Tiffany Girl (11 page)

“Mr. Wilder?” Miss Jayne prompted.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. So . . .” He looked at Mrs. Holliday. “What is your favorite winter activity?”

Her mouth made a tiny O. Her wide blue eyes sought her husband’s. “Oh, my. There’s so many to choose from. I’m simply not sure. Let me see . . . I guess I’d pick ice-skating?”

Miss Jayne’s expression lit. “Truly? That’s my favorite, too.” She looked around the table. “Does anyone else like to skate?”

Not knowing what to do with the paper, Reeve tucked it inside his jacket, only listening with one ear as the others answered in the affirmative. Though he’d grown up in New Jersey and had had a pond directly behind his house, he’d never actually skated—not because he hadn’t wanted to, but because he hadn’t been allowed to. He’d stood at the window of his second-story bedroom and watched the rest of the town skate. His classmates. Other families. Young lovers. Old-timers. But never him.

To his left, Miss Love removed her piece of paper. Painted onto its borders were tiny figures reading books. A man in a chair smoking a pipe. A young girl in a window seat. A boy stretched out on a carpet. A woman reading to a group of children collected about her feet.

“What is the last book you read in its entirety?” she asked Mr. Holliday.

Reeve studied the man, wondering what a girl of sixteen would see in him. He was comely enough, Reeve supposed, and well built, but he was old enough to be the girl’s father and already a touch of gray had begun to show in his thick dark hair and mustache.

Stroking his chin, he smiled at Miss Love. “
The Last of the Mohicans
, by James Cooper.”

“Oh, I’ve never read that,” Miss Jayne said. “It’s about some girls being captured by Indians, is it not?”

And so it went, all the way around the table, all the way through dinner. It didn’t take Reeve long to realize Miss Jayne had
made a careful study of everyone in the house. Her questions were too specific to be accidental.

Mrs. Holliday had probably made snow angels and ridden in toboggans as recently as last year. He wondered if ice-skating really was her favorite winter activity or if it was simply the one she considered most suitable for a married woman. Though her husband was a photographer, he often had a book tucked beneath his arm and was thrilled to give a synopsis of
Mohicans
while Mrs. Klausmeyer brought in stew from the kitchen.

Miss Jayne had stuck to a safe topic with Mr. Oyster and asked what food he’d give up if he were forced to choose one. Mrs. Dinwiddie said the key to a happy marriage was making sure the person you chose loved you more than he loved himself.

The music master’s favorite holiday was Christmas. Miss Love’s favorite smell was that of honeysuckle, and Miss Jayne confessed her favorite thing to do as a child was to go on walks with her father—even in the rain.

Turning away, he wiped his mouth with his napkin. What a charmed life she’d led. A mother who garbed her in clothes worthy of a princess and a father who treated her as if she were one. Walks in the rain? He’d never walked anywhere in the rain for the sheer pleasure of it. Never even crossed his mind.

“Mr. Wilder?” Mrs. Holliday’s bright eyes looked at him with expectation, a notecard in her hand.

He flushed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Is it my turn?”

“It is.”

“Could you repeat the question, please?”

She looked to her husband, as if to ascertain whether Reeve was serious or merely toying with her, but the man nodded his encouragement and she read her paper again.

“If you were to change one thing about society, what would it be and why?”

He swung his gaze to Miss Jayne’s. Her expression was one of
polite interest. Nothing to indicate she’d studied him so thoroughly that within two weeks of moving in she’d sensed the passion he held for the preservation of home and community.

Certainly, the walls between their rooms were thin, but he had no one in his room to confide in. Any visiting he did occurred in Mrs. Dinwiddie’s room, not his. So, she hadn’t overheard him say anything. Neither he, nor anyone else that he knew of, gathered in the parlor in the evenings. She rode the streetcar to work in the mornings, while he stayed in his room to write. So how did she know to ask him such a question? Unless she’d read his articles. Still, was he that transparent? That easy to see through?

“Mr. Wilder?” Mrs. Holliday’s tone held a touch of uncertainty.

“I’m sorry.” He again wiped his mouth with his napkin. “That’s a rather big question. One I couldn’t possibly answer succinctly. What if I told you what my favorite season was instead?”

Miss Jayne gave him a tolerant smile. “Nonsense. Anyone who writes the kind of articles you do would, I feel sure, be able to briefly sum up what he feels our society could do to better itself.”

He stared at her. She
had
read them. He shifted in his chair again. “My favorite season is winter.”

She lifted a brow. “Scared to answer the question?”

“Certainly not.” He was tired of this game. Tired of all the chatter. Tired of sitting in a different seat when everyone knew his chair was the more comfortable one Mr. Nettels now occupied. “I’m simply finished with my meal and have a deadline to meet. So, I’m afraid—”

Again, young Mrs. Holliday’s face began to crumple. Death and the deuce. If he didn’t answer the blasted question, she’d take it personally.

