Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, his breathing labored. “I haven’t shown you the rest of the house.”
“No, you haven’t,” she whispered.
He led her to the kitchen. An Acme Wonder cook stove sat against the wall. Along its back, the Tiffany tea screen she’d helped Mrs. Dinwiddie pick out shielded a coffeepot.
“I used to touch the tea screen,” he said. “Just because I knew you’d touched it first.”
She bit her lip, then turned around and noticed the table that Mrs. Dinwiddie had told her of. Even if she hadn’t, Flossie would have immediately known he’d made it. Compared to everything else in the house, it was glaringly rustic.
Heart squeezing, she pulled out a chair and sat, her lace flounces spilling around her. “We’re going to feed our family at this table someday.”
He said nothing, his shoulder propped against the doorframe, his eyes hooded.
Holding his gaze, she removed her glove one finger at a time, then ran her hand along the table’s scarred top. The gold band on her fourth finger caught the light and reflected it back. “Take me to the bedroom, Reeve.”
CHAPTER
86
Pushing himself off the doorframe, Reeve swept his hand in front of him. The muscles in her lower abdomen clenched in a way that made her think of his kisses, his embraces, and the smoldering way he looked at her sometimes. The way he looked at her now. Swallowing, she made her legs carry her to the only room she had yet to see.
A massive iron bedstead dominated the room. Instead of having four posts at each corner, the top rail curved into one continuous piece. A washstand and tiny mirror stood in the corner. A side table held an oil lamp and the metal figurine from the fair. It would be the last thing he saw each night before he extinguished the light.
She fingered the orange blossoms hanging from her waist.
“I didn’t want to buy a vanity without you,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what was required.”
She walked to the bed. It looked nothing like the white fluffy one of her youth. It was draped with a crocheted cover she’d seen Mrs. Dinwiddie working on for months last year.
“I don’t need a vanity.”
“You do. And I’ll get you one. Just as soon as we return from Niagara Falls.”
Moistening her lips, she placed her hands on the mattress and pushed, testing the springs. “It’s a lovely bed.”
“It’s not very frilly.”
She picked at the cover. “I don’t want frilly, just warm.”
He approached her, then encircled her waist from behind and kissed her neck through the lace of her high collar. “It’ll be warm. I can assure you of that.”
The nerves along her neck tingled. She leaned her head back against his chest to give him more access. He moved his lips to her jaw, her ear. His hands spread. His fingers skimmed.
She grabbed his wrists, her breathing rapid. “Reeve?”
He stopped moving.
She threaded her fingers with his, feeling his wedding band, loving that she’d put it there. “How, how long does it take for a girl to become a woman? Does it, does it take all night?”
He rested his lips against her head, his hands gripping hers. “It doesn’t take all night, but I wouldn’t want to rush it.”
She swallowed. “How long?”
“Not long.”
Her pulse raced. Her legs trembled. “I-I know it’s still light outside. And that it’s the—the middle of the day, but . . .” She took a tremulous breath. “Would you think me terribly wicked if I . . . if we . . . if . . .”
Releasing her hands, he took her by the shoulders and turned her around, then cupped her face. His eyes were close, so close she could see streaks of blue shooting throughout the green of his irises.
“I would never think that,” he said. “You will be my wife in daylight, in moonlight, in the dark of night, in every moment. There will never be anything wicked about it.” Taking her by the arms, he brought her to him for a sweet, slow kiss. “Where’s your buttonhook, my love?” he murmured against her lips.
She wondered if her skin was as flushed as his, her breathing as rapid as his, her eyes as dark as his. “In the carpet bag by the front door.”
He nodded. “I’m going to get the bag. All right?”
“Yes.” She stood by the bed, fingering the lace of her skirt, trying to remember why she’d been in such a hurry. For now that the time had come, she was very unsure.
A dog far away barked. Children playing a game of some sort shouted and laughed. She couldn’t believe they were going to do this in the middle of the day. What had she been thinking? God would surely strike her dead for even suggesting it.
