by Deeanne Gist
“Yes.”
“Well, I could ask them to meet with you, but I’m not sure when they’d have the time. We work solid during the day and after the long hours we worked getting the chapel ready, everyone is anxious to leave come quitting time.”
“So you don’t think they’d stay and talk to me?”
“I could ask them, but I’m not optimistic.”
His shoulders drooped.
She slowly straightened. “Wait, I have an idea.”
He looked at her sideways. “What kind of idea?”
She stood. “Mr. Tiffany is holding a reception in celebration of the awards his chapel has won so far at the fair. It’s this Saturday at the San Remo—a magnificent hotel on Central Park West. It would be perfect. He’s invited all of us Tiffany Girls.”
“A reception? You mean, like a ball?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “And you’re going?”
“Of course I’m going.” She nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it. None of us would. Well, actually, there are a couple of girls who don’t have anything appropriate to wear and don’t feel as if they’ll fit in.” She shrugged. “Truth be told, none of us will fit in, but I still want to go. I’ve lent out dresses to the Tiffany Girls who are similar in size to me, and the rest are remaking gowns they already have.”
He shook his head. “The World would never be able to secure an invitation to that.”
“The paper won’t need to secure an invitation. Mr. Tiffany told us to give him the name of a guest we’d like to bring. The other girls are bringing family members. Out of my family here at 438, I’d thought to submit Mr. Oyster’s name.”
He stiffened. “Oyster?”
“Well, yes. I didn’t want to go alone, naturally, nor take my father when I couldn’t take Mother as well. I haven’t yet submitted Mr. Oyster’s name, though. Something kept holding me back.”
He glanced up and down the hall, then approached her, lowering his voice. “You must be very careful not to encourage Oyster. He doesn’t, um, speak respectfully about the fair sex, and his motives for the charm he exudes are not completely honorable.”
She shooed his words away with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be silly. I’ve every confidence he’d behave as a gentleman with me.”
He clasped her arm. “You must heed me on this, Miss Jayne. There are things I know about him that you don’t.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I won’t hear any ill talk of him. He’s part of our family.”
He gave her a gentle shake. “He’s not part of your family. None of us at 438 are part of your family.”
“Yes you are, and he’s been nothing but the consummate gentleman in my presence.”
“Which is what makes him so dangerous.”
She rolled her eyes. “Everyone is dangerous in your sight. Even I’m a danger to myself, according to you. But, we digress. Would you like to go to the reception or not? It would give you a chance to interview the girls and it would give me an escort for the evening. Either way, it makes no difference to me.”
“And if I don’t go, you’ll submit Oyster’s name?”
“I imagine I will.”
“Then I’ll go. What time?”
“You’re squeezing my arm.”
He immediately released it. “What time?”
“The ball won’t start until almost midnight. All of the wealthy set will be attending dinners at the homes of their society friends and only afterward will they head to the hotel. I’d thought to leave here about eleven thirty. It’s a good twenty-five minute walk.”
“We’ll leave at eleven forty-five and I’ll have a carriage.”
She blinked in surprise. “That’s not necessary. It’s not as if we’re real members of society.”
“Will we be entering through the front door?”
“Oh, yes. Certainly.”
“Then I’ll have a carriage.” With that he spun around and returned to his room.
She remained in the middle of the floor, her arm gently throbbing from the heat of his clasp, her heart lifting at the thought of him hiring a carriage for her. Of a sudden, she didn’t want to wear what she’d originally planned on wearing. Moving to her wardrobe, she opened the door and contemplated the gowns inside.
CHAPTER
47
Reeve paced the parlor slapping his gloves into his hand and drawing them through, only to repeat the process. The entire household had stayed up to see Miss Jayne in all her finery. All except for the Trostles. Mr. Trostle was still in Milwaukee and Mrs. Trostle had gone to visit her sister.
