Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  A minute later, he heard the springs on her bed bounce. “Sweet heaven above.” Her sighed words were barely audible through the thin wall.

  He leaned his head back against his door. He shouldn’t have done that. He absolutely should not have done that.

  CHAPTER

  59

  What was your last thought before going to sleep?” Mrs. Dinwiddie asked.

  Flossie barely lifted her gaze. Reeve sat frozen, but didn’t look at her, though she knew he knew that she’d put his question there. Still, she couldn’t help it. She’d thought about him constantly for over a week, but he acted as if nothing whatsoever had happened. As if he hadn’t teased her during Mr. Holliday’s photographs and stolen secret touches and whispered in her ear—not to mention those kisses.

  It was the first time she’d been kissed in her whole life. And oh, my, what kisses. She had no idea. No wonder preachers were so concerned about sins of the flesh. If that was any indication of what went on between a man and a woman after marriage, she could certainly see why some couples ate supper before they said grace.

  Reeve held his hand out. Mrs. Dinwiddie passed him the paper.

  He reread the question, then looked straight at Flossie, his voice low. “Where are the paintings on the edges that give hints of possible answers?”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. She’d agonized about what to paint on his paper and had thought of many possibilities, none of which were appropriate. So, she’d simply left it blank. Never did she dream he’d ask her about it.

  He raised a brow.

  She wrapped a loose tendril of hair round her finger. “Well, there were just so many possibilities, I didn’t even know where to start.”

  “Not for me.” His voice dropped another register. “There was only one thing on my mind last night as I was falling asleep.”

  Her eyes widened. Dear heavens. Surely he wouldn’t actually say it. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d merely wanted to jog him out of his complacency, not announce to the entire household that he’d well and truly kissed her. And nibbled her ear. And she’d—

  Oh, sweet mercy. She’d blown in his ear. Her face heated.

  “What was it?” Mrs. Dinwiddie asked.

  He kept his eyes on Flossie. “I was thinking about waltzing.”

  Her lips parted.

  “Waltzing?” Mrs. Dinwiddie shook her head. “Of all the things you could say, that is the absolute last one I’d have guessed.”

  “What about you, Miss Jayne?” he asked. “Is it the last thing you would have guessed?”

  “I . . . I . . .” She fumbled with a button at her collar. “I had no idea you would say waltzing.”

  His eyes warmed. He pulled up a corner of his mouth. “Yes, well, I’ve come to the realization that waltzing can be a rather pleasurable pursuit.”

  She looked at her plate, goose bumps racing up her arms. She certainly had her answer. He might have treated her exactly the same as before, his barricade might appear to be shored up and in place, but at night when the candles were out, he thought about her just as she thought about him. It would do her no good, though, for nothing could come of it. She wouldn’t be free from debt until she was fifty-something.

  She peeked up at him. He’d turned his attention to Mr. Holliday who, after giving Reeve a speculative look, began to read a question for Annie Belle.

  DRAGONFLY LAMP 34

  “Along the bottom edge eight dragonflies with wings fully spread headed downward as if they would burst from the shade at any moment.”

  CHAPTER

  60

  The murmur of a man’s voice came from the hall. In another moment, Mrs. Driscoll and Mr. Mitchell entered the studio. Flossie immediately looked sharp, for he was not only vice president and manager of Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company, he was also brother-in-law to Mr. Tiffany. Mrs. Driscoll, however, couldn’t stand him.

  “Is this it?” he asked Mrs. Driscoll, picking up a painted cartoon of a lampshade. His brown bushy mustache connected to thick muttonchops that blended into his hair.

  Mrs. Driscoll clasped her hands behind her. She’d been working on the design since shortly after they’d returned from the fair. Along the bottom edge eight dragonflies with wings fully spread headed downward as if they would burst from the shade at any moment. Hints of blue, green, and yellow flowed throughout each wing. Flossie could only imagine how lifelike they’d look once they were made with Tiffany’s iridescent glass. If Mitchell approved it, it would be one of the most breathtaking pieces she’d ever see.

  “You can’t mean to tell me this is what you’ve been working on all these weeks?” Mr. Mitchell grimaced. “Bugs? On a lamp? Why, it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Mrs. Driscoll gave no reaction whatsoever to his words, but Flossie held her breath. The future of the lamp depended in no small measure on what he thought of it.

  He pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket and put them on. “You cannot possibly believe anyone would buy this.”

  “Actually, I do.” Mrs. Driscoll tilted her head. “It will be the most interesting and original item in the showroom.”

  “Perhaps, but people go to museums to see original and interesting items. They go to our showroom to buy things for their homes. And with the time and materials you’d use for this, we wouldn’t be able to price it for anything less than five hundred dollars.”

  Flossie sucked in her breath.

  He shook his head. “Who in their right mind would pay five hundred dollars for an oil lamp? Especially one with bugs on it?”

  “There are people who will pay most anything for what they like.” Mrs. Driscoll fingered the edge of the cartoon. “You have only to put it on the market and then you’ll see. It will sell.”

  “It’s too elaborate.” He rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “Everything you do is so ornate and expensive to make.”

  “Mr. Tiffany likes my designs,” she reminded him, crossing her arms. “No, he loves them.”

  He sighed. “Can’t you make me some modest designs for candlesticks, ink bottles, and inexpensive lamps? Those are the kinds of things we can’t have too many of.”

  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

  Sitting across from hi
s 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

  Flossie 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.”

  “What a silly twit,” Mr. Holliday said. “Does she really believe her little hobby is anything more than a frivolity? Honestly, I’m not sure but what the bibliomaniac would be better off without her. Maybe she’ll say no.”

  “Hush your mouth.” Mrs. Dinwiddie waved her hand. “Go on, Flossie.”

  “ ‘I could close up my shop, I suppose,’ Marylee said. ‘But I hate the thought of giving it up completely. What if we set up a little room for me in the back of our house? That way I wouldn’t have to give it up completely.’

  “ ‘And still charge a fee for it?’

  “ ‘Well, of course.’

  “The bibliomaniac pulled down his brows. ‘Now, you know better than that. No woman is allowed to work once she has married. Not only is it rather crass, but all of your time will be taken up in the management of our home, in preparing our meals.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘And one day—very soon, I hope—in the raising of our children.’

  “She blushed prettily.”

  Clasping her hands in a prayer-like fashion, Annie Belle pressed them to her heart and sighed.

  “Marylee looked down, afraid to meet his eyes. All of what he said was true. And she wanted those things. She just . . . she just wished she could have them all plus her photography.”

  “She’s starting to really annoy me now,” Mr. Oyster said. “The fellow has offered her everything he has on a silver platter. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be free to do nothing while someone else does all the work and earns all the money?”