Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  All that aside, he couldn’t stand here and watch while women were abused, so he’d best find himself someone to interview or take his leave. A fellow with frowsy brown whiskers and a paper collar stood back from the others, his brows knit, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. Reeve couldn’t tell if it was due to the cold or discomfort over the men’s conduct.

  “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

  Flossie’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

  A diminutive man paused at Reeve’s door, his hair flatly brushed, his face clean-shaven. “Excuse me, would you happen to know where Miss Jayne’s room is?”

  “I’m afraid she’s not in.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  Reeve hesitated. As a rule, gentleman callers waited in the parlor, even well-dressed ones twice her age.

  The man pointed toward the foyer with his thumb. “I knocked and waited just inside the door, but no one ever came.”

  Reeve sighed. “No, I don’t suppose they did. Was there something I could help you with?”

  “I just wanted to see her room, is all, then I’ll be on my way. If you could tell me where it is, I’d be obliged.”

  Placing his pen in its holder, Reeve chose his words carefully. “Did you have business with the lady?”

  “I’m her father.”

  “Are you?” Reeve stood and held out a hand. “Reeve Wilder.”

  “Bert Jayne.” They shook. “I just wanted to make sure my girl was settled in all right.”

  “She seems to be. Today was her first day of work.”

  Looking down, Mr. Jayne ran a thumb over the rim of his hat. “I never thought to hear words of that sort about any woman, but most especially not about my daughter.”

  “I’m sorry.” And he was. He couldn’t imagine being the father of a working girl, even if she did work for a prestigious employer like Tiffany. Perhaps it was best not to mention the strikers who’d harassed his daughter.

  “I’m sorry, too.” Jayne sighed. “Still, I wanted to see for myself that she was okay. If I’d waited until she was home, then it would look like I was condoning what she was doing—and I’m not. Not by a long shot. All the same, I’d like to see her room.”

  Pushing in his chair, Reeve stepped into the hallway. “Her room’s right here next to mine.”

  Jayne frowned. “So close? Isn’t there a woman’s floor?”

  “Much to my sorrow, there is not. I’d give anything to have the women on their own floor, but Mrs. Klausmeyer lets out rooms on a first come, first served basis with no regard to gender.”

  “Well, that’s certainly distressing news.” Jayne rubbed his forehead. “I do feel for you, though. Flossie’s definitely a jabber box, but I confess to missing the chatter. Home has become so quiet all of a sudden.”

  Reeve could just imagine. Opening the door to her room, he stepped inside, then held it open for her father. A hodgepodge of rugs lay in a maze-like pattern on the floor, some circular, some rectangular. Every wall had furniture up against it with pictures, sketches, paintings, and china plates hanging above. One bed was shoved against the back wall like his, but unlike his it had a white quilt with intersecting rings made up of colorful fabrics. At its head, a matching pillow cover.

  He’d never been in Miss Love’s room before. He wondered how much of this was hers and how much of it was Miss Jayne’s. He looked behind the door at the other bed. Her bed. It was up against the wall he shared with them—her voice always easier to hear than Miss Love’s. No simple quilt for Miss Jayne, though. Her bed was covered with a fluffy white spread and a white lace pillow bordered with white lace ruffles. Above its brass headboard, a large painting of a woman at the seashore captured his full attention.

  He moved closer, looking for the signature. And there it was. F. Jayne.

  “It’s the best one she’s ever done,” her father said, standing just behind Reeve’s shoulder. “Far and away my favorite.”

  Reeve tilted his head. It was actually quite good. The woman leaned against a railing, her red hair flowing in the breeze and changing color depending on where the sun hit it. The water was blue and sparkling, the sand white and begging to be walked upon. He could almost hear the waves, taste the salt, and feel the grit of the sand on his skin.

  Standing there, beside the painting and the white linens on the bed, he felt as if he’d stepped into a summer day, full of light and sunshine and happiness. Sort of like her.

  He took a quick step back and bumped into her father. “Excuse me.”

  As much as Reeve wanted to return to his room, he didn’t feel right leaving. The man said he was Miss Jayne’s father, and he could see a little bit of resemblance around the mouth. Still, until he knew for certain, he’d stay put.

