by Deeanne Gist
Miss Jayne gave him a tolerant smile. “Nonsense. Anyone who writes the kind of articles you do would, I feel sure, be able to briefly sum up what he feels our society could do to better itself.”
He stared at her. She had read them. He shifted in his chair again. “My favorite season is winter.”
She lifted a brow. “Scared to answer the question?”
“Certainly not.” He was tired of this game. Tired of all the chatter. Tired of sitting in a different seat when everyone knew his chair was the more comfortable one Mr. Nettels now occupied. “I’m simply finished with my meal and have a deadline to meet. So, I’m afraid—”
Again, young Mrs. Holliday’s face began to crumple. Death and the deuce. If he didn’t answer the blasted question, she’d take it personally.
Heaving a sigh, he pulled his napkin from his lap and set it on the table. “If I were to change one thing in society, I’d put a stop to the crusade of today’s New Woman who wishes to break with conventions of the past and trample all tradition underfoot.”
He slid back his chair. “The reason her pursuit of economic independence is so serious is because the place she currently occupies in society is vitally important. Any change to it would result in enormous consequences to every individual and even to the entire human race.”
Standing, he grasped the top rail of his chair. It wobbled in his hands. “As much as she wishes it, she cannot simply rush off with a conceited notion that all the teachings of human history can be easily reversed, and society cannot suddenly be turned into a social and economic paradise by the application of some simple formula she’s concocted.”
Miss Jayne’s lips parted.
He should stop. This wasn’t exactly appropriate dinner conversation. And it wasn’t as if he could actually change society. Still, the entire situation fired his fear and his anger and he found himself unable to stem the flow of words. “It is man, not woman, who throughout the centuries has battled with the forces of nature and subdued them to his will. It is he who swept away the jungle and the forest, who made the desert blossom like a rose, who reared great cities and created states and founded empires. It is he who flecked the ocean with his fleets, who girdled the earth with the cincture of civilization, who united humanity into one great brotherhood, and who established law and evolved the sciences.”
Pushing in his chair, he straightened his spine. “If woman has it in herself to do the work of man, which he has fearlessly performed for unnumbered centuries, then why didn’t Eve choose to live her life apart from Adam from the very beginning? Why didn’t she treat him on equal terms? Become his rival?” He flattened his lips. “I’ll tell you why. Because giving woman economic independence would breed mistrust and jealousy between her and man. It would corrode the very foundations every society in the world is built upon. Our future as a human race depends upon her keeping her life joined to his in a spirit of trust and reverence and affection. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Spinning, he stalked from the room, leaving total silence in his wake.
WASHING-POWDER ADVERTISEMENT 9
“ ‘I’ve no desire to condemn women to imprisonment in greasy kitchens, forever debarring them from intellectual growth. It’s their best interests I have at heart. Theirs and their children’s.’ ”
CHAPTER
12
Flossie held herself perfectly still at the open doorway of Mr. Wilder’s room. The patter of rain outside and the hall’s worn carpet runner had covered her approach. His back was slightly turned, for he was sitting on the end of his bed, his body angled toward the window. The precipitation had stirred the ever-present slime in the city’s streets, tainting the room with its subtle odor.
She took advantage of the unguarded moment to study him. Jacketless, his white shirt stretched across a broad back. Crisscrossing black suspenders trapped parts of his shirt and caused it to wrinkle, then drew the eye down to brown trousers hugging a trim waist. Muscular thighs strained the fabric encasing them.
The moisture in the air made her hair wilt, but made his short blond curls more wavy. At his feet, a gray, pathetic-looking cat purred as he stroked its matted, wet fur. She’d often wondered why he kept his window cracked, even on the coldest of days. Well, now she knew. He whispered to it, then chuckled as it rolled onto its back seeking a tummy rub.
A dull green blanket had been thrown over his pillow in a man’s way of making the bed. No curtains hung on his window, no ornaments graced his bedside table. She’d never seen such a sparse, barren room, totally devoid of personal mementos and pictures.
Only his desk gave a peek into the man he was, but even that held a minimal amount, and what was there was kept in an orderly manner. His papers were neatly stacked, his oil lamp flickered, his pen protruded from its stand, his inkwell was tightly capped. So much for having work to do. Clearly, that had been an excuse to escape from their dinner party.
After his departure, the boarders had been more taken by the number of words he’d spoken than the actual topic of his discourse. According to them, he’d said more in those few minutes than in the entire year he’d lived there. For her, however, it was the subject matter and the passionate delivery that impressed her. She’d read his articles, had known the women’s movement concerned him. What she hadn’t realized was the degree to which it did.
Her father would certainly like him. They’d find much in common if they were to ever meet. But with the way her father felt about her being here, the chances of that were slim. Still, it had been illuminating to hear Mr. Wilder voice what Papa had not—or perhaps could not. She’d sort of stumbled into being a New Woman because of circumstances. She wasn’t a member of any women’s association. She hadn’t attended any women’s rallies or lectures. She merely wanted to be paid for her labor so she could go to art school. She had a hard time seeing how that was going to lead to the deterioration of the entire human race.
