“Whatever you want, so long as it takes place in a boardinghouse and the New Woman—Marylee, I think—remains the focal character. That’s what most of the letters mention.” Ulrich shrugged. “I’d suggest throwing in a few more eccentrics. You know, meddlesome landladies, coquettish daughters, slovenly servants, ill-mannered housemates, horrific food—don’t you live in a boardinghouse? Just fictionalize the people who live there.”
Reeve thought of the boarders at Klausmeyer’s. After the question-and-answer game they’d been playing, he knew them much better than he used to. It wouldn’t be hard to turn them into caricatures of themselves, except for Mrs. Dinwiddie. He’d never do something like that to her. It’s just that the rest of them weren’t particularly interesting.
Well, there was Miss Jayne. She was interesting. Compelling, even. And definitely complex. Still, to cast her in a leading role of an entire serialization? He wouldn’t know the first thing about it. The extra money would help him garner money for that down payment, though. A down payment he very much wanted.
He scratched his jaw. If writing this serialization would accelerate his chances of getting the Brooklyn place back, then maybe he ought to do it. It wasn’t as if anyone would know he was the one writing it.
Taking a deep breath, he uncrossed his legs and pushed himself to his feet. “I still want to write my regular articles. And the satire can only be published under the pseudonym.”
“Agreed.”
“All right, then. I’ll have something for you by the end of the week.”
Clamping the pipe at the corner of his mouth, Ulrich held out his hand. “That’s the spirit, Wilder. That’s the spirit.”
Reeve clasped his hand, but couldn’t help wonder if he’d just made a deal with the devil.
CARTOON FOR DISPLAY AT WORLD’S FAIR 19
“Mr. Tiffany looked at the designers, who were all bunched together at the other end of their line. ‘I have agreed to send them a cartoon by Miss McDowell and some sketches by Miss Northrup, Miss de Luze, and Miss Emmet.’ ”
CHAPTER
30
Flossie, Aggie, Nan, and all the other Tiffany Girls gathered around to admire the sections of The Story of the Cross. It was the final window they’d completed for the chapel—the largest and most important work the Women’s Department had ever done—and it took up almost every window in their workroom. A sense of accomplishment rushed through Flossie.
Some ten-thousand pieces of colored glass had been selected, cut, foiled, and arranged to make up the circular window. Seeing the entire composition, knowing it was mannish work yet had been completed by women, made her want to throw open the shutters and shout out to the world.
Look what we did! Look what we—twelve women—did all by ourselves!
Of course, the pieces still needed to be soldered, then ultimately installed, and no woman would be allowed to tread into that territory. Still, they’d done work that before had been done solely by men. Men who’d gone on strike and would be very surprised to see what the Women’s Department had accomplished in their absence.
She wished her family at 438 could see it. Even Mr. Wilder. Especially Mr. Wilder. She’d done as he’d requested and left him alone. Not that it was hard, what with the hours she’d been working. But she hoped time and the advent of spring had helped soften his feelings toward her.
Drawing in a breath, she pulled herself back to the present and studied the window’s nativity scene—the one she’d first thought was poorly designed. She shook her head. The selections were perfect. Perfect. The nuances of each piece making up Mary’s robe flowed from one segment to the next, emulating shadows and highlights, folds and bunches. The pieces she’d wanted to use would have worked, but not like these. Not like the ones Mr. Tiffany had chosen.
She studied the other sections. Sections where Mrs. Driscoll had been the one to decide which glass went into which spot, as had Nan and Ella as well. Pride swelled within her. She’d bet every penny she had that no one would have dreamed women had the skill and ability to create such a spectacular work of art.
A door opened and a male voice intruded upon the quiet that had fallen over the girls.
“Mrs. Driscoll?” Mr. Tiffany shouted.
“We’re in here,” Mrs. Driscoll replied, giving their creation one last lingering glance before turning her attention to him.
Flossie wished she could sit Mrs. Driscoll down in a chair and do her hair for her. She’d taken to parting it down the middle and slicking it back into a bun that looked like some sort of outgrowth from her head. It would look a hundred times better in the Gibson-girl style.
Mr. Tiffany stepped through the door, then paused. “Would you look at that? You did it, ladies. You did it, and not a moment too soon.”
The girls had grown accustomed to him and his visits over these last five months and had lost their nervousness, but not their wonderment and respect. With hands behind his back, he walked down the line of windows inspecting their work like a general inspecting his troops. By the time he reached the end of the row, not a one of the girls was breathing.
He turned to Mrs. Driscoll. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Mrs. Driscoll smiled. The girls clapped and cheered. Flossie wished she were a man and could throw a hat in the air and whoop. Instead, she hugged Aggie on her left and Nan on her right.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to know which of you girls I’ve chosen to go to the fair.”
They quieted immediately. Propping a hip onto one of the tables, he half-sat and half-stood. “Well, before I tell you that, I have a surprise to share with you. Have you heard about the Woman’s Building at the Fair? It’s a building designed by women, built by women, and stocked with exhibits made exclusively by women. I have been approached by the Board of Lady Managers. They have asked for a sampling of your work to be displayed in their building.”
