Tiffany Girl (8 page)

“You a glazier?” Reeve asked.

“A glassworker. What ’bout you?”

“A reporter from the
New York World
.” He held out his hand. “Reeve Wilder.”

The man gave him a wary look, but returned the shake. “You gonna report what the fellows here are doin’ to these gals?”

He glanced at the group. Two more women approached, their expressions anxious. Hooking elbows, they began to walk the gauntlet as men hurled their barbs and insults.

“That’s not why I’d come,” Reeve said. “I’d come to see if I could get your side of the story.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Sit down with you someplace warm?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t much like what’s goin’ on here, but I’m not leaving. Not till the rest of ’em do.”

“Then let’s at least stand over by that lamppost there where it’s not so loud.”

After a slight hesitation, the man followed him a few yards down the street.

“Tiffany sure took everybody by surprise hiring these women, didn’t he?” Reeve asked.

“I’ll say. Never crossed our minds.” He scratched his beard. “We figured this strike would be over in a hurry, with the fair coming up and all. Now, we don’t know what to think.”

“Do you suppose the women have the strength to cut the glass? To manipulate the metal?”

“If they’re
anything like the strong-armed ironers down in the garment district, then I’d say they probably do. They might not have the muscle to cut as many pieces per day as we can, but I definitely think they could do it. That’s why we’re so worried.”

Reeve swiped a hand across his mouth. “Surely they won’t be able to solder the joints.”

The man gave a snort. “No, they wouldn’t be able to do that, but the boys who solder are still working. It’s the glassworkers and glaziers who are striking, not them.”

“What do you think about Tiffany? Is he a good man to work for?” Reeve didn’t know if this man worked for Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company or one of the other manufacturers, but he’d learned to phrase his questions in such a way that people answered without him ever having to ask.

“Mr. Tiffany seems to be a good man, but he may as well be President Cleveland. Too far out o’ reach for the likes of me.”

Reeve withdrew a notepad from inside his jacket. “If he weren’t out of reach, what would you say to him?”

“You mean, besides us wantin’ to work fifty hours a week instead of sixty? And wantin’ twenty dollars for cutters, and eighteen for glaziers?”

Reeve nodded. “The union’s already told him that.”

“Maybe I’d like to see how good o’ work he’d do on bread and ale to stifle his hunger. How he’d feel watching his woman and little ones grow skinnier by the day. He might know all there is about what colors would look just right in a picture window, but I know—and the boys here know—nobody can do good work on an empty stomach.”

“What’s your name?” Reeve asked, scribbling on his pad.

“No names.”

“All right, then. Tell me—”

A woman’s voice captured his attention. “You throw that, and you’ll be sorry.”

She was taller than most of the men there, easily six feet. Her shoulders were broad, her posture erect, her expression fierce. The crowd was stunned to a momentary silence. The boy with the snowball hesitated. It was enough for her to get through the door unmolested.

It had barely closed behind her when the snowball sailed toward it, splatting against the wooden barrier, sticking for a brief second, then sliding to the ground.

The men roared in anger, making promises of retribution if she dared to challenge them again. Reeve had seen protestors throw tomatoes, rocks, and fists. He’d seen things escalate to the use of knives and guns. The fact that they’d only thrown snowballs was an indication of just how deferent they were being. He feared they wouldn’t be so accommodating tomorrow. And if they resorted to rougher measures, he wasn’t sure what the public’s reaction would be.

One thing was certain, even if Miss Jayne was a magpie and a New Woman, he didn’t want to see her hurt. Perhaps he should speak to her tonight, implore her to quit this nonsense and return to her home.

TIFFANY GIRL SELECTING GLASS 
⁵

“Flossie glanced at a woman behind Mrs. Driscoll who crouched in front of a giant stained-glass window, her skirts pooled about her as she held up different pieces of colored glass.”

CHAPTER

8

F
lossie’s insides bobbed like a cork. In a few moments she’d be assigned to the role she’d have at Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company. She hoped to be awarded the job of painting faces on leaded glass windows, for portraits were her specialty—particularly women’s hair swirling in the breeze. She could do the Virgin Mary with flowing hair, or the woman at the well, or Esther.

She frowned, trying to recall if she’d ever seen swirling hair in a stained-glass window, then pulled her mind back to the present. Nan had mentioned six women being in their department, but she only counted five, all busy working.

A wall of windows flooded the room with light. Beside one window, a huge white painter’s canvas as big as a palace-sized tapestry hung against a wooden frame. An intricate geometric pattern had been sketched across its surface. A young woman added watercolor to the sketch, her arm propped against a maulstick to keep it from tiring. It was clear the rendering was for a yet-to-be-made stained-glass window of enormous proportions.

The six girls Mr. Tiffany had chosen from the School of Applied Design sat on one side of a table. It was made of nothing more than giant boards set upon sawhorses, its surface so large she felt sure two front doors could have lain side by side atop it.

At the head of the table, Mrs. Driscoll studied Flossie and her schoolmates as if they were insects beneath a magnifying glass. Everyone except for Flossie wore serge skirts, simple shirtwaists, and no hats. Folding her hands in her lap, she tried not to squirm.

Mrs. Driscoll cleared her throat. “As you know, the Chicago World’s Fair opens in five months, and Mr. Tiffany is planning to debut a first-of-its-kind exhibit—an enormous one-thousand-square-foot chapel whose interior is made up of nothing but reflective glass mosaic surfaces.”

Flossie glanced at a woman behind Mrs. Driscoll who crouched in front of a giant stained-glass window, her skirts pooled about her as she held up different pieces of colored glass. The entire window was one-and-a-half times as tall as Flossie, yet it stood propped against the bank of windows along the wall. It was a wonder it didn’t go crashing right through them.

“Without lead-glass workers,” Mrs. Driscoll continued, recapturing Flossie’s attention, “Mr. Tiffany’s project will not be completed on time and his dream will not be realized. And that is where you come in.” Her expression softened. “He believes our gender is well-suited to this work. Our fingers are more nimble than men’s, our eyes are more sensitive to nuances of color, and we possess a God-given disposition for decoration.”

Flossie kept her expression neutral. She’d never in her life heard a man admit such a thing. Were those truly Mr. Tiffany’s words or Mrs. Driscoll’s interpretation of them?

“The carved plaster arches of the chapel, the mosaic columns, the electrified chandelier, the white glass altar, and the dome-shaped baptismal font have all been completed by the men.”

Flossie lifted her brows. What on earth was left to do?

“But there are several windows that have yet to be completed. And those, my dears, are what you will take on. You will do them as well, if not better, than the men and with a delivery date that
will ensure the Women’s Glass Cutting Department is not a temporary department, but a department that will outlive the fair and many years beyond it.”

Flossie sat up a little straighter, knowing she was ready for the challenge and relishing the thought of turning those men outside onto their ears—once they’d returned to work, anyway.

A WOMAN SELLING FLOWERS 
⁶

“Hands behind his back, he bent over and examined a sketch of a woman selling flowers to a well-dressed gentleman.”

CHAPTER

9