“That may be,” he said, leaning back in his chair, gesturing toward Maggie with his cigarette. “Miss Hope may be clever.”
Maggie held her tongue, but she could feel her jaw clench and a pulse begin to beat behind one eye. Dimwitted fop, she thought.
“You’re a smart girl,” Snodgrass said to her, “and that’s good. You’ll have intelligent children. But isn’t it more important to worry about your appearance and not calculations? Let the boys like John here take care of it. Stick to the typing, please.”
John had the grace to look ashamed. “I really think, sir, that in this case—” he began.
“No!” Snodgrass roared. Both Maggie and John jumped a little. “No,” he amended, softer this time.
“But I can help,” Maggie said. “I can help—and you’re not letting me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Hope, I really am,” Snodgrass said quietly. He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled. For a fraction of a second, Maggie swore she could feel real regret emanating from the man. Then he extinguished the butt into the ashtray.
“Sorry?” Maggie said. “You’re sorry? Then why are you acting like this? Why are you refusing a perfectly valid offer of assistance? Why do you think we’re fighting this war, anyway?”
“I’m not sure—” Snodgrass began.
“For goodness’ sake, Mary Wollstonecraft was British!” Maggie exploded. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman? Have you even read it?”
“Maggie—” John said.
“No, I’ve held my tongue for a long while, and now I’m going to have my say. Why are we fighting this war?”
She glared at the two men, hands shaking with anger. “I’ll tell you. It’s because if Hitler has his way, we’ll all be slaves—and, as an American, with our shameful history of slavery, let me tell you how monstrously horrible that would be. We’re fighting for the right to be free citizens. It’s a privilege that the Americans and British have—no matter if you’re rich or poor, you’re born free—and you can express your opinion and vote. And work. And this doesn’t just apply to men. Women are slowly but surely making strides—the vote, higher education, laws that protect our money and property. But this treatment of women—middle- and upper-class women—as though we’re children or goddesses or precious objets d’art—well, that’s a kind of slavery. So, you may want to keep me in the drawing room, or the kitchen, or the nursery—or the typing pool—but it’s simply another form of tyranny—one that we’re supposedly fighting against.”
Without waiting to hear more, Maggie turned and walked out into the hallway, heart beating quickly, blood pounding in her head. She made her way to the ladies’ loo, locking the door behind her.
Ignoring the sickening chemical smell, she leaned against the wall, taking in deep breaths, until she was sure she wasn’t going to hit anything—or anyone. She washed her face and hands, and returned to the typists’ office. A pretty gorilla. A bridge-playing dog. With everything women are doing for the war effort, is that all we are in the opinion of men? She understood why Aunt Edith had been so bitter—and appreciated the lines on the side of her mouth from where she pursed her lips. I hate Dicky Snodgrass. Hate, hate, hate.
She went back to her desk in the typists’ office, slamming a few things around. She was alone, so Mrs. Tinsley wouldn’t snap and Miss Stewart wouldn’t wince. Then she attacked her stack of typing with a vengeance.
“Sorry about that.” It was John, in the doorway, running his hands through his dark hair.
“Don’t give it a second thought,” Maggie said tightly, fingers still moving over the keys.
“It’s just—well, there are more things in play than you know.”
“Of course,” Maggie said, stopping and looking up at him. “And there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy. Or something like that.”
John took a few steps into the typists’ office. “You know it’s not personal—it’s not you.”
“Really? Well, Snodgrass certainly had me fooled, then.”
John took a few more steps toward Maggie’s desk. “Politics …” he said. “Politics isn’t like equations. It’s a nasty and dangerous business.”
Maggie’s eyes opened wide. “Dangerous? I can’t believe that my helping with RDF calculations could possibly be dangerous. Oh—perhaps I might get a paper cut. Heavens!”