Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  She flushed. “Oh, no. I simply attended art school during the summers of my youth and then enrolled in the New York School of Applied Design.”

  “The School of Applied Design.” He nodded. “Is that where you did the seashore portrait that hangs above your bed?”

  “No, I did that last summer.”

  “Well, it’s an excellent piece. You have a definite affinity for painting women with auburn hair. Best I’ve seen, in fact.”

  She smoothed the napkin on her lap. “Thank you. Red hair is my favorite.”

  “Did you see her portrait of Mrs. Dinwiddie?” Miss Love asked.

  “Indeed I did.” Mrs. Trostle tapped her mouth with her finger. “I wonder if Monsieur Bourgeois would be interested in seeing it.”

  Her husband leaned close to catch her words. “Bourgeois? Jean-Pierre Bourgeois? An excellent idea. I’ll ask him when I see him next week.”

  Holliday wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Who’s Jean-Pierre Bourgeois?”

  “A gallery owner.” Mrs. Trostle placed her flatware across her plate at a precise angle, as if she’d just completed a meal at the queen’s table.

  Mrs. Holliday imitated the woman, placing her flatware in the same position even though she’d not finished eating.

  Miss Jayne craned her neck to better see the Trostles. “You know an art gallery owner?”

  “My, my, yes.” Mrs. Trostle took a sip of tea. “We’ve known Monsieur Bourgeois from when we were living in Paris years ago. He’s opening a new gallery on West Twenty-Third, and instead of catering exclusively to European art, he also wants to promote interest in American art.”

  Miss Jayne exchanged a glance with Miss Love. “And you think he might be interested in my paintings?”

  “I do, but for some reason I seem to remember he was looking for landscapes.” Mrs. Trostle shrugged. “It’s of no matter. Chester will speak to him and if he is interested in portraits or ladies with glorious auburn hair, then we shall arrange for you to meet him.”

  Miss Jayne’s entire face lit. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Trostle. And thank you, Mr. Trostle,” she said, projecting her voice.

  The man relaxed the muscles around his eye and tucked the monocle into his vest pocket. “No promises, my dear. Monsieur Bourgeois is very particular, but as my wife mentioned, he is always willing to look at new talent. So, we shall see.”

  The conversation turned to the arrival of the princess of Spain at the Chicago World’s Fair, but Reeve could see Miss Jayne’s mind was a million miles away. He hoped her disappointment wouldn’t be too great if her painting was refused. Maybe he could work something similar into his Marylee story. The bibliomaniac situation, however, was a concern. He’d definitely need to do something about that.

  DELMONICO’S RESTAURANT  20

  “The maître d’hôtel opened a door leading to an outdoor dining area, the summer breeze stirring her gray-and-rose-striped taffeta gown.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  Flossie stood uncertainly inside the doorway of Delmonico’s in Madison Square, the aroma of sweet bread a favorable portent of the meal to come. The Trostles had not only spoken to their friend, Monsieur Bourgeois, but they’d shown him her paintings last week while she was at work. He’d been impressed and had asked if she’d join him for lunch.

  She scanned the dining room in search of a Frenchman by himself. The mirrors lining the walls of the restaurant multiplied its size. Crisp white cloths covered the tables. The fresh flowers gracing their centers could not compete, however, with the stunning summer toilettes of the women surrounding them. A robust fountain in the center added the soothing sound of water to the low murmur of voices. Never had she been in a restaurant so fine. Certainly, her father was a member of a few clubs, but nothing like this.

  A clean-shaven maître d’hôtel in an impeccable black suit stepped forward.

  She clutched her parasol. “I’m to meet Monsieur Jean-Pierre Bourgeois.”

  “Right this way.”

  She glanced up at the frescoed ceiling, briefly thinking how much prettier a Tiffany glass mosaic would be. The maître d’hôtel opened a door leading to an outdoor dining area, the summer breeze stirring her gray-and-rose-striped taffeta gown.

