Tiffany Girl

  “If you move into a boardinghouse, what you’ll have is a soiled cloth on the dining table, a mattress stuffed with pigs’ hair, and filthy bed clothing which holds an unspeakable odor, not to mention unemptied slop jars and dirty washing basins.”

  She wondered if he realized who washed his bed clothing, who emptied his slop jar, and who cleaned his washing basin.

  “What is Tiffany paying you?” he asked.

  “Five dollars a week.”

  “Then you won’t be able to afford a boardinghouse unless you share a room with someone, which means the second bed would be occupied with a person not of your choosing, but of the landlady’s choosing. What if she is of an unpleasant nature?”

  “What if she isn’t? What if she’s—” like a sister, she finished to herself.

  He studied her. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you? No matter what I say, no matter how much it will injure your mother and me, and no matter all that we’ve done for you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied. “I can’t really explain it to you, but my mind is made up. I would very much like your assistance in choosing the boardinghouse, but if you won’t help me, then I’ll have to do it myself. But I will do it, Papa.”

  She didn’t know how she’d do it, though. The other girls at the School of Applied Design already lived in houses without any vacancies or were going to stay at home, but the more Flossie thought about a boardinghouse, the more excited she became about it. She’d have no one to answer to. No one. Not her father. Not her mother. Not even a husband. She wouldn’t just be a New Woman, she’d be a whole new person.

  NEW BOARDER 3

  “The new boarder swept by Reeve Wilder’s open door in a whirl of extravagant haberdashery and fur-lined clothing.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  The new boarder swept by Reeve Wilder’s open door in a whirl of extravagant haberdashery and fur-lined clothing. Behind her was their landlord, Mr. Klausmeyer, a giant trunk strapped to his back, his gait slow and plodding. Snow had saturated the lower portion of his dingy brown trousers and clung to his hobnailed boots. Reeve wondered if the man had finally gotten around to shoveling their front landing.

  He hoped the carting of trunks wouldn’t tax Klausmeyer so much that he abandoned the task. The boardinghouse betty was a former lodger who’d settled his back rent by marrying the landlady, making him her third husband and making it the third time the house was given a new name. It was rare, indeed, for Klausmeyer to even make an appearance. He was much more likely to lounge about in the back without ever lifting a finger to help.

  “Hello! Are you Miss Love?” The new boarder’s voice held a lyrical component, flushed with innocence and enthusiasm. Reeve had expected her to continue to the stairwell, for all first-floor rooms were occupied. Instead, she’d stopped at Miss Love’s room. The room right next to his.

  “I am, indeed, Miss Love. You must be Miss Jayne, the Tiffany Girl.”

  The entire house was much atwitter about this Tiffany Girl who was coming to board with them. He’d kept his thoughts to himself, though. He wasn’t sure Tiffany’s women could manage the kind of work they’d been hired to do, but far worse was the fact that they’d undermined the hundred-plus men who were striking for reasonable hours and better wages.

  “Yes, I’m Miss Jayne, but if we’re to be roommates, I insist you call me Flossie.”

  Roommates? he thought. Miss Love was taking on a roommate?

  “Then you must call me Annie Belle.”

  “Annabel Love?”

  “Annie Belle Love. I was named after my grandmothers, Annie and Belle.”

  “Oh, isn’t that lovely? My name is short for Florence, but no one ever calls me that, thank goodness.” She paused. “Oh, dear. I hope you don’t have any loved ones named Florence. I meant no offense, of course. Where should Mr. Klausmeyer set my things?”

  A solid thunk indicated the placement of her trunk before any response was given.

  “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.”

  Klausmeyer hauled in three more trunks—how many clothes could one woman have, for crying out loud? And how would that tiny room have space for them?

  He didn’t have long to wait for his answer, for unpacking commenced, and as soon as one trunk emptied, Klausmeyer carried it back out. Just when Reeve expected things to settle, the man commenced to lug in a bookshelf, a rocking chair, a lamp, an artist’s easel, a small table, several paintings, a brass headboard, and three rugs.

