Tiffany Girl (15 page)

CHAPTER

17

R
eeve 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
harrumph
ed. “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

B
ut 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.