  A diminutive man with olive skin and warm brown eyes sat alone. At their approach, he stood. “Mademoiselle Jayne?”

  “How do you do.”

  He took her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles, then held the chair for her as he addressed the maître d’hôtel. “Punch à la Romaine for the lady,” he said, his French accent thick.

  She’d never been without the buffering presence of another person when partaking of a meal with a man, but he looked to be her father’s age, so what could be the harm? Besides, she was a New Woman now. If she were going to make her way in the world, she’d best learn to stand on her own two feet.

  “I was expecting someone older,” he said. “Your paintings suggest an expertise not often seen in such youth.”

  “Thank you.” She flushed with pleasure.

  Over calf’s head soup, chicken cutlets, and stewed beef à la Jardinière, she told him of her work at the School of Applied Design and at Tiffany’s. He told her of his exhibitions in Paris and London, his affiliation with the Society of French Artists, and the relationships he’d established with American painters living abroad—including Remington, Chase, and Sargent.

  “I’ve been much impressed with the art coming out of this country.” He gestured with his hand, a gold ring on his pinkie finger catching a ray of sunshine. “I was stunned, therefore, to discover the galleries here only show European work. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to introduce your patrons to something that’s been right under their noses this whole time.”

  “You’ll only be showing American work, then?”

  The clamor of iron-shod wheels on Fifth Avenue’s Belgian blocks partially drowned out his answer. “. . . include European art, of course, but my main focus will be on American painters, which brings me to your work. I was quite taken with the painting of the woman at the seashore. Tell me about it.”

  Lifting one shoulder, she spooned up a raspberry in a delicate long-stemmed crystal dessert bowl. “I love to paint women’s hair, especially in the breeze. Red hair’s my favorite. It’s so beautiful in the sunshine, isn’t it?”

  He gave her a small smile. “Oui, Mademoiselle, it most certainly is. Where were you when you painted it?”

  “In Gloucester, just north of Boston. Our instructor took us down to the beach.” Swallowing the raspberry, she shook her head. “It was so windy, my canvas blew over two or three times, but I wish you could have seen the sky that day. It was the clearest blue I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “I did see it.”

  “You’ve been to Gloucester?”

  “In your painting I have.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

  “Je vous en prie. That’s why I asked Monsieur Trostle if I could meet you. If you will allow me, I’d like to include it in my exhibit with the intention of selling it.”

  She knew this was what they were to discuss, but she’d thought she’d have to convince him somehow. Heavens, had he taken her to this lavish restaurant to convince her?

  She glanced over the decorative rail separating Delmonico’s patrons from the pedestrians. Across the street, a nursemaid pushed a perambulator along the park’s winding pathway and past the monument of Admiral Farragut. A stately carriage with two liveried footmen passed by, momentarily blocking the view, then pulled up to the curb.

  Smoothing the ribbon about her waist, she swallowed. “Nothing would please me more, sir. How much do you think you would be able to sell it for?”

  “I will ask four hundred, and will take no less than three hundred.”

  Her jaw slackened. “Dollars? Four hundred dollars?”

  “Oui.” He caught the waiter’s eye. “Un petit café, s’il vous plaît.” He studied her. “Have you ever had you
r work shown in a gallery before?”

  She tried to concentrate on the question, but was still reeling from his estimated selling price. Three hundred dollars would be an entire year’s worth of wages. Four hundred dollars was unthinkable. Especially for one painting. “I, um, no, I’m afraid I’ve never had my work in a gallery before.”

  “It is nothing for you to worry over. I will take care of everything.”

  Her heart soared. If she did well in this showing, surely it would lead to more. This was the break she’d been waiting for. Every single artist in the Metropolitan Museum had started out in a showing just like this. What Monsieur Bourgeois didn’t realize was she’d have paid him for the opportunity, not the other way around. Beneath her skirt, she covered one toe of her boot with the other. “So, all I do is bring you the painting?”

  “Well, you’ll need to direct me to the man who takes care of your business affairs.”

