by Deeanne Gist
Clasping her hands, Flossie said nothing. She wasn’t coming back home. She loved living in the boardinghouse and she loved her job at Tiffany’s. Now wasn’t the time for that quarrel, though.
With a pained expression, her father pushed himself up off the couch. “I’m sorry, moppet. It’s too much. And we really don’t know anything about this Bourgeois fellow.”
“But the Trostles know him and they—”
He looked at Mother. “I’m going to retire now.”
“Bert, I—”
Leaning over, he gave Flossie a peck on the cheek. “Come have dinner with us soon. I miss having you at the table.”
She watched him walk from the room, tears stacking up against her throat. “I didn’t expect him to say no.”
Scooting to the edge of her chair, Mother lowered her voice. “It’s of no matter. I’ll lend you the money.”
Flossie whipped her head around. “You?”
“Yes. Your father doesn’t know this, but when he started going to the races on a regular basis, I began taking in jobs that I didn’t tell him about, and I hid the money away.”
“What?” Flossie’s eyes darted to the door. “But how?”
Mother waved her hand in the air. “Keep your voice down. I only worked on them while he was gone. He never knew the difference, and neither did you. That’s why I had so much extra work for you, because I kept getting behind on the jobs he did know about.”
She stared at her mother with incredulity. “But what about, what about when you . . .” Slapped me, she wanted to say, but didn’t.
Mother understood what Flossie meant, though, for the lines of her forehead creased. “I still feel awful about that, and quite ashamed. I think the reason I reacted so vehemently when you suggested I secrete money away was because I was already doing that very thing.” Her eyes filled. “I’m so sorry.”
The fire in the grate popped, its warmth toasting the room.
Flossie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t cry, Mama, and don’t be sorry. Even if he didn’t gamble your money on races, it’s still perfectly acceptable to keep some back.”
“Whatever the case, I want you to have it.”
“You have a hundred dollars?”
Mother ran her hand up the back of her hair. “Well, no, not a hundred, but I do have seventy-five. Do you think Monsieur Bourgeois would take seventy-five?”
“Even if he would, I’ll not take it.” She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
“But I want you to have it. It’s doing nothing but sitting there.”
“And if Papa loses big?”
“After this last win, he said he’s going to stop.”
“And how many times has he made that promise?”
Mother stood. “No more arguing. Either you give it to the Frenchman or I’ll give it to the Trostles myself and ask them to pass it on to Monsieur Bourgeois. Besides, I can take the Vanderbilt wedding job and make a good portion of it up.”
“You cannot possibly do an entire wedding without Papa knowing about it, and besides, you said the wedding was too much work. You said you were getting headaches.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Flossie rose. “No, Mother. What if the painting doesn’t sell?”
“It will.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then at least I’ll know I did everything I could to help.” She hesitated. “Botheration, I can’t get it for you now, not with your father home, but I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”
“I really don’t like this, Mother. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”
“Since you’ll be at work, I’ll go to Klausmeyer’s and put it inside your brown leather boots. Now, you’d best get going. It’s late enough as it is.”
Looping her hand through Flossie’s elbow, Mother all but pushed her out the door.
CHAPTER
35
Ever since Miss Jayne has been here, she’s been putting questions under plates, organizing games in the parlor, and painting portraits of the boarders. Now that the chapel is complete and she’s home in the evenings, she’s doing it all again. This time she’s painting Mrs. Holliday’s portrait. I’d forgotten how much of a disruption she is. I won’t be able to include that aspect of Miss Jayne’s personality in my column. No one would believe it.
Still struggling to write his satire each week, Reeve had put together quite a collection of notes about Miss Jayne.
Try as I might, I can’t seem to separate Marylee and Miss Jayne in my mind. At first, I’d only planned to use Miss Jayne as inspiration. Now, however, I find I study her constantly and she never disappoints. Every night she does something that gives me an idea for the story.