Flossie sucked in her breath. Most of her work would already be incorporated into the windows, but she could certainly cut a few pieces of glass for the display. Or they might want to show one of the manila sheets she’d made with her stylus and carbon paper. Oh, wouldn’t her parents be thrilled? It would make up for so much. She saw them every Sunday at church, and a week didn’t go by without them imploring her to return home, especially when they found out the Tiffany Girls had been returning to work on Sunday afternoons in order to finish the windows.
Mr. Tiffany looked at the designers, who were all bunched together at the other end of their line. “I have agreed to send them a cartoon by Miss McDowell and some sketches by Miss Northrup, Miss de Luze, and Miss Emmet.”
Flossie leaned forward and glanced at the girls he’d mentioned. They had been with him long before she and her classmates had arrived. They blushed and smiled and looked at one another.
He folded his hands in his lap. “I, of course, would not dream of leaving out my new girls. I am so proud of you and will be sending three samples of your work. One of magnolias, one of grapes, and one of chrysanthemums.”
Flossie’s heart sank. She’d not worked on any of those and neither had Nan. Still, he hadn’t announced who would be attending the fair. As wonderful as it would have been to have her work displayed, she’d much rather go to the actual fair. She’d worked more hours than any of the others, she’d not missed one single day of work, she’d arrived early and stayed late, and she’d only had two mishaps—crashing into the glass easel, which wasn’t her fault at all, and reselecting Mr. Tiffany’s pieces, which she’d set to rights immediately.
“Would you like to tell them, Mrs. Driscoll?”
The woman’s cheeks pinked, then she faced the girls. “I honestly didn’t know how we would decide, but the choice ended up being simplified when the Board of Lady Managers asked Mr. Tiffany if one of our selectors and her glasscutter could do a demonstration in the Woman’s Building for fairgoers.”
Flossie’s pulse soared, her breath held.
“Mr. Tiffany and I each wr
ote down the names of the team we wanted to send and both came up with the same names.”
Aggie slipped her hand into Flossie’s. There was no question now that Aggie would not be going. Her job had been to bend foil around the edges of the cut glass for soldering, but Flossie was one of two cutters, so it was between her and Nan and the other team, Ella and Elizabeth.
“Our choice is Nan—”
Flossie sucked in her breath, her heart filling with joy, her eyes stinging with tears.
“—and Elizabeth.”
She froze. Nan covered her mouth. The girls squealed. They surrounded Nan and Elizabeth, hugging, applauding, and all talking at once. Flossie turned to Nan and smiled, her congratulatory words drowned out by the others.
It was as if she wasn’t in her body, but was floating above the room watching herself, seeing herself share in the excitement and say all the right things. She hugged the designers and asked which sketches they were going to send. She expressed to Mrs. Driscoll her pleasure over what their windows would mean for the women’s movement. And she chatted with Mr. Tiffany, telling him she couldn’t wait to hear everyone’s reactions when they saw his chapel. Yet during it all she wanted nothing more than to run and run and run until she’d outrun the pain and disappointment.
CHAPTER
31
All lights were out at Klausmeyer’s. Closing the door behind her, Flossie groped along the hallway.
A moment later Mr. Wilder stepped out of his room, an oil lamp in his hand. He was in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet. His suspenders hung down by his sides, and his hair was mussed. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Who were you expecting?”
“Nobody at this hour. That’s why I was coming out to check. What are you doing getting in so late?”
“I stopped by my parents’ house before coming home. I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone. It was somewhat last minute.” After leaving work, she’d gone straight to her father’s arms, seeking refuge, and though he and Mother hovered, they also pleaded with her to “stop this ridiculousness” and come home. In the end, she wished she hadn’t gone to them at all.
He narrowed his eyes. “What’s the matter?”
Her lips parted. How could he tell something was the matter? Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head and started to pass him.
“Something’s the matter,” he said, partially blocking her way. “What is it? Is it the strikers?”
Pressing her knuckles to her mouth, she shook her head again.
“Did someone hurt you?”
“Not like you mean.”
“Then, what?”
Her eyes filled. “Mr. Tiffany picked someone else to go to the fair.” She barely managed to get the words past her throat.
He lifted the lantern. “Are you crying?”
Swiping a tear, she looked away. “I’m disappointed, is all. I thought . . .”
She didn’t want to tell him what she thought. The faint hissing of the lamp filled the silence. His cat came into the hall. Latching on to an opportunity to divert his attention, she tried to steady her voice. “Is that a different cat from the one I saw before?”
He lowered the lamp. “It’s the same one. I bathed her, is all.”
“Did you?” She squatted down and ran a hand along its back. “She looks a hundred times better. And so soft.”
He shifted his weight.
“Have you named her yet?” she asked.
“I call her Cat.”
Scratching its chin, she leaned down and brought her nose close to it. “That isn’t much of a name,” she whispered in a baby voice. “Is it?”
Cat purred, then lifted her nose and touched it to Flossie’s. The gesture was so sweet, so unexpected, it completely undid her. With her emotions so close to the surface, she was unable to suppress them. Sinking the rest of the way to the floor, she covered her face.
