Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  “All of them?” He widened his eyes.

  “All of them.”

  “Impossible.” He pursed his lips. “But I could probably keep two of them.”

  “Two of them get to stay on and two go to the fair, then?”

  A slow smile grew on his face. “I’d forgotten what a negotiator you are, Mrs. Driscoll. All right, then, two will remain in the Women’s Department permanently and two will go to the fair.”

  The girls squealed with delight, clapping their hands and talking all at once. Flossie, however, had a stirring of unease. Certainly, she was thankful to Mrs. Driscoll for being their champion, but, at school, these girls had been her classmates. Now they would be her competition.

  Flicking her fingernail and thumbnail against each other, she glanced about the studio. She wasn’t overly worried about Louise. Their instructor at school was in love with her and it wouldn’t surprise Flossie if a marriage proposal would soon be forthcoming. Theresa, a typewriter girl, had painted nude figures in Paris and done quite a good job of it. Though Flossie was the first to appreciate good art, the very idea of having a nude woman stand at the front of the room made her cheeks warm. Lulu had studied in Boston at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts. Elizabeth’s designs had been published in this year’s The Art Amateur.

  Aggie, however, was more like Flossie. Neither of them had any distinguishing recommendations in the art world, but they were both hard workers, they both loved to learn, and they both loved to paint. At the beginning of the school year, they’d made a pact. One day their paintings would hang in the Metropolitan Museum of Art right next to all those men’s.

  Now, perhaps, they could make another pact. One day they would attend the World’s Columbian Exposition and they would become permanent additions to the Women’s Department of Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company.

  She caught Aggie’s eye from across the room. The giant Swede gave her a conspiratorial wink and their pact was made.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Reeve hovered at the door to Mrs. Dinwiddie’s room, unsure of whether or not he’d be welcome for tea.

  “Sit,” she said, pouring the brew into his cup.

  He hated tea. Would have much preferred coffee, but he’d never, ever said so. He lowered himself into the upholstered chair next to hers, its fabric a fancy swirl of maroons, greens, and gold.

  “You behaved very poorly yesterday.”

  Stretching out his legs, he crossed his ankles and studied the tips of his shoes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you really?”

  “No.”

  She remained silent so long, he finally braved a look.

  The slightest hint of amused tolerance softened the lines of her mouth. “What in the world possessed you? I’ve never seen you act like that. Good heavens, Mr. Wilder, it was as if you were two and ten.”

  “Miss Jayne started it.”

  She laughed, actually laughed. “Are you listening to yourself?”

  He scowled. “You’ve seen her. She’s disrupted the entire house. Has everybody scrambling to do her bidding. Did you know she has Mr. Holliday repairing the legs of the dining room chairs so they no longer wobble? That Mr. Nettels is using his music connections to have the upright in the parlor tuned? That Miss Love borrowed Miss Jayne’s paints to add color to some sort of fading flowers on the parlor’s wallpaper? And that Miss Jayne herself installed two of her own oil paintings in the dining room?”

  Mrs. Dinwiddie put two lumps of sugar into her cup, none in his. “She’s been a breath of fresh air.”

  “She’s been a stench in our nostrils.”

  Mrs. Dinwiddie handed him his cup. “It’s as if spring has come early and filled the entire house.”

  “It’s as if the Antichrist has come and hypnotized the entire bunch of you.”

  The old woman’s eyes crinkled, then filled with an emotion so close to love that he turned away and took a big gulp of tea, burning his throat.

  “For shame.” She stirred her tea, then tapped the spoon on the cup’s rim, making a delicate tink-tink-tink. “What would the others of your sex say if they heard you assign such a heralded position to a woman?”

  He harrumphed. “It certainly would fit in with their ideology.”

  “Whose? The men’s or the women’s?”

  “Don’t start with me.” He set his cup on the table. “She’s not only causing trouble in the house, she’s causing trouble between you and me. We’ve never had a cross word between us. Not once. Not until she showed up.”

  “She was a guest in my room, Mr. Wilder.”

  “What was I?”

  “You, sir, were and are one of my most beloved friends and, as such, your actions are representative of me—particularly in that instance. I will not tolerate such abuse to those who are my guests. I will not.”

  Never, ever had he been referred to as beloved. Still, it was the scolding he heard. The disappointment. The ultimatum. Propping his elbows on his knees, he pressed the pads of his hands against his forehead. “You’re right. I know that in my mind, and I’m sorry, but she just . . .” He jumped to his feet and began to pace. “She just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “Irritates the very devil out of me.” He stopped. “Right or wrong, polite or not, she’s driving me to distraction and she is always talking. She’s worse than a magpie, if that’s even possible.”

  Mrs. Dinwiddie took a sip of tea. “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” He buried a fist against his waist, flicking his jacket back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Setting down her cup, she leaned back, then folded her hands in her lap. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t want to hear what I happen to think the problem is, so I shall keep my thoughts to myself.”

  “When have I ever not wanted to hear what you had to say?”

  “You won’t this time. Trust me.”

  He studied her for a moment. “All right. I trust you. Besides, it’s so refreshing to find a female who’s willing to keep her mouth shut, I dare not spoil the moment.”