  Death and the deuce, there was no chance of Klausmeyer completing his shoveling now. He’d done more work in the last two hours than he had in the last two years. Worst of all, Miss Love’s door remained open through it all.

  “What beautiful clothes.” The awe in Miss Love’s voice bordered on covetousness. “I’ve never seen such fine garments up close.”

  “My mother’s a seamstress for the wealthy set. She tries out her ideas on my wardrobe.”

  “Oh, it must be wonderful to have so many gowns.”

  “You and I appear to be close to the same size. Is there one in particular you like? Why don’t you try some on, then wear your favorite to dinner tonight? What do you say about that?”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t.” Miss Love’s voice, however, said she’d be more than willing.

  “I insist.” Their door clicked shut.

  He glanced at the clock sitting on the corner of his desk. He’d mentioned the Tiffany Girl to his editor at the New York World. It had spurred a long discussion between them that culminated in an assignment where Reeve was to write a series of exposés on this breed of New Women who were trying to infiltrate what had been—and what should certainly remain—man’s rightful and exclusive dominions.

  His first piece was to be sent out in two hours. Yet he’d only managed three paragraphs since Miss Jayne’s arrival. He closed his door, too, even though it would disrupt the flow of air between the hall and his cracked window. Still, the women’s voices and exclamations came through the thin walls as easily as if they stood in his very room.

  “Have you met Mr. Tiffany?” Miss Love’s voice flowed like old rye whiskey, easily discernible from Miss Jayne’s, whose was of a more bubbly, champagne variety.

  “He wasn’t at all what I’d pictured him to be,” Miss Jayne said. “There’s nary a gray hair on his head, yet I just found out his forty-fifth birthday approaches. And such a lovely man. I can’t comprehend how all those lead-glass workers walked out on him at such a critical time.”

  Miss Love’s response was muffled beneath layers of clothing being whisked on and off. Perhaps he should interview one of the glassworkers. There were less than a hundred and fifty men in the entire city who knew how to do the work Tiffany required. With the exhibits for the World’s Columbian Exposition due to Chicago in a few short months, it was the perfect time to stage a strike.

  He dipped his pen in an inkwell.

  Women of today have a perceptible restlessness for something which baffles this writer and others of the stronger sex. When asked, the New Woman can give no particular reason for her malcontent, though, in a rather mystical way, she expresses a desire to attain what she calls her “true place” in the social and economic world. Yet what could be a truer, more perfect place than the position which she currently holds?

  “Oh, dear. No, no,” Miss Jayne said. “This color is all wrong. Here, let’s try this one.”

  More rustling of clothing.

  “Mrs. Klausmeyer tells me you teach school,” Miss Jayne continued.

  “Yes, I teach the primary grades.”

  “Do you ever whip any of the children?”

  Reeve paused.

  “Goodness, yes,” Miss Love answered, her voice not the least bit repentant. “I’ve whipped lots of them. In my class right now I have a boy who last year put his master right out the window. So at the first sign of trouble, I had Georgie take off his coat, then I gave him a good whipping with a strong switch.
He’s almost as large as me, but he’s behaved good as gold ever since.”

  Tightening his jaw, Reeve wondered if she’d be quite so quick to use the rod if she’d ever been subjected to such ignominious torture in front of all her peers. Trying to tune them out, he reread what he’d written, then again wet his pen with ink.

  Everyone knows men were created to do the world’s hard work, to blaze a path for civilization, to strive, to battle, and to conquer. Everyone ought to know woman was created to make it possible for man to do this work. To ease his struggle with her sympathy, to keep him from faltering by her belief in him, to supply him with a love so great it inspires him to achieve. This, then, is a woman’s part in life.

  “Oh, Annie Belle, you look absolutely beautiful. This is the gown. You must wear this one. Now, what would you say to letting me style your hair? It’s such a beautiful shade—a mix of ochre and burnt sienna. I could fluff it up into the Gibson girl style everyone is wearing. I’m very good at it.”

