Page 4 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms (Tales from Honeysuckle Street #4)

Chapter Three

‘Pink.’

‘Be serious, Mama. Pink will look ridiculous with my hair.’

Florence’s mother let out one of her exasperated sighs, honed through years of frustrated patience from being married to a man who lost himself in his work. She pulled at the bolt of fabric and shook out a little of the gingham.

‘Pink is the perfect complement to spring.’ Her tone was as light and airy as a breeze. ‘Once the weather warms, there will be so many gatherings we can attend, garden parties, concerts, and shows. If you are to catch a man’s eye, you will need to look like you can blend into society.’

‘If I wear that shade, I will look like an underripe radish.’ Florence tugged at a curl to remind her mother that she was not a demure blonde or brunette, but a woman with flaming auburn hair.

‘No man will want to make conversation with me, let alone court my hand. But as I have no interest in marrying again, perhaps I should have a pink dress. I want rose and candy and sherbert pink. Lots of pink. Only pink in my wardrobe!’

Mother flicked the fabric down so forcefully the rest of the bolt tumbled to the side, and the seamstress had to lunge forwards to catch it.

‘Blue often suits the ladies with copper hair.’ The woman juggled the roll back to its shelf. ‘And the right shade looks lovely during the warmer days.’

‘I like blue.’ Florence scanned the walls of the little shop. Rectangular lengths of assorted fabrics sat snug on top of one another in narrow shelves: lace, satin, flannel, velvet, and silk, all sorted by shade. ‘Do you have anything in a slightly darker hue, like a teal? Even cyan?’

‘No blue.’ Mother shot the words with such force the seamstress flinched.

The poor woman couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five—not so different in age to Florence herself—and now she found herself dragged into this ridiculous feud that Florence and her mother had played out almost every day since they’d stepped onto the boat in Sydney.

‘I’ll see what I have out the back. I just received some new fabrics and haven’t sorted them for the shop yet. I might have something. And you two can discuss what style you might…’ She bit her lip, then disappeared between the swinging doors behind the counter.

Florence drifted over to a rack of trimming lace.

So many choices, so many patterns and weaves.

Across every tailor and seamstress in Sydney, she’d never seen as much variety as this woman’s shop displayed on one wall.

Not that it had mattered what she wore before.

As an architect’s daughter and a builder’s wife, looking neat and respectable was enough.

Too much ostentation was frowned upon—heaven forbid anyone accuse her of having tickets on herself.

She stroked a scalloped edge of lace. Her wedding gown had been trimmed with lace.

Just a little, around the hems. It was the only flourish allowed.

If only she’d unpicked and snipped a piece of it before her dress had been sold. It had been such a pretty pattern.

‘It is obscene for me to be out of half-mourning. I was barely out of full black crêpe when we left. Now you want me wearing pink?’

Mother waved her hand in dismissal. ‘No one here knows the details of George’s passing. If you are to find another husband, you do not have time for half-mourning.’

‘The doctor’s advice is working. Since I stopped taking the mercury pills, I’ve been sleeping better—’

‘But not well. And what about dressing yourself or tending to a house? How will you pay a nurse or a maid without us? Good heavens, Florence, I am almost seventy, and your father is older than me. I am not talking about your time, although you do not have an eternity of youth either.’

‘You are not almost seventy. You are just sixty-five.’ Florence shot a quick glance at Mother.

Her mother’s smile, stretched and rueful, betrayed the worry in her eyes.

All her smiles were strained these days.

The bright woman who had laughed and chased her around the orange tree in their small backyard, the one who had taken her to search for shells along the beach…

She had somehow aged away and been replaced with an old woman so gradually that Florence had barely seen her leave.

Mother shuffled across the room, her cane thumping softly against the wood.

‘It isn’t my choice, my girl. It’s just how time moves.

I didn’t plan to be a mother so old. After I reached thirty and there was no baby, I didn’t think I would be a mother at all.

You were my miracle. The doctors said I was too old, and they were certain you would kill me, but I knew better.

’ Mother tugged on a small length of lace.

‘I’ve had more years than I deserve, and I’d go to the next life happier if I knew you were cared for.

A nice steady husband with a calm temperament and a promising position.

Someone who can afford the help to look after you when you cannot look after yourself. ’

‘I might be able to make my own money. If father would make me his apprentice and let me submit for competitions under his name, I might make my own way.’

‘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 a feminine future—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. ‘Things will be 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.