Even so, despite his speech, her game had been a wonderful success. Everyone stayed at the table, visiting, until Mrs. Klausmeyer finally kicked them out. They agreed to adjourn to the parlor, but Flossie wanted everyone in the family to join them. So, she’d excused herself for a moment to come and fetch Mr. Wilder.
Lifting her hand, she tapped on his door.
He looked over his shoulder, then slowly straightened his spine.
“Don’t get up,” she said. “I just came to check on you.”
He glanced at his jacket, which had been draped on the back of his desk chair, and started to rise.
“Don’t get up,” she said again, then pointed to the cat. “I see you have a friend.”
He sank back down. “It’s raining.”
“Actually, I think it’s snowing now.”
He glanced at the window. “No, I mean, the cat always comes when it’s raining . . . or snowing.”
“Does he?”
“She. It’s a she. And, yes, but Mrs. Klausmeyer wouldn’t like it.”
“I won’t tell.”
He studied her, his eyes hidden, for the lantern light on the desk didn’t reach quite that far.
“I don’t let her on the bed,” he said. “I make her a little pallet on the floor. She doesn’t bother anybody. Never cries. Just purrs.”
Crossing her arms, Flossie propped herself against the doorframe. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.” Teasing the cat, he touched its nose, paws, and ears in quick succession while it swiped at him.
Why hadn’t he named it? she wondered. Instead of asking, she simply offered him an invitation. “Everyone’s in the parlor. We’re going to play The Board Game of Old Maid. I found it on one of Mrs. Klausmeyer’s shelves.”
Instead of responding, he rubbed his knuckles against the cat’s ear. Closing its eyes, the cat leaned in to the rub and purred.
Flossie tilted her head. “We’d like you to join us.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I need to do some work.”
> She looked again at the clean desk and capped inkwell. “But everyone’s there.”
“Perhaps next time.” He still hadn’t looked up, but kept all his attention on the cat.
“Is it because I’m a New Woman?”
Pausing, he rested his elbows on his knees. “Not at all. I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t be sorry. I asked you a question and you answered.”
He studied her again. “Why did you ask it? Why was it so different from everyone else’s?”
“I don’t know.” That wasn’t completely true. “Well, okay. Perhaps it had a little something to do with your articles in the World.”
“Did it?” He leaned back. “Well, I have a question for you now. What kind of paintings did you surround my slip of paper with—the one Mrs. Holliday read to me, I mean?”
Looking toward the upper corner of his ceiling, she bit her lower lip. “Well, let’s see. One painting was of a man dragging a woman by a chain around her neck. Another was of a woman being turned away from a university by a pack of men in black robes. Another of a woman in sordid labor over a soap vat. And the last a father pocketing all the money his daughter earned.”
“Perhaps he needed it to help feed his family.”
“Perhaps he didn’t.”
He blew out a puff of air. “We men aren’t tyrants, you know.”
“No?”
“I’ve no desire to condemn women to imprisonment in greasy kitchens, forever debarring them from intellectual growth. It’s their best interests I have at heart. Theirs and their children’s.”
Rather than challenge him further, she decided instead to extend an olive branch. “Then there’s no reason not to join us in the parlor.”
A beat of silence. “I’m sorry.”
She supposed she could blackmail him. Tell him she’d report him for harboring a stray, but, of course, she’d never do that. Still, she’d have to think of something, but for now she’d let him off the hook.
Pushing herself off the frame, she took a step back. “Next time, then. Good night, Mr. Wilder.”
“Miss Jayne.”
The cat took a quick swipe, catching him across the hand.
He jerked it back. “Oh, ho, ho. Easy now.”
The sound of his one-sided conversation followed her back down the hall.
CHAPTER
13
Mr. Tiffany poked his head inside the storeroom. “Well, there she is.”
Flossie rose to her feet. “Mr. Tiffany! It’s so good to see you. I’ve been dying to tell you how much I love your glass. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and such a privilege to work with.”
With an arm against his waist, he gave a bow. “Thank you very much.” He straightened. “I’ve been wanting to come by, but hadn’t been able to pull myself away from the factory in Corona.”
She couldn’t imagine that he’d been dressed like that at the factory or he’d have looked as out of place as she’d been on her first day of work. Still, she took a moment to appreciate the quality of his mixed cheviot coat, his brown worsted trousers with a thin dark stripe, and his russet shoes that had gained such popularity men were wearing them with everything but their evening dress.
“Miss Upton,” he said, acknowledging Nan.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tiffany.” Nan picked up a sheet of glass, her owl-like eyes bluer than normal in the bright sunlight.
He returned his attention to Flossie. “I wish you could have seen the glass we made yesterday. It was the purest of yellows with just enough red added to turn parts of it the exact orange of the sun the moment before it disappears behind the horizon.”
Flossie rested a hand against her chest. “Oh, I wish I could have seen it, too. It sounds like it would be the perfect thing to use for flames. Too bad we aren’t making any windows about the fiery furnace Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into.”
