Tiffany Girl (43 page)

Flossie captured her bottom lip with her teeth. Her tea screen was modest compared to Mrs. Driscoll’s designs. It would meet Mr. Mitchell’s criteria.

He pushed his glasses up into place. “Just for the sake of it, why don’t you make me something simplistic? If you do, I will personally guarantee it will sell.”

“Simplistic?” Mr. Tiffany crossed the studio, his suit crisp, his curly hair wild, his eyes alive with interest. “Are you looking
at Mrs. Driscoll’s new design?” Picking up the cartoon, he lifted it toward the light, tilting it this way and that.

All work ceased. A hush fell over the room.

He pursed his lips, then turned to Mrs. Driscoll. “I love it.”

She smiled and uncrossed her arms. Mr. Mitchell slid his eyes closed.

Turning his attention back to the cartoon, Mr. Tiffany leaned in closer. “The color scheme is new and quite interesting. The design . . .” He gave a sigh of satisfaction. “The design is unparalleled. You have great creative ability, Mrs. Driscoll.”

A flush rose to the woman’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

“I would not think of having it changed.” He set it back down, then turned to Mr. Mitchell. “You must see that it is made.”

Mr. Mitchell gave a curt nod, his jaw tight.

The three of them wove through the room while Mrs. Driscoll caught them up on what the girls were doing. Flossie wished she could show Mr. Mitchell her design. She felt sure he’d like it, but maybe he’d already seen it. Maybe that was why Nan had made her revise it so many times. To appease Mr. Mitchell’s thirst for something less ornate.

Excitement bubbled up inside her. If her design was sold in Tiffany’s showroom, her job would be secure and she might even get a raise.

CHAPTER

61

S
itting across from his editor, Reeve rested his mouth against his fist in an effort to camouflage his gratification. They wanted him to be a features writer. No longer would the articles he labored over be buried in the back. They’d be front and center, and they’d earn him a pay increase.

“The Erie Railroad has failed,” Ulrich said, his cowlick drooping in the summer heat. “Milwaukee Bank suspended trading. The Stock Exchange is considering closing. And now Cleveland has called an emergency session of Congress to repeal the Sherman Silver Purchase Act.” He pulled a hand down his face. “We need all hands on deck, and the chief wants you at the forefront.”

“I accept. Where do you want me to start?”

“The first thing is to immediately wrap up the serialization. Right now. This week.” He whirled his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Marry off the girl to the bibliomaniac, get them entrenched in a home, and have her happily waiting for him as he comes home from work.”

Reeve slowly lowered his hand. “She’s a New Woman.”

“So?”

“That’s the whole point of being a New Woman. They don’t
want to be reduced to housewifery. They feel it would take away everything that is special about them.”

Ulrich’s brows shot up. “
Reduce
them to housewifery? Good gravy, Wilder. Housewifery in a home of their own is the ultimate reward.”

“Not to them, it isn’t.”

“Who cares about them? Besides, you’ve spent the entire year waging war against the New Woman. Why all this squeamishness?”

He shifted in his chair, unable to answer. He didn’t know why he was so reluctant, only that he was.

Ulrich moved a stack of paper to the corner of his desk. “No, you’ve put the poor bibliomaniac through all the paces of courtship—which you’ve done an excellent job of, by the way. You’ve quite a knack for fiction, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, you can’t take him—and the readers—through all of that, then consign Marylee to the shelf as an old maid. We’d lose the subscriptions we gained and possibly some of the ones we’ve had for years.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. You marry her off.”

Reeve crossed his legs. “Okay, I’ll marry her to the bibliomaniac, but she retains her job.”

Ulrich reared back. “After she’s married? Are you out of your mind? No woman is allowed to work after she’s married.”

“Some are.”

“Well, maybe if they live in the tenements and if they’re desperate, but not our women. Not the women who are reading our paper.”

“I think you underestimate them. I think they’d be thrilled.”

Ulrich set his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “And what about their husbands, Wilder? The husbands who pay for the subscriptions? What exactly do you think they would have to say about that?”

He hesitated. They wouldn’t like it. They wouldn’t like it at all.

Ulrich gave him a pointed stare. “You’ve no choice. The story has been headed in this direction the entire time. Marry her off, put her in the home, and tie it up with a pretty little bow. Then get to D.C. and find out what will happen if the Sherman Act is repealed and what will happen if it’s not.”

Reeve sat up a little straighter. “You’re sending me to D.C.?”

“Not permanently, just for Cleveland’s speech next week, then a few days after. But before you leave, I want the final installment of the serialization on my desk. I want it in time for Sunday’s paper, and I want it just the way I’ve asked for it. Understood?”

