Tiffany Girl (31 page)

She knew she should pray, should say something profound to her Savior, but no words came. Only awe. And then, thanksgiving.

With a deep breath, she turned around and looked up, taken by the heavy, green glass chandelier hanging overhead. From any angle, it could be viewed as a cross. A halo of white lights encircled its lowest level, bestowing grace and peace to all who passed beneath it.

But as beautiful as it was—all of it—none could compare in her mind to the radiant stained-glass windows that she and the other girls had made. Stepping down the stairs, she returned to the nave, flanked on either side by the windows. Her breathing grew labored. Her eyes pooled. Seeing them in pieces on the easels was nothing like seeing them completed and installed.

The circular
Story of the Cross
shone with resplendence. That one window had required hours and hours of toil. She pictured sweet, quiet Lulu cutting out the paper templates. Her dear friend, Aggie, who never objected to wrapping each piece of glass with foil, hour by hour, day by day. Tens of thousands of pieces she’d wrapped, yet not a word of complaint passed her lips.

She recalled Theresa, with her cherub face and sunny disposition, tracing a cartoon with her stylus for so long that her hands began to stiffen and her fingers began to permanently
ache. Darling Louise, before Mr. Cox whisked her away, had placed Theresa’s carbon copy beneath a sheet of glass and painted the doubly grooved lead lines onto it. And, of course, Nan had pulled the colored glass, then given the pieces to Flossie for cutting.

Each of the girls had a part. No part more important than the other. And each of the parts had been arranged exactly as the designer wanted them.

Standing in the center of the nave, she turned in a complete circle, savoring glorious window after glorious window. Because of twelve girls, millions of people would experience the fruit of their labor, the blessing of Tiffany’s creations. Their signatures might not be on the bottom, but each one of them had signed them with their very soul.

BYZANTINE GATE TO RUSSIAN SECTION 
²⁴

“Russian women had produced its intricate design by burning out the oak and overlaying it with gold leaf.”

CHAPTER

41

T
he wide front door of the Woman’s Building clicked shut behind Flossie. A Columbian Guard in a smart blue uniform glanced at her, then tugged the rim of his cap. “Ma’am,” he said, his Southern drawl charming her at once. “Welcome to the Woman’s Building.” Like all the guards, he was much taller than average, his brown eyes missing nothing. “If there’s anything you need, you just give me a holler.”

“Thank you, and actually, maybe you’ll be able to point me in the right direction. I’m a Tiffany Girl and here to do a demonstration. Before I do, though, I’d wanted to take a quick peek at our display.”

“Yes, ma’am. Your demonstration will be upstairs at the far end in the Assembly Room. Some fellows came earlier and set everything up for you. As for the Tiffany Girls’ stained-glass exhibit, it’s right around the corner. Follow me and I’ll show you.”

When they reached the exhibit, she sucked in her breath. “Oh, my. Would you look at that? I didn’t realize Mr. Tiffany was going to include that in the display.” She turned to the guard, her spirits buoyant. “I made that.”

She pointed to a paper pattern she’d outlined with a stylus. It was one of the first cartoons she’d traced way back in January.

“You painted that?”
he asked, referring to the cartoon hanging beside it.

“No, no. Miss McDowell painted the cartoon. I made a carbon copy of it onto manila paper.”

“Is that right?”

She nodded.

“Well, I have to make my rounds,” he said. “But if I can, I’ll poke my head in for a look-see at your presentation upstairs.”

“Wonderful. I’ll watch for you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Scott. Hunter Scott.”

She smiled. “I’m Florence Jayne. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, ma’am.” He again tugged on the rim of his cap, then headed back to the main atrium, stepping aside to allow a young couple into the room.

It was all Flossie could do not to jump up and down and tell them she’d made the paper pattern. Instead, she held her tongue and listened to their reactions.

“Look at this, Cullen. I didn’t know women even made stained-glass windows.”

“I’m sure they don’t do any of the heavy work,” he replied. “Just the painting and that sort of thing.”

“There’s supposed to be a presentation of it upstairs in about fifteen minutes. Perhaps we can go to it?”

“If you’d like.”

Flossie opened her mouth to set the man straight, but they’d already turned around and sauntered through an elaborate Byzantine gate. Russian women had produced its intricate design by burning out the oak and overlaying it with gold leaf. She shook her head. So much to see and no time to see it.

Hurrying from the room, she made her way upstairs, fully expecting to find Nan. Instead she found Mr. Tiffany examining sections of glass on a table. A line of plate glass easels in various
stages of completeness leaned against a wall of windows, faced by rows of chairs.

“Hello, sir,” she said.