  He listened to them chatter while he finished his piece. An hour later, all that was left was the last sentence, but everything he tried fell flat. Finally, it came to him. First, he jotted down two stanzas from a popular essay.

  Why has not Man a microscopic eye?

  For this plain reason—Man is not a Fly.

  Why is not Man served up with sauce in dish?

  For this plain reason—Man is not a Fish.

  Smiling to himself, he added a couplet of his own making.

  Why has not Woman all jobs overran?

  For this plain reason—Woman is not Man.

  He blotted the ink and reopened his door, having learned in the course of the afternoon that Miss Jayne had been attending the New York School of Applied Design when Tiffany acquired her—oil paint being her favorite medium. She was the apple of her parents’ eyes. And she could talk the ears off an elephant.

  He rubbed his eyes. For better or for worse, it seemed the serene life he’d known here in his room at Klausmeyer’s Boardinghouse had come to an unexpected and unwelcome end.

  TIFFANY GLASS AND DECORATING COMPANY  4

  “Tucking her head against the wind, she headed from the streetcar toward Tiffany’s grand four-story building on the corner.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  January’s wind caught the corners of Flossie’s midlength coat and flung it back to reveal a bluish-purple skirt with subtle stripes of mignon. She’d never had a first-day-of-work before and wanted to make a good impression. Picking a gown should have been a simple task. Heaven knew she had a gown for every occasion, or so she’d thought. Yet there was nothing in Harper’s Bazaar or The Ladies’ Home Journal that discussed the appropriate attire for a Tiffany Girl.

  At first she’d thought to wear a simple skirt and shirtwaist, much like what she wore to the School of Applied Design. But everyone at the boardinghouse had made such a fuss about her working for Mr. Tiffany that she’d begun to wonder if perhaps she shouldn’t dress up a bit. She’d tried on four different outfits before finally settling on her grosgrain. She hoped to heaven she wasn’t overdressed.

  Tucking her head against the wind, she headed from the streetcar toward Tiffany’s grand four-story building on the corner. She was almost at the entrance before she realized something was amiss with the tight cluster of men congregated at the juncture of Fourth and Twenty-Fifth. Some tall, some short. Some stocky, some thin. Some old, some young. All of them displeased.

  Slowing, she made eye contact with one of them. Red hair peeped out from beneath his hat, its color echoed in his closely cropped beard and mustache. His boxy overcoat was worn and scuffed with dirt.

  He raked her with his gaze. “What do ya think yer doin’, lady?”

  Her steps faltered.

  “We got families, ya know.” This from another man gripping a rolled-up newspaper. “We got kids and wives and babies. Ya ever think o’ that?”

  Low murmurs and grumbles bubbled up in all directions like a pot of soup starting to boil. Grasping the collar of her coat, she squeezed it against her.

  “What’s the matter with you? Takin’ our jobs like that?” A man not too much older than she looked at those around him, gaining confidence from their nods of support. “You oughta be ashamed o’ yerself, that’s what I say.”

  She continued to make her way to the door, not sure whether to look them in the eye or ignore them completely. Out of nowhere, a snowball pummeled her in the face, knocking her off balance. Gasping, she wiped it off and looked to see who’d thrown it. A little boy of six, maybe seven, leered at her and scooped up another chunk of snow. She picked up her pace.

  A wiry man pushed his way to the front. “If’n you were a decent gal, you’d turn around right now and get yerself back to hearth and home where ya belong.”

  “You know what we call folks like you?” This from an older man waving his cane at her. “Scabs. That’s what we call ’em. And if you think them skirts’ll protect you from how we deal with scabs, then yer mistaken. We got ways.” He narrowed his eyes. “We got ways.”

  She shivered, then hurried up the steps and into the building. It was one thing to read about strikers in the paper, quite another to come face-to-face with them. By the time she climbed the third flight of stairs, she was shaking so much she couldn’t even undo her buttons. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. When she opened them, she noticed a wad of spittle clinging to the skirt of her coat.