Mr. Wilder set the lamp down, then knelt on one knee beside her. “Should I, should I get Miss Love?”
She shook her head, keeping the sound of her sobs in, but her shoulders still shook.
He opened and closed his fists. “Don’t cry, now, just a few more steps and you’ll be in your room.”
“You don’t have to stay,” she said into her hands. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I know I’m a bother to you, so, please, I’ll be all right. I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes.”
He rubbed his hands on his trousers. “Come on now, little magpie. I can’t leave you in the middle of the hall like this.”
A sob escaped.
Blowing out a breath, he sat down beside her and pulled her up against his side, holding her and letting her cry into his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I didn’t think I had any tears left.”
“Shhhhh.” He leaned his cheek against her hair. “It’s all right.”
“I w-wanted to go so bad.”
“I would have, too.”
“I worked so hard. Going in early. Staying late. Never complaining.”
“Shhhhh.”
She cried some more until finally the tears began to subside. Cat crawled up into Mr. Wilder’s lap, then crossed over to hers. Flossie petted her, drawing comfort from the action and from being held in Mr. Wilder’s arms. He felt so different from her father. So hard and firm, yet not the least bit uncomfortable. Much as she wanted to stay there, she straightened.
“Better?” he asked, his voice quiet.
She gave a shrug, her eyes filling again.
He studied her face, his eyes surveying her much like a painter who was trying to capture every nuance of his subject’s features. The lantern’s light flickered in his pupils. He hooked a tendril of hair behind her ear, then lowered his hand to the floor.
Warmth flooded her. She burrowed her fingers into Cat’s coat.
“You’d best go on to bed,” he said. “The morning’s not far in coming.”
“Yes.”
Neither moved. Her heart shifted. Her stomach tensed.
Drawing in a breath, he pulled his feet beneath him and rose, then held out a hand for her. She picked up Cat, nuzzled her neck, then looked up at Mr. Wilder. “Can I sleep with her tonight?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “All right.”
With her hands full, she was unable to take the one he offered. Leaning down, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her clear to her feet. Flossie held Cat tight. The animal dug her claws into Flossie’s bodice, but made no attempt to spring free. Mr. Wilder’s hands lingered for the slightest of moments, then he stepped back.
“Good night, Cat.” He rubbed a knuckle between Cat’s ears.
Flossie’s chest rose and fell. The warmth inside her grew. Moving to her door, she gave him a quick glance, then let herself into her room, but the picture he made in his shirtsleeves, stocking feet, and swinging suspenders would stay with her for many a month to come.
CHAPTER
32
I don’t really care for the Marylee character,” Miss Jayne said, cutting into her codfish cake. “She’s so, I don’t know, shallow. And a bit irritating, don’t you agree?”
Reeve’s fork stalled halfway to his mouth before he realized it and carried it the rest of the way.
“Oh, but wait until you read today’s installment.” Leaning in, Mrs. Trostle looked up and down the table. “I think the bibliomaniac is starting to fall in love with her.”
Reeve choked. Oyster pounded him on the back. “You okay?”
Reeve held up a hand, then hit his chest a couple of times. “Just swallowed wrong, but I’m curious, Mrs. Trostle. What makes you think that about the bibliomaniac?”
Miss Jayne’s eyes widened. “You read Mr. I. D. Claire’s column?”
“That is a ridiculous name,” he said.
She smiled. “I like it, I do declare.”
With a humph, he returned his attention to Mrs. Trostle. The woman was again dressed to the knocker in a gown whose upper sleeves were as
full and round as a person’s head. Perhaps she, too, had a seamstress in her family, but then, that wouldn’t explain the jewelry.
Looping a long strand of pearls round and round her finger, Mrs. Trostle pursed her lips. “All the signs are there. The bibliomaniac’s perfectly composed and well-spoken in every situation until Marylee enters the room, then he becomes tongue-tied and self-conscious and only too anxious to make his exit.”
Reeve blinked. “He does?”
She gave him a patronizing look. “Well, I can understand why you didn’t see that, being a man and all, but we women have a sixth sense about these things.”
He scratched his jaw. “Interesting. I missed that completely.”
“Heavens.” She swatted the air with her hand. “It’s as obvious as the nose on your face.”
Unless you were the author, he thought, then shook his head. The bibliomaniac was the normal character. Sure, Reeve had given him a few idiosyncrasies, like reading the dictionary from cover to cover, but for the most part that character was reason in a world of confusion. Order in a world of chaos. Practicality in a world of unfeasibility. For the bibliomaniac to have feelings for the flighty Marylee confounded not only him, but the entire plot.
By the time he drew himself back into the conversation, the topic had shifted to Miss Jayne’s paintings.
“You really have a remarkable talent, Miss Jayne.” Mrs. Trostle turned to her husband. “Don’t you think so, Chester?”
“Eh?”
“Don’t you think Miss Jayne has remarkable talent?” she said, her voice raised.
“Yes, yes.” Propping a monocle on his right eye, he looked at Miss Jayne. “Remarkable talent, indeed. The others have been telling us about you being a Tiffany Girl and the tremendous work you have done for Mr. Tiffany. You must tell us the things that they could not. Did you study art in Paris?”