Miss Love peeked into Reeve’s room.
“Am I disturbing you?” She glanced at the papers on his desk.
Having heard the numerous conversations between her and Miss Jayne, he knew her much better than he’d ever known any woman—other than Mrs. Dinwiddie—and the same went for Miss Jayne. But neither one knew it.
“Not at all.” He returned his pen to its holder, then covered his notes with a blank piece of paper.
She looked about his room, her gaze touching on Cat, who licked her paws and smoothed her whiskers. “Mrs. Klausmeyer knows about your stray.”
“Yes. She’s upped my rent.”
“Oh, my. You might not be able to help us, then.”
He leaned against the back of his chair. “Help you with what?”
“A collection. Mrs. Trostle started one up since Miss Jayne’s a bit short of the deposit Monsieur Bourgeois is asking of her.”
Straightening his leg, he pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. “A bit short? According to Mrs. Trostle, she’s an entire month’s wages short. Passing a hat amongst us won’t raise the twenty-five dollars she needs.”
“All the same, every little bit helps.”
He counted out fifty cents, and handed it to her.
Her eyes lit with surprise. “That’s very generous of you.”
“It’s a foolhardy thing she’s doing.” He returned the remaining coins to his pocket.
Miss Love stiffened.
He held up his hand. “Just my opinion, but in my experience, an agent earns his percentage after the piece is sold, not before.”
“And what experience do you have with agents?”
Threading his fingers together, he rested them against his stomach. “None.”
She gave him a knowing look. “That’s what I thought.”
He tilted his head. “You don’t like me very much, do you, Miss Love?”
She tugged down her cuffs. “I don’t like your articles about the New Woman.”
“But you’re a schoolteacher, not a New Woman.”
“My roommate’s a New Woman and, therefore, I take it personally when you say all those things about her.”
Of late, he found he didn’t really think of Miss Jayne as a New Woman. Even though she called herself one, she didn’t entirely fit the mold, at least not the mold presented on the lecture platforms and in print. She didn’t have a chip on her shoulder. She didn’t malign men or call them tyrants. She didn’t argue that his gender’s only desire was to make women cower, cringe, and be helplessly dependent, always ministering to man’s wants, whims, and fancies. Not once had he heard her even hint that men were selfish, violent brutes greedy for power, or that they wished only to have the companionship of an inferior rather than one who was his equal. No, she wasn’t a New Woman, she was simply a naive girl trying to make her way in a man’s world. His arguments were not with her.
“I’m not talking about her specifically,” he said. “Just the New Woman in general.”
“But there are no generalities. When you write those articles, you are talking about Miss Jayne and many of my other friends.” With a glance to the side, she took a step back. “In any event, I’m sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for your contribution.”
She flounc
ed down the hall toward her room. He sighed, knowing he’d just wasted fifty cents, for Miss Jayne would never be able to afford Bourgeois’ fee.
CHAPTER
36
Out of all the Tiffany Girls, Lulu Sturtevant was the quietest. She didn’t style her hair. She didn’t wear any jewelry. She didn’t visit or interact. She simply numbered manila carbon copies and cut them out. Sometimes Flossie even forgot the girl was there.
She wasn’t forgetting today, for Mrs. Driscoll had asked her to help cut glass. Lulu took the same seriousness to glass cutting as she had taken to her previous assignments, and by the end of the day she was cutting two pieces for every one of Flossie’s.
Now that the chapel was finished and had finally opened at the fair, the Women’s Department had been working on windows commissioned by churches. Their current window was based on a thirteenth-century painting by Pietro Perugino. Mr. Tiffany had returned from Chicago to briefly check on things here and had taken particular interest in this project, for he planned to make Joseph of Arimathea look like his own father.
“I’ll be sugared,” he said, his lisp pronounced. “Look how much you ladies accomplished today.”