  She chuckled under her breath. “Go on out of here, Mr. Wilder. I believe you have some work to do.”

  He nodded. “I do, actually, and I am sorry about yesterday.”

  She lifted her hand. He took it into his.

  She gave it a squeeze. “I know.”

  “How long do you think this portrait of yours is going to take?”

  “I have no idea, but I get the impression it is a drawn-out process.”

  “I mean no disrespect, but I may wait until everything is back to normal before I resume my Sunday duties.”

  She frowned. “But I have a list of things for you to do.”

  “You can give me your list tomorrow and I’ll get it done, just not on Sunday afternoons.”

  She sighed. “Very well.”

  “You try and get some rest before supper.” Releasing her hand, he returned to his room, if not refreshed, then at least no longer with a sick knot in his stomach.

  CHAPTER

  18

  But we need you, Miss King,” Mrs. Driscoll said. “Can’t you postpone your vows until after the chapel is finished?”

  Flossie glanced up from the cartoon she traced. She could have told Mrs. Driscoll any efforts to dissuade Louise from marrying Mr. Cox would fall on deaf ears. Flossie had been watching those two from September to Christmas. Ordinarily the instructors at school rotated. Mr. Cox, however, had volunteered to take on most every class Louise attended and had then taken an inordinate amount of interest in her work.

  “I know you need the help,” Louise said, her red hair clashing with her purple hat. “And I’m truly sorry, but I simply can’t stay.”

  “But why? There’s absolutely no reason to rush.” Mrs. Driscoll hesitated. “I mean, unless . . . ?”

  Louise’s face flooded with color. “Oh no, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s just that Mr. Cox has been commissioned to paint a dome for the
Manufacturer’s Building at the World’s Fair and he’s asked me to help him. Well, I, of course, want very much to help him, but I can’t run clear across the country with him unless, well, unless . . .”

  “Unless you’re married,” Mrs. Driscoll finished, her shoulders wilting a bit.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “A dome.” Mrs. Driscoll shook her head. “What a very lovely way to spend your honeymoon.”

  Louise’s smile bloomed. “We thought so, too.”

  “Well, can’t the girls and I at least throw you a little party before you go?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Driscoll, what a lovely thing that would have been, but I’m afraid there isn’t a moment to spare. We’ve a whole dome to paint and only a few months to do it in, so Mr. Cox is waiting for me on the front step right this very minute.”

  Flossie didn’t even pretend to keep working, but stood filled with delight not just for Louise’s betrothal, but for her opportunity to paint a dome for the fair. The fair. She glanced toward the front of the building wishing she could run out and congratulate Mr. Cox. The strikers had long since quit loitering about the entrance, but Mr. Tiffany wouldn’t like it at all if she went out. He still insisted everyone access the building through a circuitous route that involved the building next door.

  “Very well, dear, you’d best not keep him waiting, then.”

  She did keep him waiting, however, at least until she’d gone about the room giving each of the girls a farewell. When she reached Flossie, the two clasped each other’s hands.

  “Congratulations.” Flossie smiled at Louise. “A dome. Painted by a woman! And for the whole world to see.”

  “It will only be partly done by a woman. Kenyon will, of course, be leading the way.”

  “Even still, I’m so excited for you.”

  Louise glanced to the left and right, then leaned in and lowered her voice. “Then you must do everything you can to be the one chosen by Mr. Tiffany. Then you’ll be able to see it. But remember, Flossie, do exactly as you are advised by Mrs. Driscoll and the other designers. They are quite knowledgeable, and if you listen to them very carefully, I think you’ll have just as good a chance as all the other girls.”

  Wrapping her arms around Louise, Flossie closed her eyes. “I promise. I’ll do everything I can.”

  “Good girl. Now I have to run.” She blew a kiss to everyone, laughing, smiling, her excitement contagious.

  Waving back, Flossie couldn’t think of anything more romantic than running off to do a collaborative work of art with a painting master who loved you.

  With a sigh, she spun around and crashed into Nan. Sheltering the tray of glass she carried, Nan twisted sideways, launching Flossie backward. Nan managed to stay on her feet and keep her tray level, but Flossie lost her balance.

  Wheeling her arms, she stumbled backward, backward, until her feet lost all traction.

  The girls screamed.

  Flossie careened into a hard surface and slid to the floor, covering her head with her hands.

  The girls screamed again, then total silence.

  Flossie didn’t have to look to know what she’d done. She’d landed against a giant sheet of plate glass propped up next to the windows. Thousands of fragments of colored glass, which made up their Story of the Cross window, had been adhered to the plate glass with tiny bits of beeswax. With her backside, she’d brought down an entire section of their work.

  Mrs. Driscoll rushed to her. “Are you hurt? Did the glass cut you?”

  Flossie sat stunned for a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Mrs. Driscoll and Aggie helped her to her feet.

  Flossie looked over her shoulder, then sucked in her breath. “Our window!”

  The Story of the Cross was to eventually include five scenes giving tribute to Christ’s birth, ministry, resurrection, and reign. Flossie had wiped away an entire decorative section in the lower quadrant.

  She covered her mouth. “Oh, nooooo!”