Oyster, Nettels, and Holliday played cards at a table. Mrs. Dinwiddie softly snored in a rocker, her knitting forgotten. Miss Love was in Flossie’s room and Mrs. Holliday curled up on the couch rereading the previous columns of the Merry Maid of Mumford Street.
He was surprised no one had suspected he was I. D. Claire, but perhaps it wasn’t so strange after all. Other than Marylee, none of the boarders in his column were anything like the ones at Klausmeyer’s. Besides, boardinghouse satires were in every corner theater, in a plethora of magazines, and in several books.
Mrs. Dinwiddie had hinted to him of her suspicions when they were alone, but the others had only seen what they expected to see, though they had asked him if he’d known who I. D. Claire was. He’d carefully told them that only Claire’s editor knew the writer’s identity.
He adjusted his tie and new black jacket. He’d not only had the New York World pay for his clothing and carriage, but he’d demanded a good deal more money for the article. Ulrich, salivating at the prospect of reporting on the event, met Reeve’s terms so long as he wrote something about who was there and what the ladies were wearing.
Reeve checked his pocket watch. It had taken him a mere twenty minutes to dress. Miss Jayne, however, had started preparing in the early afternoon. Finally, a commotion in the hall pulled him up short.
Miss Love rushed into the parlor. “Just wait until you see her.”
Mrs. Dinwiddie gave two short snorts, then woke up. “What? Where? What’s happening?”
“It’s Flossie.” Miss Love helped the elderly woman to her feet. “She’s all dressed and ready. Just look.”
Miss Jayne rounded the corner. Reeve’s breath left him in a whoosh. The other three men surged to their feet.
A gown of palest pink hugged her figure, the neckline dipping just enough to titillate but not reveal anything of import. Spangles dotted her bodice, catching the light like a sprinkling of fairy dust. Long white gloves rode up and over her elbows, leading his eye to a patch of creamy skin partially covered by pale-pink bows of satin draping over her shoulders.
Yards and yards of black hair swept up the back of her head like a series of ocean waves, the uppermost crashing back into itself, piled high and held at bay with a tiara of filigree silver.
He had an insane urge to bow and kiss her ring finger. “You’re late.”
“You’re ravishing.” Oyster rushed past him and took her hand to his lips. “My dear Miss Jayne, I am completely besotted. You will outshine even the Astors.”
“My, oh, my.” Mrs. Dinwiddie placed a hand against her heart. “What a sight you are. I had no idea you had so much hair. How long is it?”
Miss Love leaned close to the woman’s ear. “It goes nearly to the floor when she lets it out completely.”
He swallowed hard.
“You are indeed enchanting.” Mr. Nettels cleared his throat. “I daresay you will be the belle of the ball.”
Reeve sighed. There they went again. Telling her how special, how beautiful, how much better she was than everyone else. And although she was a glorious creature, they were on their way to a gathering of the richest of the rich. People whose spangles would be made of diamonds, not reflectors. Whose headpieces would be made of real silver, not nickel. Whose necks would be draped with jewels, not a piece of velvet.
Wasn’t simply being Flossie Jayne enough? Did
she have to be Flossie Jayne the Unflawed Beauty of the Century?
Her eyes found his, their depths deep and dangerous. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said.
“It was worth the wait.” And it was, although he hadn’t meant to add to the already inflated opinions of the others.
She gave him a soft smile. “Thank you.”
Shouldering Oyster aside, Reeve held out his arm. “Shall we?”
She laid her gloved arm atop Reeve’s. The courtliness of her gesture took him off guard, for he’d expected her to tuck a hand beneath the crook of his elbow. He swallowed again. This gentle riding of her arm upon his was in many ways more intimate.
Trapping her fingertips with his, he led her to the entry hall, adjusting his step to compensate for the train that dragged behind her and slowed her steps. At the door, he draped her shoulders with a light wrap, the nerve endings on his fingers shooting sensations up his arms each time he brushed her skin.
Pulling in a deep breath, he tugged on his gloves and placed a top hat upon his head. He needed to get ahold of himself. They had a long night ahead of them and they’d yet to even make it out the door.