“It was because of Miss Sturtevant,” Nan said. “Look how much she cut—and in just one day.” With a wave of her hand, Nan indicated the robe of the pious woman, the white shroud Christ lay on, and the burgundy folds of Joseph’s cloak. “And did you see this?” She pointed to a piece of reddish-purple glass that held a dramatic swirl of black pigment. “Look how she cut the piece so the swirl of the glass looks like the swirl of Joseph’s hem.”
Mr. Tiffany bent over, inspecting the piece. “Excellent work. Just excellent.”
Color high, Lulu somehow managed to look him in the eye. He was so generous with his praise of her, but he didn’t so much as greet Flossie. It was the first time since she’d been there that they hadn’t exchanged pleasantries.
He might not have realized his slight, but Nan did, and she gave Flossie a triumphant glare when he left. Turning away, Flossie continued to cut her pieces. She’d also worked on Joseph’s cloak and had positioned her templates so the peculiarities of the glass caused the garment to appear as if it bunched and twisted.
She’d said nothing, however. It was Lulu’s first day to cut glass and the girl never received any notice whatsoever. Flossie wouldn’t begrudge her the attention. A moment later, however, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of resentment when Lulu reached over and began to start on Flossie’s stack since there was no more glass in her own.
CHAPTER
37
Flossie stepped into the art gallery, light streaming through its front window. The newly applied BOURGEOIS’ ART GALLERY made an arch across the window, the letters backward from this angle. The scent of beeswax, linseed oil, and vinegar testified that the paneled walls had recently been polished. There was no furniture, only a barren floor and gleaming walls. Framed artwork wrapped in brown paper lay propped against its perimeter. Scrawled across the papers were names such as Audubon, Granger, Jayne, and Cloudman.
Her heart skipped a beat. Jayne. Right there between two great American artists. She still couldn’t believe Monsieur Bourgeois had agreed to accept her painting when she’d been short the deposit by twenty-two dollars and change.
“Mademoiselle.”
Turning, she smiled. The petite Frenchman pulled a jacket over his shirtsleeves, though he had no tie or waistcoat beneath it. Even still, his black hair was in perfect order, a fine complement to his dark skin and eyes.
“I caught you in the middle of working.” She clutched her reticule with both hands. “Did I misunderstand what time I was to call?”
“Not at all. The fault is mine. I’m afraid the time got away from me.” He looked around. “I’d offer you a seat, but I regret to say I have none. The furniture was due to arrive this morning, but it has yet to make an appearance.”
She loved his accent, could listen to it all day long and never grow weary of it.
“It’s all right.” Opening her reticule, she removed a pouch heavy with coin. “I just came by to give you your fee. It’s all there if you’d like to count it. All seventy-seven dollars and thirty cents.”
Frowning, he slipped it into his coat pocket. “I know you are a—how do you say it? A New Woman? But I’d expected a man to deliver this on your behalf.”
She lifted her chin. “And as I told you before, I take care of my own affairs.”
He studied her, his brown eyes unreadable. “I see. Well, New Woman or not, I’d never be so crass as to count coins in front of you.”
“Would you count them in front of a man?”
He took her elbow. “That is not for you to worry over.”
Stiffening, she carefully withdrew. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
“I trust you.”
“And if you find I’ve counted incorrectly?”
He rubbed his jaw. “Have you counted incorrectly?”
“I have not.”
“Then that is good enough for me.” He took her elbow again. “Now, let me walk you around and tell you how I have envisioned everything.”
For the next twenty minutes they circled the room. He told her which types of paintings would hang in what sections. Where he planned to place the seating. Who he thought would attend. And then he showed her a sketch of the invitations he was having embossed. He even unwrapped Audubon’s painting to let her have a peek. “It’s a barred owl.”
A brown owl in a threatening pose with wings arched back screeched at a squirrel who’d invaded his tree limb.
“Exquisite,” she said. “Look at the bark, and the fuzziness of the squirrel’s tail. His attention to detail is simply incredible.”
