by Deeanne Gist
She danced to him, grabbed his hands, pulled him into the room, and spun them in a circle as if they were children. “I have to go pack. What in the world will I wear? I can’t wait to tell my parents.” She stopped, their hands still clasped, her eyes filling. “Oh, Reeve, they’re going to be so pleased and proud. I’m going to do a demonstration of glass cutting at the Woman’s Building. I’ll get to see our chapel. I’ll get to see my friend’s mural in the Manufacturer’s Building. Oh, my goodness. How am I going to have time to do all the things I need to do before I leave? I must get busy.” She rushed out of the room, then a moment later was grabbing the doorframe and swinging herself back in. “Could you do me the biggest favor, Mr. Wilder? I know you’re busy, but it would mean so much. Could you get word to my mother? I’m going to need her help or I’ll never be ready in time. Would you mind?”
He found himself shaking his head. “Of course not. I’ll be glad to.”
“Oh, thank you!” Arms wide, she launched herself at him.
Eyes widening, he stumbled back, but there was no stopping her momentum. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed him on the cheek, then raced off to her room before he had a chance to respond.
Every nerve in his body went on alert. The blood in his veins moved so forcefully he could almost feel it. The place on his cheek where her lips had touched tingled.
With a pleased look, Mrs. Dinwiddie shooed him with her hands. “Don’t you dare send a message, you go fetch her mother and bring her back post haste or that girl might explode into a thousand different pieces.”
His cognitive functions began to operate again. “I don’t have time to—”
“Yes, you do. If it means you have to work a little late tonight, so be it. Now, go. And for heaven’s sake, don’t dawdle.”
He was out the door and on the sidewalk before he realized he had no idea where the Jaynes even lived. Turning back around, he reentered the house.
Mrs. Dinwiddie met him halfway down the hall with a piece of paper in her hand. “Here you are. Their address is on here. Now, hurry.”
It wasn’t until he’d flagged a cab and had a chance to catch his breath that he realized Miss Jayne had used his Christian name. Even more than the kiss, that shook him to his very core.
WORLD’S COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION 22
“On every side, every horizon, were colossal white palaces, gilded domes, lofty pillars, decorative statues, and curved bridges.”
CHAPTER
39
The train trip Flossie enjoyed so thoroughly brought great distress to Nan, whose stomach could not adjust to the constant motion of the car. When they finally arrived in Chicago and made it to their hotel, darkness had once again fallen. Nan fell into bed. Flossie pulled back the curtains of their window.
Their room overlooked the mile-long Midway Plaisance and the giant Ferris wheel at its center, which had opened the day before. In awe, she watched it turn, its edges gleaming with hundreds of electric lights so bright they hurt her eyes. The wheel was huge, enormous, the grandest thing she’d ever seen. She’d read about it, of course, but seeing it for herself was entirely different.
Lampposts, Japanese lanterns, and spotlights were everywhere, turning night into day. People crowded the Midway’s broad walkway from end to end and side to side. Costumed foreigners mingled with sober-clad businessmen and tourists dressed in their best.
Farther down, spectacular white-domed buildings loomed against the dark sky. She couldn’t help but think of Columbus, whose discovery of America was being celebrated at this World’s Columbian Exposition. Four hundred years ago, he’d expected to find a city of fabulous wealth with sky-kissing temples and gold-tipped spires. He’d been disappointed then, but he wouldn’t be disappointed now. For this was more beautiful and more imperial than any city he could have ever imagined. It was indeed the city of his dreams—and of hers.
Flossie touched her fingertips to the cool window, her heart stretching toward the joys that would come with the morning sun.
She rose extra early and slipped out of their room, careful not to wake poor Nan. She crossed to the Madison Street entrance, showed her exhibitor’s pass to a tall, handsome Columbian Guard in blue regalia, and then she was in.
She wanted to see the chapel alone and in all its glory before the gates opened to the public. Street cleaners swept away the last bit of debris from the night before, their bristles making a rhythmic swish-swish-swish and stirring up clouds of dirt. The midway’s queer villages slept behind striped awnings and arched entrances. A thick-set man with a white flowing cloak and enormous straw hat with tassels took a pull on a cigarette and watched her as she passed beneath a viaduct and into the official White City.
Nothing could have prepared her. On every side, every horizon, were colossal white palaces, gilded domes, lofty pillars, decorative statues, and curved bridges. Cutting between these majestic structures was a sapphire-blue waterway—a liquid street—that reflected back to her in twofold the beauty of the marble-like facades.