  She pressed a hand against her mouth, then fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. Crinkling her nose, she swabbed her coat, then folded the handkerchief gingerly around its ugly cargo and returned it to her pocket. A door down the hall opened. Flossie straightened. Botheration. The woman who’d stepped out wore a black serge skirt and simple white-striped shirtwaist. Flossie had overdressed.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “You must be one of the new girls.” She had an owl-like appearance—large head, hooked nose, squatty neck, and buggy eyes. The color of those eyes were a deep, lovely blue. Flossie wondered if she could reproduce it with her oils. Perhaps sapphire with a touch of umber? She’d have to try it and see.

  “Yes, hello. I’m Flossie Jayne. There were some . . .” She pointed a thumb behind her shoulder, indicating the front of the building.

  “I heard. I’m sorry. Most of them work for other glass manufacturers, though Mrs. Driscoll recognized a couple of them from our glassworks. Either way, Mr. Tiffany is already devising a plan for everyone to get to work through another entrance.”

  Flossie’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

  “Of course.” The woman tilted her head. “Are you all right?”

  “A little shaken, to tell you the truth. Nothing like that’s ever happened to me.”

  “It’s a nasty business, that’s for certain. We’re glad you’re here, though. There were only six of us before, not counting Clara.”

  “Clara?”

  “Clara Driscoll. She would have been with Mr. Tiffany when he visited the School of Applied Design.” Tightening her lips, she looked toward a window at the end of the hall. “It was supposed to be me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The woman gave a little shake of her head. “Nothing. I’m Nan Upton. I select the glass. At least, right now I do, but I know how to do all of the jobs, including the designing, so if you need any help with anything, you just let me know.”

  Flossie smiled. “I wish I’d known that this morning when I was trying to decide what to wear. I’m afraid I’ve overdressed.”

  Nan flicked her gaze over Flossie’s coat and skirt. “Don’t worry. I’ll see if I can find a smock for you.”

  The strain of the morning began to ease. “Thank you. It’s wonderful to think I might have made a friend before I’ve even stepped into the shop.”

  Nan’s smile faltered, as if she were forcing herself to maintain it. “Think of me more as someone who can guide you if you are in need of
direction. It’s been like that between me and the other girls since long before Clara came back.”

  “Came back?”

  “Yes, she was part of the Women’s Department several years ago, then left when she married. Quite recently, she became widowed and asked Mr. Tiffany if she could return. Right out of the blue. Right after Agnes had told Mr. Tiffany she couldn’t stand to be manager for another minute. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t Agnes who put her up to it.”

  Flossie blinked. “I see.” Though she didn’t, of course. Who was Agnes? And how could someone be encouraged to become a widow? Rather than ask, she simply waited to see if Nan had anything further to say.

  Instead, Nan waved her toward the door. “Well, the shop is right through there. Go on in. I’m going to go wait in the lobby for the rest of the girls. The men outside aren’t exactly the welcome we had planned.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  From the back of the crowd, Reeve tugged down the rim of his hat and watched Miss Jayne scurry into the building. One of his contacts had told him there were to be protestors outside Tiffany’s this morning, so he’d come to see if he could find someone to interview. Never had it occurred to him the men would harass a lady. New Woman or not, scab or not, she was of the fair sex and therefore commanded a certain amount of respect.

  Certainly, she had no business trying to usurp a man’s job. She should, indeed, return to hearth and home as one fellow had suggested, for if women abandoned their homes, who would take care of the children? Reeve knew firsthand what it was like to grow up without a mother.

  It wasn’t her fault she’d died, of course. He knew that now, but it hadn’t made him feel any less deserted at the time. If his mother had chosen a mere job over staying home with him, the repercussions would have cut deep and been everlasting. He’d heard some women argue no children would be left at home because only unmarried women could hold positions, but it was a slippery slope they walked. Today they might have to be unmarried, but tomorrow, who knew what might happen?