CHAPTER
48
They sat in the unmoving carriage, gas lights from the street providing a modicum of light.
“I guess we should have left earlier.” He sat across from her, her skirt and train covering his boots, his trousers, and the floor like a swath of snow. “I didn’t think about everyone’s carriages arriving at the same time.”
She toyed with a silver bracelet on her gloved wrist. “It’s all right. It’s rather nice to have this calm before the storm.”
He’d hardly describe these moments as calm. His breathing was labored. His pulse hammered. And his fingers ached to stroke the skin from the tip of her chin to the edges of her décolletage. “Since I’m to write about who’s in attendance and what they are wearing, perhaps you should tell me what to look for. Who to take special note of.”
She looked out the window, ducking her head a bit in order to view the sky. Her position gave him an unrestricted view of her long, smooth neck and the skin between it and the bows at her shoulders. “Not yet. If you don’t mind, I’d rather just sit and absorb the moment. It’s not often I get to dress up and go to the San Remo.”
He’d never in his life done such a thing. And with the way she looked, if they didn’t discuss something—anything—he’d very likely become as besotted with her as everyone else.
“What about the other Tiffany Girls?” he asked. “Which of them will be there?”
Sighing, she pulled back to center. “My dearest friend at work, Aggie Wilhemson, will be there.”
Aggie. He knew of Aggie. Miss Jayne had spoken of her often, at least to Miss Love. What he hadn’t known was her last name. “Tell me about Miss Wilhemson.”
“Well, let’s see. She’s six feet tall. Very fair and noble looking. She’s from Sweden and is engaged to a forty-year-old butcher.”
He lifted his brows. “Six feet tall?”
“She really is. I know you think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.”
He vaguely remembered a tall girl the day the men were picketing. “Okay. Who else?”
She told him of the girls, giving anecdotes about each. Instead of distracting him from his disquieting thoughts, her undivided attention made it worse. He very rarely had her all to himself, but to have her alone and with nothing else to look at, he found himself fascinated with the way her dimple flashed when she spoke. The way her hands did as much talking as her mouth. The way her lower lip was just slightly fuller than her upper one.
Of a sudden he realized she wasn’t talking anymore.
He shifted his gaze to the window. “We’re moving.”
“Yes. We’ve been moving for a while now.” Her voice was soft, husky.
He didn’t dare look at her. Instead, he nodded. “Good. That’s good.”
The air in the carriage thickened. He kept his focus on the street. Finally, they pulled up in front of the hotel. A footman whisked open their door and assisted Miss Jayne to the ground. Reeve pressed his head back against the wall of the carriage, took another deep breath, then joined her and escorted her inside.
SOIREE 28
“Mr. Wilder had been extremely attentive at the beginning of the evening when Flossie pointed out the Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Roosevelts, and, of course, the Tiffanys.”
CHAPTER
49
Bustle pinchers?” Mr. Wilder asked, his expression stormy. “On the streetcars?”
“Yes.” Nan crinkled her brows, her wide forehead accentuated by the clips holding back her long brown hair woven with fresh flowers. “We all suffer because of them.”
Suppressing a sigh, Flossie turned her attention to the dancers on the ballroom floor. Eight of the twelve Tiffany Girls had come. Mrs. Driscoll instructed them to sit in chairs in the far, far corner.
Mr. Wilder had been extremely attentive at the beginning of the evening when Flossie pointed out the Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Roosevelts, and, of course, the Tiffanys. He’d glazed over a bit at her descriptions of the gowns, but took notes all the same. He’d then spent the rest of the evening sitting with each Tiffany Girl, asking about her work, her aspirations, the ending of the strike, and how it would affect her. At the moment he was interviewing Nan.
Flossie had known he would be gathering information, she just hadn’t realized how much time it would absorb. It was almost three o’clock now and she had yet to dance. She wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t dance, wouldn’t dance, or was too busy to dance. Whichever it was, she’d be sorely disappointed if she ended up attending her one and only soiree only to sit on the sidelines the entire evening.