  Touching her napkin to her lips, she scooted up in her chair. “I’m a New Woman, so I take care of my own affairs.”

  Propping an elbow on his armrest, he tapped his mouth with his knuckle. “You have no father? No future husband?”

  “I have a father, but I live on my own. I’m a working girl. All business is to be discussed with me.”

  The waiter served their coffee, then removed their empty dessert bowls.

  “You’ll forgive me,” he said. “But it seems most indelicate.”

  “I won’t take offense, I assure you. Now, what is it you wanted to discuss?”

  Pulling his brows together, he took a sip of coffee, then gave a tiny shrug. “Well, I’m not sure if you are aware or not, but there is much involved in putting on an exhibit, so I require a fee up front.”

  She blinked. She hadn’t thought about his fee, but, of course, he would have one. “I see. How much is your fee?”

  “One hundred fifty dollars.”

  She sucked in her breath.

  “But you would keep the full price of the sale,” he said. “Be it three or four hundred.”

  She shifted in her seat. One-hundred and fifty dollars? Panic made her stomach tighten. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have that kind of money. Would it be possible to remit payment after the sale is made?”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. There are many up-front costs involved.” Leaning forward, he rested his arms on the table. “A man would understand this. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to speak with your father?”

  “No, no.” The sun had moved across the sky and now cast its rays directly onto her. Tiny beads of moisture formed along her spine. “It’s just, I, well, I simply don’t have a sum of that magnitude at my fingertips.” She ran a finger around the rim of her china cup. She wanted this so badly. Imagine, earning a year’s worth of income in one easy sale.

  He tapped the table with his thumb. “I don’t usually interfere with my artists’ financial concerns, but perhaps you would not mind a suggestion?”

  “Not at all.” She pulled a handkerchief from her cuff and dabbed it along her hairline.

  “Is there someone you can go to? An uncle? A grandfather? You would be able to reimburse them as soon as the painting sold—and I know it will sell, otherwise I wouldn’t offer to feature it.” He finished his coffee. “What if we did this, what if I lowered my fee to one hundred dollars? You are such a lovely girl who I think will one day become a very important artist. So, I will lower it for you, but you mustn’t tell anyone else.”

  She bit her lip. Maybe her father would give it to her. According to her mother, he’d done rather well at the races, for once. Perhaps she could convince him it would be like investing in a horse, only it was his daughter and his chances would be much better.

  Nodding, she stuffed her handkerchief away and sat up straight. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Excellent. I would hate for us both to lose this opportunity and for the public to lose the joy you could bring them.” He smiled. “I have a feeling this is going to be the beginning of a long and rewarding relationship, Mademoiselle.”

  “I’d like that, sir. I’d like it very much.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  Mrs. Vanderbilt came by this week.” Mother threaded tiny beads onto her needle, slid them down, then sewed them onto the bodice of a ball gown she was making.

  Tucking her feet up under her skirt, Flossie rocked herself in the chair. “Did she stay long enough for tea?”

  “Indeed she did. As a matter of fact, her cousin is getting married. Mrs. Vanderbilt has asked me to sew the dresses for the wedding.”

  Flossie took a quick breath. “Oh, Mother, congratulations. What a testament to the quality of your work.”

  Mother threaded another set of beads. “I’ve not decided yet whether I’m going to do it. It would be a great deal of work.”

  Seated on the couch reading the Times, Papa turned down a corner of his paper. “And a great deal of money.”

  “I fear it would be the death of me.” Mother sighed. “My headaches have started up again.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Flossie said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t do it, then.”

  “That’s what I keep telling your father, but I admit it would be lovely to have the extra income. We could buy that parlor grand piano I’ve been wanting so badly.”

  Folding his paper, Papa crossed his legs. “I’d like to hear a little bit more, Flossie, about this art gallery your mother was telling me of.”

  Flossie rocked her chair. “Well, the owner of the gallery, Monsieur Bourgeois, took me to Delmonico’s yesterday.”

