Tiffany Girl (28 page)

“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 flounced 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

O
ut 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.