“We’re constantly being jostled and crowded by the men.” Nan twirled a lock of hair round her finger, her lips forming a coquettish pout.
In stark contrast to the pale pink of Flossie’s gown, Nan wore one of black satin, slightly relieved by white. She’d borrowed it from Flossie, and because Nan was the taller of the two, she hadn’t been able to pull the sleeves up over her shoulders without the underarms cutting into her.
So she’d left the sleeves off her shoulders, showing a pretty curve of skin, in the 1830s fashion. To hold the gown up, she’d attached two straps of jet beads. Despite herself, Flossie couldn’t help but admire the picture Nan made.
“We’re subject to all manner of improprieties by gangs of drunken loafers,” Nan continued. “You would be shocked to hear some of the things said to me in undertone.”
Mr. Wilder’s jaw began to tick. His dark evening jacket rested with precision on his broad shoulders, its swallow tails cut square in back instead of in the old oblong shape. The white, double-breasted waistcoat hugged his flat stomach and trim waist.
He turned to Flossie, his expression tight. “Do you experience this as well?”
She lifted one shoulder. “More often than not.”
His tone deepened. “You’re pinched, groped, and forced into conversation with men you’ve not been introduced to?”
“I don’t converse with them. They do all the talking.”
His breathing grew deep. “Why don’t you simply sit down?”
“No one offers up their seat.”
Mrs. Driscoll tapped Nan and those beside her with her fan. “Sit straight. Mr. Tiffany is coming.”
Flossie scanned the room, then spotted him. He looked well enough in his evening garb, but he didn’t hold a candle to Mr. Wilder.
“What a sight you ladies make.” Placing an arm across his waist, he gave them a formal bow. His abundance of wavy brown hair had been combed to the side. “Has everyone had a chance to dance, I hope?”
Flossie saw Mr. Wilder blink back his surprise at Mr. Tiffany’s lisp.
“Most of us, yes.” Mrs. Driscoll was not of a size to borrow Flossie’s clothes, so she’d added a white chiffon collar to a simple black silk dress, then trimmed the gown with b
lack velvet.
“Most of you?” Mr. Tiffany glanced between the girls. “Who’s not danced?”
“Miss Jayne hasn’t yet danced,” Nan said. “Nor has Mrs. Driscoll.”
Flossie felt the heat in her face match the deep red flooding Mrs. Driscoll’s.
Mr. Tiffany’s gaze touched on Mr. Wilder and the other escorts, then he bowed once again to Mrs. Driscoll. “Well, we can’t have that. Would you do me the honor?”
Mrs. Driscoll’s hands skimmed over the buttons of her gown, then patted the back of her hair. Mr. Tiffany extended his elbow. She accepted it and allowed him to guide her onto the floor. Flossie kept her attention on them, waiting in silence—along with everyone else—to see if Mr. Wilder would ask her to do the same. When it became apparent he would not, Nan’s brother, who’d accompanied Nan, stood.
“Miss Jayne, might I have this dance?”
Her face flamed hotter, even her ears warmed. “Thank you, yes.”
She slipped her gloved hand into his, then scooped up her train when they reached the dance floor. He spun her around the room, a proficient dancer. She smiled and nodded, paying no real attention to what he said, for it took every bit of energy she had to appear gay and happy when, for some inexplicable reason, she wanted nothing more than to tear up and cry.
WAITING FOR THE STREETCAR 29
“A bicyclist whooshed by, giving his bell a ringaling-ringaling.”
CHAPTER
50
Flossie strode down the boardinghouse hallway, nearly colliding with Mr. Wilder as he stepped out of his bedroom.
Reaching out, he steadied her, then immediately let go. “Excuse me.”
With a nod, she continued toward the entry hall. She’d graduated from disappointment to outright anger. She should have invited Mr. Oyster to Saturday’s soiree. He’d have been attentive. He’d have made her laugh. He’d have danced with her all night long.