Heaving a sigh, he pulled his napkin from his lap and set it on the table. “If I were to change one thing in society, I’d put a stop to the crusade of today’s New Woman who wishes to break with conventions of the past and trample all tradition underfoot.”

He slid back his chair. “The reason her pursuit of economic independence is so serious is because the place she currently occupies in society is vitally important. Any change to it would result in enormous consequences to every individual and even to the entire human race.”

Standing, he grasped the top rail of his chair. It wobbled in his hands. “As much as she wishes it, she cannot simply rush off with a conceited notion that all the teachings of human history can be easily reversed, and society cannot suddenly be turned into a social and economic paradise by the application of some simple formula she’s concocted.”

Miss Jayne’s lips parted.

He should stop. This wasn’t exactly appropriate dinner conversation. And it wasn’t as if he could actually change society. Still, the entire situation fired his fear and his anger and he found himself unable to stem the flow of words. “It is man, not woman, who throughout the centuries has battled with the forces of nature and subdued them to his will. It is he who swept away the jungle and the forest, who made the desert blossom like a rose, who reared great cities and created states and founded empires. It is he who flecked the ocean with his fleets, who girdled the earth with the cincture of civilization, who united humanity into one great brotherhood, and who established law and evolved the sciences.”

Pushing in his chair, he straightened his spine. “If woman has it in herself to do the work of man, which he has fearlessly performed for unnumbered centuries, then why didn’t Eve choose to live her life apart from Adam from the very beginning? Why didn’t she treat him on equal terms? Become his rival?” He flattened his lips. “I’ll tell you why. Because giving woman economic independence would breed mistrust and jealousy between her and man. It would corrode the very foundations every society in the world is built upon. Our
future as a human race depends upon her keeping her life joined to his in a spirit of trust and reverence and affection. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Spinning, he stalked from the room, leaving total silence in his wake.

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“ ‘I’ve no desire to condemn women to imprisonment in greasy kitchens, forever debarring them from intellectual growth. It’s their best interests I have at heart. Theirs and their children’s.’ ”

CHAPTER

12

F
lossie held herself perfectly still at the open doorway of Mr. Wilder’s room. The patter of rain outside and the hall’s worn carpet runner had covered her approach. His back was slightly turned, for he was sitting on the end of his bed, his body angled toward the window. The precipitation had stirred the ever-present slime in the city’s streets, tainting the room with its subtle odor.

She took advantage of the unguarded moment to study him. Jacketless, his white shirt stretched across a broad back. Crisscrossing black suspenders trapped parts of his shirt and caused it to wrinkle, then drew the eye down to brown trousers hugging a trim waist. Muscular thighs strained the fabric encasing them.

The moisture in the air made her hair wilt, but made his short blond curls more wavy. At his feet, a gray, pathetic-looking cat purred as he stroked its matted, wet fur. She’d often wondered why he kept his window cracked, even on the coldest of days. Well, now she knew. He whispered to it, then chuckled as it rolled onto its back seeking a tummy rub.

A dull green blanket had been thrown over his pillow in a man’s way of making the bed. No curtains hung on his window, no ornaments graced his bedside table. She’d never seen such a sparse, barren room, totally devoid of personal mementos and pictures.

Only his desk gave a peek into the man he was, but even that held a minimal amount, and what was there was kept in an orderly manner. His papers were neatly stacked, his oil lamp flickered, his pen protruded from its stand, his inkwell was tightly capped. So much for having work to do. Clearly, that had been an excuse to escape from their dinner party.

After his departure, the boarders had been more taken by the number of words he’d spoken than the actual topic of his discourse. According to them, he’d said more in those few minutes than in the entire year he’d lived there. For her, however, it was the subject matter and the passionate delivery that impressed her. She’d read his articles, had known the women’s movement concerned him. What she hadn’t realized was the degree to which it did.

Her father would certainly like him. They’d find much in common if they were to ever meet. But with the way her father felt about her being here, the chances of that were slim. Still, it had been illuminating to hear Mr. Wilder voice what Papa had not—or perhaps could not. She’d sort of stumbled into being a New Woman because of circumstances. She wasn’t a member of any women’s association. She hadn’t attended any women’s rallies or lectures. She merely wanted to be paid for her labor so she could go to art school. She had a hard time seeing how that was going to lead to the deterioration of the entire human race.

Even so, despite his speech, her game had been a wonderful success. Everyone stayed at the table, visiting, until Mrs. Klausmeyer finally kicked them out. They agreed to adjourn to the parlor, but Flossie wanted everyone in the family to join them. So, she’d excused herself for a moment to come and fetch Mr. Wilder.

Lifting her hand, she tapped on his door.

He looked over his shoulder, then slowly straightened his spine.