With a sigh, Reeve rubbed his forehead. He didn’t want to end it that way. Not now, when he’d just begun to understand that not all New Women were man-haters. Some just wanted to earn a wage they could call their own. Others wanted to follow a dream they wouldn’t otherwise be able to follow. And yet others wanted a bit of independence. His Marylee was that kind of New Woman. She’d started out as a man-hater, but she’d come around and now, now she was downright likable. He couldn’t just marry her off willy-nilly to the bibliomaniac. The man didn’t deserve her.

He took in a slow breath. They were only characters. It was fiction. He’d spent so much time with them in his head, they were beginning to feel like real people.

“Are you going to be this much trouble as a features writer, Wilder?” Ulrich asked. “Because if you are, then maybe—”

Reeve stood. “I’ll have the last installment on your desk within a day and I’ll end it however you want me to end it.”

He’d waited too long for this opportunity and the salary that went along with it. Besides, he could write articles about real New Women, not pretend ones. New Women who had no interest in being generals or railway presidents, but who simply wanted to exercise their minds. Perhaps he’d search some out, heads of departments—like Mrs. Driscoll. Or women who were secretaries
for giant oil magnates. Women who kept business secrets as well as any man, and who worked for men who had placed tremendous faith in their business abilities and judgments.

If he had to sacrifice his Marylee character for the greater good, so be it. He might have based her in many ways on Flossie, but the character wasn’t Flossie. He’d do well to remember it.

With a nod at his employer, he strode from the office thrilled with his raise and the opportunity to be a features writer. Still, he was determined to bring Marylee to heel as gently as he possibly could.

CHAPTER

62

F
lossie was holding a Marylee Merrily party in the parlor. The
New York World
had made much of today’s column being the final chapter in Marylee’s story. Everyone in the house had pledged not to read it until the party. Mrs. Klausmeyer had even agreed to hold the newspaper in safekeeping so no one would be tempted to peek.

Finally, the time had arrived. Mrs. Klausmeyer handed Flossie the paper. Though their landlady was only in her forties, her mousy brown hair had thinned out so much, her part was almost half an inch wide. Her Puritan-like gown of black alpaca had been taken up to fit her reedy frame. As with many thin women, her face sagged a bit more at the jowls than those with more robust figures.

Flossie had fully expected her to leave, for she usually kept herself separate from the rest of them. At first, Flossie couldn’t understand why she was so distant, but after the Trostles, she realized the wisdom of it. It would be hard enough to demand rent from a delinquent boarder or, heaven forbid, evict them. But if she’d gone to their parties on the roof, or on the ice, or even taken her meals with them, it would have made her duties as a landlady exponentially harder.

This time, though, the woman stopped at the parlor’s doorway and leaned against its frame.

Clearing her throat, Flossie shook out the paper and began to read.
“Marylee suspected what was coming. Mr. Bookish stood before her with his hair slicked down, his best suit brushed, and a bouquet of roses in his hand. He handed her the flowers.

“Accepting them, she buried her nose in their soft, silky petals to give her more time, more time to calm her nerves and her fears. Though she’d anticipated a moment of nerves when this momentous occasion arrived, she hadn’t foreseen the fear. Before she could explore her feelings further, Mr. Bookish knelt down on one knee and took her hand in his.

“ ‘Miss Merrily, will you do me the great honor of being my wife?’ ”

“Oh! Oh!” Annie Belle cried. “He’s asked her. He’s finally asked her. Oh, my. Oh, my. I have butterflies in my stomach.”

Flossie smiled at her friend, but didn’t share her own thoughts aloud. For though her stomach had also jumped when the proposal had been made, it had not been a jump of joy. Yet she couldn’t exactly pinpoint why.

“Carry on,” Mr. Nettels said, giving up all pretense that he, too, wasn’t on the edge of his seat.

Flossie continued to read. “
Marylee opened her mouth to say yes, then stalled. What of the photography business she’d built up? She’d started as an amateur, and without the assistance or backing of any man, she’d become a professional with a long list of clientele and a significant income.

“ ‘What of my photography?’ she asked.

“With a patronizing laugh, Mr. Bookish rose to his feet. ‘My darling, you can give it up. You’ll be free. Once you become my wife, you’ll never have to toil or labor again.’

“She rubbed a rose petal between her fingers. She wanted to sit down, to reflect, but she couldn’t do that. One simply didn’t behave in that fashion when a wonderful man like Mr. Bookish had asked the question every woman longs to hear.”