“Quite so.” He wrapped it back up.
“Are there any other woman artists being displayed?” she asked.
“There are not. You are my only female, but that shall be our little secret. I think it best not to put any barriers in front of the buyers. Let them fall in love with the painting the way I did. When they are all vying to purchase it, only then will I reveal your true identity.”
She wrapped the ribbons of her reticule’s handle about her finger. “I’m very eager to see it up and on the wall with the others. When can I come back?”
He waved his index finger in a negative motion. “Non, non. I don’t allow the artists to come by in advance. It is a rule. Otherwise, they tell me they want me to move their painting to here and someone else’s to there.” He took her hand in his. “You must trust me, ma chère. I will make sure your work is displayed to perfection. We will see you on opening night, but not a moment before. Promise me you will do as I request?”
She nodded. “I understand. And I promise.”
“That’s a good girl.” At the door, he kissed her hand. “I shall see you two weeks from Saturday for the opening. Be sure to wear something beautiful.”
“I will. And thank you, Monsieur Bourgeois. For everything.” With a tiny wave, she stepped back onto the sidewalk, excited and scared to death all at the same time.
DINING CAR 21
“ ‘I’ll be eating in its fancy dining car and sleeping in an actual berth.’ ”
CHAPTER
38
The front door slammed and the sound of rapid footfalls hurried toward him. Reeve looked up from his work in time to see Miss Jayne fly by in a blur of navy and white. What was she doing home in the middle of the day? He was on his feet and in the hallway before he even realized he’d moved.
“Has something happened?” he asked, still gripping his pen.
With a hand on her doorknob, she turned to him, eyes bright, color high, smile radiant. The wallop it packed nearly sent him to his knees.
“Guess what?” She hugged herself and gave a little bounce.
“Your painting sold?” He couldn’t fathom it, for not only was the gallery not open yet, the picture wasn’t of the caliber one would expect to see in an art ga
llery. Still, he was no art expert, so perhaps he was wrong.
“I’m going to the fair!” A laugh like the jingling of chimes filled the hallway.
“The fair? How? When?”
“Tomorrow!” Throwing her hands wide, she spun in a circle, advancing toward him, her skirt belling out. At the last moment, she stopped a mere foot away and listed to the right.
He reached out and steadied her.
“Elizabeth is very ill and can’t go.” She covered her mouth, looking like she’d just been caught in the midst of a deadly sin, yet wasn’t completely sorry for it. “That sounds horrible. I shouldn’t be so thrilled she’s sick. And I’m not, truly I’m not, but I can’t help being just a little excited because they asked me to go in her stead.”
“What’s all that ruckus out there?” Mrs. Dinwiddie’s voice held the scratchiness of one who’d dozed off in her chair.
“Oh, Mrs. Dinwiddie, guess what?” Miss Jayne raced into the woman’s room, took the knitting from her hands, pulled her to her feet, and gave her a giant bear hug. “I’m going to the fair! I’m going to the fair!”
Mrs. Dinwiddie patted Miss Jayne, seemingly more out of reflex than anything else. “What? What’s this?”
He returned his pen to his room, then propped a shoulder against Mrs. Dinwiddie’s doorframe. Miss Jayne raised the old woman’s arm and twirled beneath it as if they were in the middle of a ballroom. Finally, she let go and proceeded to jump. She clapped her hands, she bounced like a bunny, she laughed with unrestraint.
Mrs. Dinwiddie chuckled and, in spite of himself, he found a grin tugging at his mouth.
“I can’t believe it.” Clasping her hands, Miss Jayne pressed them beneath her chin. “Mr. Tiffany is already there, but he’s having a carriage sent for me in the morning which will take me to Grand Central Station where I’ll meet up with Nan. From there, I’m to take a Pullman car to Chicago. Can you imagine? A Pullman. I’ll be eating in its fancy dining car and sleeping in an actual berth. I can’t even fathom it.”