  Mr. Jayne walked about the room, looking at the walls as if he were in a museum. Hands behind his back, he bent over and examined a sketch of a woman selling flowers to a well-dressed gentleman. A dress form holding a fashionable gown. A crowd of people boarding a steamer. A group of children playing hopscotch on the street. “Such a talent my girl has. Must have gotten it from her mother. I can’t draw to save my life.”

  Reeve glanced at the sketches and paintings he referred to. Some weren’t bad, but he wasn’t sure he’d call Miss Jayne a talent. She was competent, as the seashore painting proved, but she was hardly the next Rembrandt.

  Mr. Jayne stopped in front of a washstand. Instead of a wooden affair on spindly legs, the women had a full cabinet with an assortment of glass vials, china bowls, and porcelain vessels surrounding a fancy washbowl and ewer with floral designs and gold-leaf edges.

  Mr. Jayne lifted a few of the lids and peeked at the various creams and liquids. “I’m a barber, you know.”

  No, he didn’t know, but he didn’t say so.

  “Taught her a thing or two about creams and such, and she caught on awfully fast. She’s a smart girl, my Flossie. She’d have made a great barber if she’d been a man.” He held a jar of liquid to his nose. “Smells just like her, don’t you think?” He held it out to Reeve.

  Out of politeness, Reeve took a sniff. It smelled of roses. “I couldn’t really say, sir. I only see her at dinnertime, and the table we sit at is awfully large.”

  Mr. Jayne screwed the lid back on and returned it to the washstand. “Well, of course you couldn’t say, but I could, and I can assure you, it smells just like her.” He took one last look about the room, then withdrew a card from his pocket. “Well, don’t tell her I was here. I want her to come home. If she knew I’d been here, she might take it as a sign of approval.”

  Reeve accepted the card. So it was her father after all. “Mum’s the word, sir.”

  Mr. Jayne clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s a good man. If we want to keep this women’s movement from gaining momentum, we’d best stick together. Good day, Wilder.”

  “Good day.”

  The man left as quickly and as quietly as he’d come. A shame his daughter wasn’t more like him.

  CARTOON 7

  “She hadn’t been chosen to paint faces on the leaded glass windows, nor to paint watercolors onto the large hanging canvas, which she now knew they called a cartoon.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  With aching feet, Flossie squeezed onto the crowded streetcar that would take her home. Home to Klausmeyer’s Boardinghouse. Exhausted as she was, she couldn’t suppress the thrill of completing her first day of work. She hadn’t been chosen to paint faces on the leaded glass windows, nor to paint watercolors onto the large hanging canvas, which she now knew they called a cartoon. Instead, she’d been sent to the storeroom to restock colored glass.

  Nan Upton, the Tiffany Girl she’d met out in the hall, had stood beside a cartoon going through trunks full of colored glass. She’d pick up a small sheet, hold it to the window, m
utter something under her breath, then do the same thing with a different one. When she’d sorted through all the trunks and not found the color she was looking for, she’d started on barrels of colored glass. By the time she’d laid aside a selection weighing no more than a few pounds, well over a ton of glass had been strewn from one end of the storeroom to the other.

  It had been Flossie’s job to put the pieces back, but rather than return them to any old trunk, she’d decided to sort them by color. All the greens in one trunk, the reds in another, and blues in yet another. No wonder Mr. Tiffany had lit up when he’d described the characteristics of his opalescent glass to her. Never had she seen anything like it in her entire life.

  Touching it, holding it up to the light, seeing how different textures created different results enthralled her, and slowed down her work considerably. When Mrs. Driscoll had come to find out what was taking her so long, she’d given Flossie a bit of a scolding.

  “For heaven’s sake, look at all this glass. What on earth have you been doing?”

  “Sorting it by color,” she’d answered. “It might take a bit of time up front, but I think it will save time in the end.”

  “Nonsense. No one could ever sort Tiffany glass. It’s too variegated. How would you ever be able to decide? No, no. Just get it up off the floor and tables and into the trunks, then come along. There’s much to be done.”

  With a great deal of disappointment, she’d done as she was told. It was hard to pout, though, when she’d been able to work with such a plethora of colors and designs.

  The streetcar conductor gave a savage ring of the bell and tore around a corner, throwing Flossie into the men crammed up next to her in the overcrowded quarters. She hung on to a leather strap above her head. No one offered her a seat, no one offered her any space.