  “Delmonico’s?” Papa frowned. “Who went with you?”

  She lowered her legs and sat up in her chair. “I went by myself.”

  “Oh, Flossie.” Her mother looked up from her sewing. “You mustn’t do things like that, dear. It’s too forward.”

  Ordinarily she’d have argued with her, but tonight she decided it would behoove her to be on her best behavior. “Yes, Mother.”

  “How old is this Bourgeois fellow?” Papa asked.

  “He’s an older man—about your age, I think. He’s secured a space over on West Twenty-Third that he plans to use as his gallery.”

  Mother lowered the fabric in her hands. “What did he say about your paintings?”

  “He liked my seashore one very much. And guess what? He thinks he can get four hundred dollars for it.”

  Papa’s brows shot up. “Four hundred dollars?”

  “Yes, and if he can’t get that, he said he wouldn’t take any less than three hundred. Can you imagine? He’s going to be featuring European artists, of course, but he wants to make a name for himself as the gallery with premier American artists.”

  “Like who?” Papa asked.

  “Remington, Chase, and Sargent are the ones I know of for certain. I’m not sure who else.”

  “That’s quite the company you’ll be keeping.”

  She gave a small smile. “Yes, it’s rather hard to believe. I’m very excited.”

  He tapped his finger on the back of the couch. “Is he only taking that one painting?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to afford more than one.”

  “Afford?” He frowned. “What do you mean, afford?”

  Reinforcing a pleat at her waist, she glanced at Mother, then back at him. “Well, artists are subject to set-up costs.”

  “What kind of set-up costs?”

  She took a deep breath. “A hundred dollars paid in advance.”

  He jerked himself upright. “A hundred dollars?”

  “It was one-hundred-fifty at first, but I bargained him down to one hundred.”

  “That’s thirty-five percent. Highway robbery.”

  Mother set her sewing on the table beside her. “But even if she sells it for three hundred, Bert, that would still leave her two hundred. Think of it. Two hundred dollars—for one painting.”

  He scowled at Flossie. “Why isn’t he taking his cut out of the sale? Why
is he making you pay it up front?”

  She clasped a locket at her neck and ran it back and forth across the chain. “He says it’s very expensive to put on an exhibit, but he’s confident my painting will sell, and when it does, the three hundred dollars will only be the beginning.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And just where are you going to get a hundred dollars?”

  She said nothing, simply looked at him.

  He began to shake his head. “Oh, no. Not this time, little girl. It’s one thing to send you to the School of Applied Design, but this, this is totally different. I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t give you that much.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to give it to me. I’ll pay you back.”

  “And if the painting doesn’t sell?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Bert.” Mother shook out her skirt. “The painting will sell. It’s outstanding. Your favorite, in fact.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “It’s a lovely painting, and I don’t wish to upset you, but realistically I’m simply not sure someone will pay three hundred dollars for it.”

  Flossie swallowed, her heart in her throat. “I know it’s a lot, Papa, but people come into Mr. Tiffany’s showroom all the time and pay twice that amount for nothing more than a vase.”

  He peeked up at her. “His name is Louis Comfort Tiffany. That’s why he can demand those prices. Your name is Florence Rebecca Jayne. It’s not the same.”

  “Mr. Tiffany’s name didn’t always mean what it does now.” She looked him directly in the eye, knowing better than to show any weakness. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Tiffany—his father, the jeweler on Fifth Avenue, I mean—originally borrowed a thousand dollars from his father, a mere miller, when he was first starting out. He used it to open a small stationery and gift shop, and look at him now.” She clasped her hands. “I’m only asking for a hundred, Papa. And I’ll pay you back, just as soon as it sells.”

  Much as she wanted to mention the races, she couldn’t quite work up the nerve.

  “I want you to consider it, Bert.” Mother wet her lips. “If Flossie’s painting sells—and I’m sure it will—then she won’t have to work for Tiffany anymore and she’d be able to come home.”