Reeve returned and placed the bag on the bed.
She rummaged through it, then clasped the buttonhook, her hand shaking. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe we should wait. I-I wouldn’t want to rush.”
“We won’t rush.” His voice had dropped. He unfurled her fingers and took the buttonhook. “Hold out your arm, little magpie.”
She held out her arm.
Beginning at her wrist, he released the tiny white buttons with deft movements. “There’s a lot of buttons.”
“There’s even more running down my back. You should have let my mother help me change.”
He stopped, the hook half in the buttonhole and half out. “I’ve been dreaming about doing this for months.”
Her lips parted. “I’ve been dreaming about my wedding day for a lifetime.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But not this part of it, of course. And certainly not in broad daylight.”
He continued to work the buttons. “But this is the best part. If you weren’t dreaming about this, what were you dreaming about?”
“Don’t be silly. This isn’t the best part. The best part is getting ready for you. Putting on all new garments. Bathing in water that smells like a vat of roses. Watching you when you first saw me in my gown. Listening to you pledge your life to mine. Putting the ring on your finger and making my vows. Hugging everyone. Riding off in the carriage. Being carried across the threshold. Those are the best parts.”
The fitted section of her sleeve fell free. He moved to her other arm. “When we get ready to board the train tonight, I’ll ask you again what the best part is and then we’ll see what you say.”
She blinked. “You think you’re going to upstage a lifetime of dreams and fantasies?”
“I know I am.”
She lifted her brows. “My, my, my. Aren’t we sure of ourselves.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “How could you dream about this day when you didn’t even know what I looked like? That’s a pretty big component of the whole thing. At least, I hope it was.”
“Oh, but I did know what you looked like. You were tall. Terribly handsome. Had a bit of a dimple right here.” She ran a finger down his left cheek.
He fumbled the hook.
“You had broad shoulders, though I admit even I hadn’t realized they’d be this broad.” She ran a hand from his arm to his neck. “And you had beautiful curly hair.”
He shook his head. “I hate my hair. It’s like a girl’s.”
“There is not one single thing about you that is even remotely like a girl. And I love your hair. Especially when it gets long in the back.” She tried to twist a lock of it around her finger, but it was too short.
He ignored her, concentrating on his task.
She removed the orange blossom chatelaine from the waistband of her skirt. “For quite some time, I’ve been wondering how Papa managed to pay for such an extravagant wedding. Mother always prevaricated when I asked her about it.” She lifted the blossoms to her nose. “You paid for our wedding, didn’t you?”
He shrugged one shoulder. Her second sleeve fell free.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Straightening, he took the orange blossoms and draped them across the side table next to his figurine. “You’re welcome. Now, turn around,
my love.”
She glanced at the bed.
“It’s all right.” He brought her hands to his lips, the sleeves of her gown hanging, then he lifted her arms and turned her slowly around as if they were dancing.
Once her back was to him, she lowered her chin, heart thumping. He undid her sash and tossed it on the bed. Next, the skirt. The minute he let go, it fell to the floor. He sucked in his breath, then held her elbow while she stepped out of it.
Bending over, she retrieved it, then draped it on the bed. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Did you see the true-lovers’ knots along the edges?” Placing a hand beneath a lace flounce, she lifted it.
He wasn’t looking at her skirt, though. He was looking at her petticoat peeking out from beneath her bodice.
She smoothed her hand over it, admiring the ribbons and beads her mother had sewn above the bottom ruffle. “It’s pretty, too, isn’t?”
“Yes.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Wearing it, all of it, I felt like a princess.”
“You look like a princess.”
She gave him a warning look. “Now you’re sounding like my mother.”
“No, it’s true.”
“It’s not. And I want our marriage to be based on nothing but truths. And the truth is, I’m average.”
“You’re not. Not in your smarts, not in your wit, not in your social graces, not in your heart, not in your looks, not in, um, not in, you know, not in your form.” He ran his thumb up and down the buttonhook.
