Tiffany Girl (16 page)

“Good luck,” Aggie whispered before returning to her table.

When Flossie had been outlining individual colors on a cartoon, she hadn’t really thought about the sheer magnitude of glass that would eventually have to be cut and incorporated into each
window. It was one thing to watch someone else do this job, quite another to be faced with it yourself. When quitting time came, Flossie and Mrs. Driscoll still had hundreds of pieces left.

“I’m afraid I’ve come down with a migraine,” Mrs. Driscoll said, rubbing her forehead. “We’ll have to finish this tomorrow.”

“I’m so sorry.” Flossie pressed a piece of olive-colored glass to the giant sheet of clear glass they called an easel. “You go on home. I’ll just finish up this row.”

Mrs. Driscoll hesitated. “Don’t stay too late, mind you. It wouldn’t do for you to be out after dark.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Heaving a sigh, Mrs. Driscoll lumbered to her feet. “All right, then. Good night, Miss Jayne.”

The other girls left shortly after Mrs. Driscoll until it was just Flossie and Aggie.

“You want some help?”

Flossie glanced up. Aggie’s blond hair and blue eyes contrasted sharply with Flossie’s black hair and brown eyes. The girl was all length and joints, while Flossie was padded with curves.

“You don’t have to stay,” Flossie said.

“I don’t mind.” Settling down cross-legged beside her, Aggie picked up a piece of glass and held it to the light. “It’s like a puzzle, isn’t it?”

“Except there are no interlocking pieces, only the cartoon, the numbered manila guide, and the lines of demarcation painted onto the glass easel.”

“This is only going so slowly because you don’t have the templates anymore.”

Flossie glanced at the parts of the window that had yet to be done. At the top, all the pieces of numbered manila paper that had been cut into templates had been stuck to the glass with wax. Each piece of paper was separated by an eighth of an inch. Ordinarily, the selector would remove only one template and pass a piece of
colored glass over the clear space until she found one that matched the color on the cartoon.

She’d then hand the selected piece and the template to the cutter. The glass cutter would cut around the template, put a piece of wax on the back of her fragment, and affix it in that same spot on the massive sheet glass. Since her template had a number, she could easily locate its exact position on the easel by finding its corresponding number on the giant manila guide. Day after day, week after week, the pair did this until every piece of paper had been removed and replaced by colored glass.

When Flossie knocked off the pieces, there weren’t any numbered templates left behind to use as cross-references. Only the fallen glass.

“You’re going to stay until it’s done, aren’t you?” Aggie asked.

“I am, but you don’t have to.”

“How will you know which color goes where when you’ve no sun to hold it up to?”

“I’ll have to make do with a lantern, I suppose.”

“No,
we’ll
have to make do with a lantern.”

The girls exchanged a smile. Neither paid attention to the snow that had started that afternoon and picked up momentum once darkness fell.

CHAPTER

19

R
eeve stepped into the vestibule, stomped the snow off his feet, and blew onto his hands. It had been coming down all day and all night. Yet still no sign of Miss Jayne.

She’d not made it home for dinner—leaving the entire household in a state of confusion. It was as if they couldn’t figure out where to sit without place cards. He’d simply returned to his normal chair and everyone else eventually followed suit.

But there were no painted slips of paper beneath the plates, and no Miss Jayne to facilitate conversation. Mr. Oyster made a few feeble attempts at engaging those present, but without Miss Jayne, the discussion fizzled.

After dinner, everyone adjourned to the parlor. He’d normally have returned to his room, but he was too familiar with the streets of New York. Too familiar with the desperation of union strikers. Too familiar with the dangers that could befall an unescorted lady after dark.

With a mumbled excuse, he’d wrapped a scarf around his neck, pulled on his coat, placed a derby atop his head, and gone outside—three times—to see if he could find her. She may have been a New Woman, she may have thrown a wrench into his and everybody else’s routines, but he didn’t really think she was as
equipped for independence as she thought she was. And now she was out there alone and perhaps in trouble.

He’d hoped Mrs. Dinwiddie would say something to him, encourage him to go look for her. That way he’d at least have justification for all this effort. But the woman hadn’t said a thing, had instead adjourned to the parlor along with everyone else and exclaimed over the curtains Mrs. Holliday had sewn.

He kept thinking about Miss Jayne’s father, how he’d come to check on her, to make sure the boardinghouse was on the up-and-up. What would Reeve say to the man if something happened to his daughter? How would he explain that he’d blithely gone to bed knowing full well she was out there somewhere?

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d never had anyone check up on him like that, and the way her father looked when he talked about her, the way he’d gloated over her art simply because it had been done by her hand, had affected him deeply. So, he’d braved the storm in an effort to find her, for her father’s sake.

The first time out, he’d walked up and down their block. The second, he’d checked a few paths in Central Park. The third, he’d hiked a good mile down Madison.

This last time, he was tempted to walk all the way to Fourth Avenue where Tiffany’s studio was, but it was simply too far. The streetcars were no longer running, so wherever she was, she was going to have to hail a driver. He wondered if she carried enough money for that.

Shrugging off his coat, he hooked it and his hat on the hall tree, then pulled off his scarf. The other boarders had long since retired. The fire in the parlor had deteriorated to softly glowing ashes.