He turned. “Miss Jayne, it’s always a pleasure.”

“Thank you. I just came from your exhibit downstairs and it’s quite impressive.”

“It’s you ladies who are impressive.” He looked behind her. “Where’s Miss Upton?”

Flossie looked over her shoulder and onto the gallery. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, you’ll have to carry the presentation, then. I plan to sit in the audience.”

A trio of women entered and took some seats at the front.

Flossie crossed to Mr. Tiffany and lowered her voice. “They would much prefer to hear from you, I’m sure.”

He gave an adamant shake of his head. “I never speak in front of crowds. Besides, this is about what ladies do, so I’ll leave it to you.”

She flushed, realizing, of course, that he’d be naturally shy about his lisp. She kept forgetting he had one. They spent the next few minutes deciding on a course of action. By the time they’d finished, quite a crowd had accumulated.

Stepping to the side, Mr. Tiffany remained standing near the wall.

Flossie cleared her throat. “Thank you so much for coming today. My name is Florence Jayne and I’m a Tiffany Girl.”

Starting at one end of the plate glass sheets, she spoke about the making of Tiffany glass in the factory, then explained each step of the window-making process, from the cartoon to the cutting of glass.

“You can see here on the cartoon, Miss McDowell has painted leaves on a tree in multiple shades of green.” She picked up a piece of
light-green rippled glass and held it up to the window. “Do you see how the wrinkles and ripples in this piece are suggestive of leaves ruffled by the wind?”

Nan rushed into the room, her footfalls loud on the wooden floor as she hurried toward the front. She’d almost reached the staging area when Mr. Tiffany placed a hand on her arm and gave her a gentle shake of his head.

“I’d thought to take a short cut,” she whispered, her voice carrying. “So I crossed over into the Wooded Island, then couldn’t find a bridge on the other side.”

People glanced at her. Mr. Tiffany kept his attention on Flossie while gently holding Nan back. He gave Flossie an encouraging nod.

“Yes, well, as I was saying . . .” Flossie held the glass back up to the light. “The texture is perfect, but the color of the glass doesn’t quite match the one on the cartoon. So at that point, the selector goes back and looks for another one.”

Mr. Tiffany directed Nan to the table of glass sheets. She quickly picked up a green piece, held it up to the light, then handed it to Flossie.

“This one is a much better color,” Flossie said. “But the ripples in the glass are spaced too far apart.”

Nan chose another.

“Miss Upton here is one of our best selectors, as you can see from this last piece she picked, but sometimes it can take hours or even weeks before the perfect tint and texture are found.”

The audience murmured. At the entryway the guard she’d spoken to earlier leaned against the archway, one foot crossed over his ankle.

“At this point, the selector—in this case, Miss Upton—hands the piece to the cutter, who in this case is me. Now, I know many of you think cutting glass is too mannish for a woman to do, but you want to know a secret?” She glanced to the right and
left, then leaned toward them. “The weaker sex is not as weak as most assume.” She quickly released the cuff at her right wrist, pushed up her sleeve, and flexed her arm. An impressive muscle sprang to life.

Some women tittered and fanned themselves. Others clapped in appreciation. The couple she’d seen downstairs turned very red. The Columbian Guard lifted one corner of his mouth in the beginnings of a grin.

She buttoned her cuff. “I’ve been cutting glass for months now and I’ll admit it was difficult at first, but I’ve become quite proficient.” She began to demonstrate, then looked up. “If you’d like to gather round so you can see better, feel free to come forward.”

The audience rose and huddled around her as they watched. Nan continued to select glass and hand it to her, but it was Flossie the spectators interacted with. When the presentation was almost over, she sent everyone back to their seats with a promise of a wonderful surprise.

“Now, as you know, the genius behind all this glass is Mr. Louis Comfort Tiffany and you might not realize it, but he’s standing right over there.”

There were gasps as people craned to have a look at him.

“He won’t be taking any questions, but perhaps I could convince him to come and make a few selections for me to cut so you can see the real master at work.”

Without a word, he approached the table. Even Flossie became lost in watching him as he held up glass after glass before settling on a magnificent piece for a swath of sunset sky, all apricot and salmon pink and the palest lavender.

“We call this streaky glass,” she said. “And only Mr. Tiffany would be able to combine as many as five colors into one recipe and still make them all compatible.”

At the end of the demonstration, they received a standing
ovation. Mr. Tiffany gave her a wink. She glanced at Nan, then waved her to the front. Instead of joining them, Nan stood to the side, her posture stiff and her neck corded. Flossie didn’t have time to consider what was wrong, for the crowd surrounded her, all talking at once

NEW YORK WORLD
BUILDING 
²⁵