She placed a hand on her hip. “You haven’t even seen my form yet.”
His thumb stilled. His eyes darkened. “Then what do you say we correct that?”
Her knees wobbled. She touched the iron footboard, steadying herself.
Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her around again and worked the buttons from the top of her collar to the hem of her bodice. Cooling air rushed in where the gown gaped.
His movements stopped. The shoulders of her bodice became heavy and threatened to fall. He tossed the buttonhook onto the bed, then took the sleeves from behind and slid the bodice down her arms. He gathered it into one hand and with the other released the tie of her petticoat. It fell to the floor.
“Death and the deuce,” he whispered. He relinquished the bodice, slipped his arms around her, and ran his hands along her white silk corset. Finally, he stepped back.
She faced him, self-conscious in her chemise, bloomers, corset, and stockings. But he looked at her with such obvious appreciation, she decided that if he wanted to think she looked like a princess, she may as well let him.
“Your hair,” he whispered. “Please. Can I see your hair?”
She lifted her hands and began to remove the pins. He held out his palm. Soon, he needed both hands. Finally, she untwisted it, shook her head, and let her hair tumble. It very nearly touched the floor.
“Great Caesar’s ghost.” He dropped the pins onto the side table, several scattering to the floor. Without taking his eyes from her, he whipped off his jacket and slung it onto a chair. His cufflinks went the way of her pins, making sharp clanks when they hit the table. He yanked his cuffs out and threw them to the side.
With her chin up, she ran her fingers along her scalp, scratching and fluffing. When she looked at him again, his vest was gone, his suspenders hung down against his legs, his shirt was unbuttoned, and his undershirt peeked through the gap.
Reaching out, he burrowed his hands into her hair and draped it over her shoulders. “You are gorgeous.”
So are you, she thought.
He gathered her hair into his hands, rubbing it between his fingers. “When I built this house, I thought I would finally discover what it was like to have a home where I belonged, but it didn’t feel like I thought it would. So I began to fill it with furniture and a knickknack or two. Nothing ever lived up to my expectations until now.” He brushed her hair behind her shoulders. “It’s not the furniture, or even the house that makes the home. It’s you, Flossie. With you is where I belong.”
Love for him surged through her, and with it a great calm. Pushing the opening of his shirt to the side, she slid her hands up his chest and onto his shoulders, then lifted onto her tiptoes. She brought her lips within an inch of his. “Welcome home, Reeve. Welcome home.”
Crushing her to him, he kissed her, swooped her up into his arms, and gloried in the gift of home, sweet home.
WOMEN BOARDING STREETCAR 43
“Bustle pinchers were a real problem, but it wasn’t until 1909 before women were given their own car. ”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Although Tiffany Girl was based on a real premise (the lead glass workers really did go on strike, and Louis Tiffany really did hire women art students to finish the chapel), I always have to do a bit of fudging. Sometimes it’s because I couldn’t find the actual facts—in which case I just make them up as best I can—and in other cases, I change things up in order to make my story work. (I know. Terrible, but there you have it.) This is where I confess all and tell you which of the historical facts I tweaked.
I add these notes in all my books because I’m afraid there are historical details you won’t believe are true, even though they really are and I want you to know which is which. So, let’s start with the Tiffany Girls. My main source of information for them was through a series of handwritten letters Clara Driscoll religiously sent to her family once a week. The discovery of these letters is brand-new—uncovered by scholars as recently as 2005. I read all of the letters she wrote during the 1890s. Unfortunately, none before 1896 survived. So right away, there’s a big gap.
In most of these early letters, Mrs. Driscoll writes about her life in New York as a single widow in her thirties. Occasionally, however, she’d tell her family what was happening in Tiffany’s studio. Her letters are the only known first-person account of what it was like to work there, and they revolutionized what we know about the design and manufacture of Tiffany goods. They also revealed, for the first time, the significant role women played. Up to the discovery of the letters, the women had basically gone unacknowledged (because no one knew what all they did).