He laughed. “Perhaps I can talk someone into commissioning one, but what I’d really like to use it for is daffodils.”
“Daffodils?”
With a sheepish expression, he shrugged. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m growing a bit weary of always making windows for churches. All they ever want are traditional religious figural pieces. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for creativity. For quite some time, I’ve been wanting to try some nature-inspired still lifes or even a panorama of a pastoral scene.”
“Like your paintings,” she said.
“Like my paintings.” He smiled at her, then glanced at Nan as she held up a section of aquamarine glass to the window.
“Ah, look at that one, Miss Jayne.”
“Wouldn’t it make the perfect scales for a mermaid?”
“A mermaid.” Shaking his head, he chuckled. “It would indeed. Now, is this the glass you’ve selected so far?”
“Miss Upton has. I just do the restocking, but wait until you see what she’s selected.”
With a lift of her chin, Nan proceeded to show him each piece, then pointed to its corresponding color on the cartoon.
With hands in his pockets, Mr. Tiffany listened and watched. When she was finished, he looked at Flossie. “What do you think?”
Biting her lip, she glanced at Nan. The girl’s eyes turned steely, her posture stiff.
“For the most part I loved what she picked,” Flossie said, keeping her tone neutral.
“You’d make no changes, then?” he asked.
She shifted her weight. “Well, perhaps, but only a couple.”
“Which ones?”
Without looking Nan’s way, Flossie walked to a pile of glass the girl had deemed unworthy, flipped through it, then removed a piece the deep color of a ginger plant. She held it up to the light. “I’d have used this for the section of fabric that runs along the Virgin Mary’s lap—right here.” She pointed to the corresponding part on the cartoon. “I think that piece needs to be fairly dark in order to add a bit more shadow and dimension.”
He nodded. “Since you are doing the preliminary selecting and the final decision will occur later, you need to give your selector as many choices as you can without including the entire storeroom. That’s the first thing to keep in mind. So from now on, Miss Upton, I recommend you choose a few more options for your selector. Second, you were right, Miss Jayne, to note the piece Miss Upton chose for the Virgin’s lap wasn’t quite right, but I’m afraid yours isn’t, either.”
“No?” she asked.
“No, the color is good, but you need a piece of heavily wrinkled glass. That will give the illusion of the fabric being gathered in her lap, and will also give the dimension you were missing before. Let me see if I can find one.”
For the next thirty minutes Mr. Tiffany critiqued Nan’s selections, giving both the girls a chance to find different pieces before selecting even better ones himself. A couple of times Flossie felt like her selections were just as good as his, but she savored every moment of the time he spent with them. His vast wealth had not overly impressed her, but his vast talent had.
By the time he left, she had learned more about color, texture, and design than she had in a month of classes at the design school. “Oh, Nan, isn’t he wonderful?”
“I could hardly understand him with that lisp.” With little regard to their fragility, she stacked the pieces they’d decided upon onto a tray.
“Goodness, I hardly even notice his lisp anymore.”
“You two are certainly very friendly.”
Flossie began to return the unused pieces to their trunks and barrels. “We became acquainted the day he and Mrs. Driscoll came to the School of Applied Design.”
Picking up the tray of glass, Nan gave her a hard look. “Well, don’t think that just because he gave you a little attention today means he’s grooming you to be a selector. That position requires a great deal of experience and talent—neither of which you have. I suggest you don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Nan flounced out the d
oor before Flossie had the opportunity to formulate a response. It was just as well. By the time a response did come to mind, it wasn’t exactly one that would promote camaraderie, and she had no wish to make an enemy of Nan—or any of the Tiffany Girls. Now, more than ever, women needed to stick together.
GAME CARD 10
“Clearly, she was not going to give him the kind of questions she gave everyone else, such as: when did you last climb a tree?”
CHAPTER
14
What is your earliest childhood memory?”
Seeing my mother in a coffin. But he couldn’t say that.
Tonight it was Miss Love asking his question from across the table. A question Miss Jayne had planted there. Clearly, she was not going to give him the kind of questions she gave everyone else, such as: when did you last climb a tree? If you were given a boat, what would you name it? If you could be a piece of furniture, what would you be?
No, his questions were never simple. They appeared innocent enough on the surface, but in reality probed rather deeply. And she knew it. Was doing it on purpose. Would he receive easier questions if he joined them in the parlor each night? Or if he ceased to write articles about the New Women? He wished he could take dinner in his room, but Mrs. Klausmeyer would only allow that if he were sick, and there was no telling what Miss Jayne would do if she thought him ill.
He cut a bite of sprat, then jabbed it with his fork. “My earliest memory is of sitting in church with my father.”
Everyone turned to Miss Jayne. Clearly, his answer was insufficient. The green gown she wore, with its lace and bows and big puffy sleeves, befitted a duchess rather than a working girl. He’d noticed she no longer wore fancy dresses to Tiffany’s studio, though. Saved them instead for dinner and parlor games.
She took a sip of cider. “What was it about that particular day in church that made it so memorable?”
