate deliberation.‘I am talking about the skills of the village.Back when there was pride in creating something by hand, perfectly crafted and unique, instead of the same thing replicated by machines over and over again.The work of master craftsmen.The world could find its way back to that.’
‘Craftsmen.No wonder father likes you.’
He lowered the book and pulled it against his chest.Red bloomed on his cheeks, and he shook his head.‘You haven’t been here long, and perhaps you haven’t seen what I have.The old ways give us a path out of all this.The workers deserve better.’
‘Working man, always the working man.And in your utopian communities, in your world where we all discard steam and factories and embrace the old, I assume all the men are passing on their knowledge to their sons?Where does the working woman feature in your handmade dream?I can guess—she is where she has always been.In kitchens, at the copper, or dying of childbirth as she brings a longed-for son or disappointing daughter into the world.Machines let a woman’s hands do what men have done for decades.Did you figure that into your vision of a perfect past?’
‘You play with my words.You ascribe the views of others to me…’ He took a breath, not just a regular one, but a passionate inhalation, as if readying himself for an intellectual onslaught.Then he exhaled softly and looked to the floor.Frowned and swallowed.He was holding back.Why?
Of course.
She was his employer’s daughter.
And arguing with her would do him no good.
Florence turned away from his discomfort.She grasped at a book, any book, focusing only on finding a size she could carry.It no longer mattered.She would not read now.And without a word or a glance, she walked back through the small hall.Once out of sight, she let the banister take her weight.The light in the hallway dulled with his shadow but thankfully only for a moment.He had moved away.
Florence took the first step.Left right.Then the next.Left right.
It was wrong to hate him, but in this moment, she did.He had everything she wanted—a strong body and a seat at the drafting table.He’d have a career and a future in a world made for him, a world she would be grateful to possess just a sliver of.
If he had to deal with a little of her ire, then so be it.
Chapter Four