Throughout the novel I referred to Clara as “Mrs. Driscoll” because that’s how Flossie would have referred to her. But I’ve read hundreds of letters from Clara and have become quite fond of her. I would like, with your permission, to refer to her throughout this note the way I think of her—as “Clara.”
Her claim to fame, and her most touted contribution to Tiffany’s, was her lamp designs. The scene I wrote with Mr. Mitchell—Tiffany’s VP and brother-in-law whose mutton chops I made up—was taken from an incident described in Clara’s letters. The two of them did not get along in real life, and as much as Mitchell was against her extravagant lamps, they took Tiffany’s company in a completely new direction. They won her (and Tiffany) many, many awards and were tremendously expensive to make. The lamps weren’t produced in 1893, though. They came later, but I couldn’t write this entire book without giving Clara’s lamps a shout-out, particularly her iconic Dragonfly Lamp.
In a wonderful book called A New Light on Tiffany, the authors list all the Tiffany Girls by name in the back. Then they have another section called “Other Women Associated with Tiffany Studios.” I never understood, however, what distinction the scholars made between “Tiffany Girls” and “Other Women.” So, for the purposes of my novel, I picked some of the most interesting and made them all Tiffany Girls. (I know—typical fictional author behavior. Sorry!)
Tiffany (who really did have a lisp) had a small women’s department as early as 1888, but they didn’t do any “mannish” work. That didn’t occur until the men went on strike in December 1892 and Louis hired six additional women from the School of Applied Design, the YWCA, and Coopers Union. He chose those locations because they didn’t charge tuition, and he wanted to find women who were very likely to be breadwinners and would, therefore, prof
it by the employment. That, however, messed up my whole plot (about Flossie needing to work so she could pay tuition for art school). Without this piece, my story falls apart. So, I pretended that the School of Applied Design charged tuition. And since we already had the YMCA make an appearance, I didn’t want to muddy the waters by throwing in the YWCA at Coopers Union. My apologies for the inaccuracies there.
I indicated in my Note to Readers at the beginning of this novel that all the Tiffany Girls—other than Flossie and Nan—are based on real ones. I used their real names, and if I could find out something about them, I used that, too. I don’t know what any of them looked like, other than an occasional hint in Clara’s letters: “The two or three youngest ones have turned up their hair, but the old girls all look just the same.” (The phrase “turned up their hair” means they quit wearing braids and pigtails and put their hair up to show they’d graduated from being a girl to a woman. This usually occurred around the age of sixteen.)
Someone that Clara did describe at length was Aggie. She really was a six-foot Swede who was sixteen and engaged to a forty-year-old butcher and, from what I could tell, Clara was particularly fond of her. She didn’t start working for Tiffany until 1894, and she cut out the templates (not the foil). She was a larger-than-life character (no pun intended) and I couldn’t help but include her—even though she wasn’t there prior to the fair. She’d originally planned to put off marrying her butcher for two and a half years so she could get the hundred and fifty dollar commission for any girl who stayed at Tiffany’s that length of time. She ended up staying for four entire years and, according to Clara, went from being all skin and bones to 180 pounds, “a young giant of nineteen.” At twenty, she was “a most noticeable and attractive woman” who had a beautiful soprano voice and sang in the choir.
Four months after Aggie left Tiffany’s to marry her butcher, Clara learned via the newspaper that Aggie committed suicide by drinking carbolic acid. In Aggie’s pocket was a letter she’d written, stating that the butcher had revealed he’d never had any intention of marrying her. Ever. Clara left work immediately to seek out Aggie’s family in the tenements and to offer what comfort she could. So, so sad. I should mention that they didn’t call her Aggie. Her name was Agnes, but since the premiere designer’s name was Agnes Northrup, I nicknamed our Swede “Aggie” to avoid confusion.