Maybe she’d returned while he’d been out. He strode down the hall, the carpet runner softening his footfalls. At his own door, he saw that the cat had slipped inside and curled up in a corner by his bed. At Miss Jayne’s door, he hesitated. He couldn’t simply open it. He placed his ear against the door. Nothing.

Straightening, he rubbed his jaw, then gave a quiet knock. “Miss Jayne? Miss Jayne? Are you home?”

“She’s still not back.” It was Miss Love’s voice, cracking with sleep. “Do you think she’s all right?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he lied. “I was just”—he grappled for an excuse—“just thinking I might have heard something. You go on back to sleep. She probably went home with one of the other Tiffany Girls.”

But he knew she wouldn’t do that, not without telling anyone. She treated every boarder as if they were a member of her family.

Family. He shook his head. She was so naive. They were no more her family than the milkman or the lamppost lighter, but in her mind, they were her adopted siblings, cousins, and grandparents. She’d never have left them to worry about her—not that anyone was actually worrying. They’d all gone to bed without a moment’s pause.

Returning to the parlor, he knelt in front of the fire, threw on new logs, and stoked the embers until they began to spread. Bit by bit, his fingers thawed and feeling returned to his toes. He knew the protestors had long since quit picketing, but he couldn’t seem to shake a feeling of unease. Should he call the police? He rubbed his face with both hands. He simply didn’t know. Maybe he should wake up Mrs. Dinwiddie and see what she thought.

In a
whoosh
of wind, the front door banged open. Miss Jayne trudged inside, her coat whipping about her skirts, snow swirling in behind her. Jumping to his feet, he crossed the room and forced the door closed. In the sudden quiet, wind whistled against the windows while the mantel clock reminded him of the time.

“You’re home awfully late.” He kept his tone measured and neutral.

Snow clung to her slumped shoulders, her coat sleeves, her wet skirts, and the scarf wrapped tightly over her head. “Y-you’re up awfully late, too.”

He allowed himself a small smile. At least she still had a bit of pluck left. “Where have you been?”

“Work.”

He double-checked the clock in the parlor. “At three in the morning?”

She tried to untie her scarf, but her frozen, curled, gloved fingers were too clumsy. Brushing her hands aside, he untied it and lifted it from her head. The snow-filled scarf bowed like a hammock. He shook it out into the umbrella stand, then draped it onto the hall tree.

When he turned back around, she hadn’t so much as moved. Her Gibson hair pouf had an amoeba-like quality to it. Some black locks bunched up at an angle, others drooped to the side. He saw no sign of ill treatment, but the only skin he could see was her face.

“Have you been harmed?” he asked.

“No, but I-I’m c-c-c-cold.” Her body began to shake.

Of a sudden, instead of looking for bruises, he registered her ice-coated gloves, red nose, and bluish lips. Guiding her to the parlor, he positioned her near the fire, but not directly in front of it, then proceeded to thumb open the buttons of her double-breasted coat. It was of an excellent quality, of course, and had kept her torso dry, thank goodness. Tossing it to the side, he cupped her upper arms and rubbed them back and forth with quick strokes.

She closed her eyes. “
Ummmmm
. F-f-f-eels g-g-good.”

“We’ll have you warm in no time.”

But the lower reaches of her skirts were saturated and her gloved hands were still stiff.

He turned her palm toward him and unbuttoned the pearl clasp at her wrist. Thick ice caked the leather. He broke off what he could, then peeled the glove backward. Ice cracked as each new patch of skin was uncovered.

She winced. “Ou-ouch.”

He finally managed to remove it, then enclosed her tiny hand
between his, knowing better than to rub it or force it flat. Eventually she unfurled her fingers. He slipped her hand underneath his jacket and trapped it beneath his armpit. Its cold temperature seeped through his shirt.

Her body began to teeter.

He steadied her. “Easy there, little magpie.”

She lifted her lids. Even her eyelashes held crystals of ice and snow. Holding her gaze, he continued to imprison her hand. He’d never really had a good look at her eyes before. They were the color of Mr. Nettels’s violin. Polished spruce with deep brown accents.

Her lids closed, then opened. Closed, then opened.

“Stay with me,” he said.

A small smile formed on her pale-blue lips and something deep within his chest stirred. He moved his attention to her right hand and repeated the glove-removal process. As he sandwiched it in his, he noticed calluses and wondered if they were from the work she did at Tiffany’s. Finally, he tucked this hand beneath his other armpit. Her shakes slowed to shivers and color began to return to her lips.

Grasping her waist, he eased her to a chair, surprised to discover his hands could almost completely encircle her. “You need to get out of those wet boots.”

Her fawn-colored skirt pooled about her, a good ten inches of it soaked all the way through. There’d be no removing that, of course. At least, not in front of him. But since her torso had been protected, he’d feel comfortable sending her to her room once he’d ensured her feet were not in danger.

Crouching down in front of her, he held out his palm. “Your boot, please, Miss Jayne.”

She looked at her skirts, her arms limp. “Too tired.”

“Are your feet cold?”

“My toes hurt.”

He brushed her hem aside, stopping short at the sight of pink-satin ribbon trimming her petticoat. He tracked its serpentine course, a plethora of wet, soiled, gray lacy ruffles spilling from beneath it. He glanced up at her, but her eyes were closed, her chin resting against her neck. She took a trembling breath.

His dropped his gaze to her chest, her waist, then the pool of skirts hiding her hips. “Just extend your foot, at least, so the warmth in the room has a chance of reaching it.”