  Mrs. Driscoll plucked off pieces of colored glass, which were now stuck to the back of Flossie’s skirt. “At least you didn’t bring down the plate of glass. It could’ve killed you. Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. My petticoats must have protected me, but look.” She turned to Mrs. Driscoll, her legs beginning to shake. “All that work. All that work. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, I just turned around and—”

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later, as crowded as it is in here.” Mrs. Driscoll handed Flossie one of the pieces of glass. “If they hadn’t slid down with you, they probably would have broken. Come on, let’s get these back where they belong.”

  Accepting the glass, Flossie looked from it to Mrs. Driscoll to the window. Never, ever had she fastened the finished colored pieces on to the glass easel. Every part of the glassmaking process excited her, but this was where the magic happened. This was where the composition came to life.

  “I’ll start at the top,” Mrs. Driscoll said, rolling a piece of wax between her fingers, then sticking it onto the back of an ochre-colored fragment. “You start on the border.”

  Flossie looked at the cartoon. A string of maroon lined the bottom edge of this section. Kneeling to the ground, she collected the maroon pieces she’d knocked to the floor. A moment later, Aggie knelt beside her with some trays. The two of them sorted the fallen glass by color until all had been separated.

  “Good luck,” Aggie whispered before returning to her table.

  When Flossie had been outlining individual colors on a cartoon, she hadn’t really thought about the sheer magnitude of glass that would eventually have to be cut and incorporated into each window. It was one thing to watch someone else do this job, quite another to be faced with it yourself. When quitting time came, Flossie and Mrs. Driscoll still had hundreds of pieces left.

  “I’m afraid I’ve come down with a migraine,” Mrs. Driscoll said, rubbing her forehead. “We’ll have to finish this tomorrow.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Flossie pressed a piece of olive-colored glass to the giant sheet of clear glass they called an easel. “You go on home. I’ll just finish up this row.”

  Mrs. Driscoll hesitated. “Don’t stay too late, mind you. It wouldn’t do for you to be out after dark.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Heaving a sigh, Mrs. Driscoll lumbered to her feet. “All right, then. Good night, Miss Jayne.”

  The other girls left shortly after Mrs. Driscoll until it was just Flossie and Aggie.

  “You want some help?”

  Flossie glanced up. Aggie’s blond hair and blue eyes contrasted sharply with Flossie’s black hair and brown eyes. The girl was all length and joints, while Flossie was padded with curves.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Flossie said.

  “I don’t mind.” Settling down cross-legged beside her, Aggie picked up a piece of glass and held it to the light. “It’s like a puzzle, isn’t it?”

  “Except there are no interlocking pieces, only the cartoon, the numbered manila guide, and the lines of demarcation painted onto the glass easel.”

  “This is only going so slowly because you don’t have the templates anymore.”

  Flossie glanced at the parts of the window that had yet to be done. At the top, all the pieces of numbered manila paper that had been cut into templates had been stuck to the glass with wax. Each piece of paper was separated by an eighth of an inch. Ordinarily, the selector would remove only one template and pass a piece of colored glass over the clear space until she found one that matched the color on the cartoon.

  She’d then hand the selected piece and the template to the cutter. The glass cutter would cut around the template, put a piece of wax on the back of her fragment, and affix it in that same spot on the massive sheet glass. Since her template had a number, she could easily locate its exact position on the easel by finding its corresponding number on the giant manila guide. Day after day, week after week, the pair did this until every pie
ce of paper had been removed and replaced by colored glass.

  When Flossie knocked off the pieces, there weren’t any numbered templates left behind to use as cross-references. Only the fallen glass.

  “You’re going to stay until it’s done, aren’t you?” Aggie asked.

  “I am, but you don’t have to.”

  “How will you know which color goes where when you’ve no sun to hold it up to?”

  “I’ll have to make do with a lantern, I suppose.”

  “No, we’ll have to make do with a lantern.”

  The girls exchanged a smile. Neither paid attention to the snow that had started that afternoon and picked up momentum once darkness fell.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Reeve stepped into the vestibule, stomped the snow off his feet, and blew onto his hands. It had been coming down all day and all night. Yet still no sign of Miss Jayne.

  She’d not made it home for dinner—leaving the entire household in a state of confusion. It was as if they couldn’t figure out where to sit without place cards. He’d simply returned to his normal chair and everyone else eventually followed suit.

  But there were no painted slips of paper beneath the plates, and no Miss Jayne to facilitate conversation. Mr. Oyster made a few feeble attempts at engaging those present, but without Miss Jayne, the discussion fizzled.

  After dinner, everyone adjourned to the parlor. He’d normally have returned to his room, but he was too familiar with the streets of New York. Too familiar with the desperation of union strikers. Too familiar with the dangers that could befall an unescorted lady after dark.

  With a mumbled excuse, he’d wrapped a scarf around his neck, pulled on his coat, placed a derby atop his head, and gone outside—three times—to see if he could find her. She may have been a New Woman, she may have thrown a wrench into his and everybody else’s routines, but he didn’t really think she was as equipped for independence as she thought she was. And now she was out there alone and perhaps in trouble.