She had no trouble spotting the Manufacturer’s Building. Being the largest building ever erected, it had been touted as the Eighth Wonder of the World. The guidebooks even said the Eiffel Tower could lie flat inside it without ever touching the enveloping structure and still have thousands of feet to spare.
Her circuitous route took her past a set of descending marble steps leading to the water’s edge. A half-dozen gondolas bobbed in the lagoon awaiting their first passengers. Gondoliers fresh from Venice lounged about in brigand’s leggings and colorful sashes, their broad-brimmed hats shading brown faces and black eyes, their quiet conversations in musical Italian.
Crossing a bridge, she glanced into what looked like a wooded fairy island with winding paths, fragrant bowers, and shadowy glades. A brood of ducks glided out into the water, cutting an arrow-shaped swath across its surface.
The closer she came to the Manufacturer’s Building the more it dwarfed her. Climbing its steps to the grand portal, she passed beneath a triumphal arch, then paused at the imposing entrance. She looked behind her, almost expecting to find the celestial city had vanished like an illusion, but the magic spell of its ravishing vista remained unbroken.
TIFFANY CHAPEL 23
“Shallow stairs at the front invited her to approach, their risers covered in mosaics, their designs simple at the bottom but gaining complexity with every step up she took. To her left, a white mosaic lectern stood like an angel, silent and impressive. To her right, an ornate baptismal font rested in an alcove backed with one of their windows.”
CHAPTER
40
Under any other circumstance, Flossie would have been captivated by a miniature city inside a building—complete with streets rather than aisles. Instead, she looked up, up, up to the dizzying height of a pendentive dome, and there it was. The mural that Louise and Mr. Cox had painted.
With one hand holding her hat and the other touching her throat, she noted that instead of painting the upper part of the vault, they’d placed female figures in each of the triangular segments dropping down from the four corners of the dome. In one shield-shaped space, a robust woman testing a sword suggested steelworking. For ceramic painting, a graceful girl in blue-and-white drapery decorated a vase. A tall, shapely woman in golden-green robes wielded a carpenter’s square to represent building. And in the final pendentive, a maiden of fair complexion held a distaff to symbolize weaving.
Flossie couldn’t imagine how on earth Louise was able to paint something all the way up there. It made Flossie’s stomach fill with butterflies just thinking about it. Still, their work was breathtaking. All of the literature she’d read only mentioned Mr. Cox’s name, but Flossie felt sure Louise would have signed her name alongside his. Try as she might, though, she was too far away to distinguish anything as tiny as a signature.
When her neck couldn’t stand the strain any longer, she lowered her chin and scanned the building until she spotted the clock tower, t
hen headed toward it and the American section of the building. The Tiffany exhibits were not hard to find, for Mr. Tiffany, his father, and Gorham Manufacturing had footed the bill for the entrance to the American pavilion. As such, their names were prominently displayed, their exhibits the first inside the gate.
Grasping the gilt handle of the chapel’s door, she opened it and stepped inside, then caught her breath. God’s presence filled the place. Didn’t matter that it was an exhibit. Didn’t matter that no services were held. Didn’t matter that there was no pastor or priest. Holiness encompassed every corner, every crevice, and seeped into her very soul.
A peace settled over her, chasing away all the upheaval of coming and going. The sound of her boots on the marble floor echoed as she walked down the aisle between highly polished pews. Shallow stairs at the front invited her to approach, their risers covered in mosaics, their designs simple at the bottom but gaining complexity with every step up she took. To her left, a white mosaic lectern stood like an angel, silent and impressive. To her right, an ornate baptismal font rested in an alcove backed with one of their windows.
Joy rushed through her as she absorbed the full impact of the window—a halo of light and color. The stained glass didn’t overwhelm the font, but instead complemented it.
Shaped like a bejeweled globe, the font was the perfect tribute to the Garden of Eden, where innocence once lost had been recaptured and sealed forever by the miracle of baptism.
Another step and she stood before the altar. Pairs of columns made a semicircle around it and her. Multicolored swirls of mosaic climbed up them as if the waves of the stairs had crashed into breakers upon reaching the holy of holies. They supported rounded arches in the shape of concentric rainbows.
Worked into one were Latin words she didn’t understand and couldn’t pronounce. She’d asked Mr. Tiffany about these words, though, and learned they translated into, Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, who was, who is, and who always will be.
Nearer and nearer the columns drew her, each one more extravagant than the last, all leading to the masterpiece framing the altar. A chef-d’oeuvre of mosaic art, the reredos held an iridescent crown of the King, worshiped by spreading peacocks, the Byzantine symbol for eternal life.
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
The 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 cross
ed 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.”
