Tiffany Girl (27 page)

Lifting one shoulder, she spooned up a raspberry in a delicate long-stemmed crystal dessert bowl. “I love to paint women’s hair, especially in the breeze. Red hair’s my favorite. It’s so beautiful in the sunshine, isn’t it?”

He gave her a small smile. “
Oui
, Mademoiselle, it most certainly is. Where were you when you painted it?”

“In Gloucester, just north of Boston. Our instructor took us down to the beach.” Swallowing the raspberry, she shook her head. “It was so windy, my canvas blew over two or three times, but I wish you could have seen the sky that day. It was the clearest blue I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I did see it.”

“You’ve been to Gloucester?”

“In your painting I have.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

“
Je vous en prie
. That’s why I asked Monsieur Trostle if I could meet you. If you will allow me, I’d like to include it in my exhibit with the intention of selling it.”

She knew this was what they were to discuss, but she’d thought she’d have to convince him somehow. Heavens, had he taken her to this lavish restaurant to convince
her
?

She glanced over the decorative rail separating Delmonico’s patrons from the pedestrians. Across the street, a nursemaid pushed a perambulator along the park’s winding pathway and past the monument of Admiral Farragut. A stately carriage with two liveried footmen passed by, momentarily blocking the view, then pulled up to the curb.

Smoothing the ribbon about her waist, she swallowed. “Nothing would please me more, sir. How much do you think you would be able to sell it for?”

“I
will ask four hundred, and will take no less than three hundred.”

Her jaw slackened. “Dollars? Four hundred
dollars
?”

“
Oui
.” He caught the waiter’s eye. “
Un petit café
,
s’il vous plaît
.” He studied her. “Have you ever had your work shown in a gallery before?”

She tried to concentrate on the question, but was still reeling from his estimated selling price. Three hundred dollars would be an entire year’s worth of wages. Four hundred dollars was unthinkable. Especially for
one
painting. “I, um, no, I’m afraid I’ve never had my work in a gallery before.”

“It is nothing for you to worry over. I will take care of everything.”

Her heart soared. If she did well in this showing, surely it would lead to more. This was the break she’d been waiting for. Every single artist in the Metropolitan Museum had started out in a showing just like this. What Monsieur Bourgeois didn’t realize was she’d have paid him for the opportunity, not the other way around. Beneath her skirt, she covered one toe of her boot with the other. “So, all I do is bring you the painting?”

“Well, you’ll need to direct me to the man who takes care of your business affairs.”

Touching her napkin to her lips, she scooted up in her chair. “I’m a New Woman, so I take care of my own affairs.”

Propping an elbow on his armrest, he tapped his mouth with his knuckle. “You have no father? No future husband?”

“I have a father, but I live on my own. I’m a working girl. All business is to be discussed with me.”

The waiter served their coffee, then removed their empty dessert bowls.

“You’ll forgive me,” he said. “But it seems most indelicate.”

“I won’t take offense, I assure you. Now, what is it you wanted to discuss?”

Pulling his brows together, he took a sip of coffee, then gave a tiny shrug. “Well, I’m not sure if you are aware or not, but there is much involved in putting on an exhibit, so I require a fee up front.”

She blinked. She hadn’t thought about his fee, but, of course, he would have one. “I see. How much is your fee?”

“One hundred fifty dollars.”

She sucked in her breath.

“But you would keep the full price of the sale,” he said. “Be it three or four hundred.”

She shifted in her seat. One-hundred and fifty dollars? Panic made her stomach tighten. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have that kind of money. Would it be possible to remit payment after the sale is made?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. There are many up-front costs involved.” Leaning forward, he rested his arms on the table. “A man would understand this. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to speak with your father?”

“No, no.” The sun had moved across the sky and now cast its rays directly onto her. Tiny beads of moisture formed along her spine. “It’s just, I, well, I simply don’t have a sum of that magnitude at my fingertips.” She ran a finger around the rim of her china cup. She wanted this so badly. Imagine, earning a year’s worth of income in one easy sale.

He tapped the table with his thumb. “I don’t usually interfere with my artists’ financial concerns, but perhaps you would not mind a suggestion?”

“Not at all.” She pulled a handkerchief from her cuff and dabbed it along her hairline.

“Is there someone you can go to? An uncle? A grandfather? You would be able to reimburse them as soon as the painting sold—and I know it will sell, otherwise I wouldn’t offer to feature it.” He finished his coffee. “What if we did this, what if I lowered
my fee to one hundred dollars? You are such a lovely girl who I think will one day become a very important artist. So, I will lower it for you, but you mustn’t tell anyone else.”

She bit her lip. Maybe her father would give it to her. According to her mother, he’d done rather well at the races, for once. Perhaps she could convince him it would be like investing in a horse, only it was his daughter and his chances would be much better.

Nodding, she stuffed her handkerchief away and sat up straight. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Excellent. I would hate for us both to lose this opportunity and for the public to lose the joy you could bring them.” He smiled. “I have a feeling this is going to be the beginning of a long and rewarding relationship, Mademoiselle.”

“I’d like that, sir. I’d like it very much.”

CHAPTER

34

M
rs. Vanderbilt came by this week.” Mother threaded tiny beads onto her needle, slid them down, then sewed them onto the bodice of a ball gown she was making.

Tucking her feet up under her skirt, Flossie rocked herself in the chair. “Did she stay long enough for tea?”

“Indeed she did. As a matter of fact, her cousin is getting married. Mrs. Vanderbilt has asked me to sew the dresses for the wedding.”

Flossie took a quick breath. “Oh, Mother, congratulations. What a testament to the quality of your work.”

Mother threaded another set of beads. “I’ve not decided yet whether I’m going to do it. It would be a great deal of work.”

Seated on the couch reading the
Times
, Papa turned down a corner of his paper. “And a great deal of money.”

“I fear it would be the death of me.” Mother sighed. “My headaches have started up again.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Flossie said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t do it, then.”

“That’s what I keep telling your father, but I admit it would be lovely to have the extra income. We could buy that parlor grand piano I’ve been wanting so badly.”

Folding his paper, Papa crossed his legs. “I’d like to hear a little bit more, Flossie, about this art gallery your mother was telling me of.”

Flossie rocked her chair. “Well, the owner of the gallery, Monsieur Bourgeois, took me to Delmonico’s yesterday.”

“Delmonico’s?” Papa frowned. “Who went with you?”

She lowered her legs and sat up in her chair. “I went by myself.”

“Oh, Flossie.” Her mother looked up from her sewing. “You mustn’t do things like that, dear. It’s too forward.”

Ordinarily she’d have argued with her, but tonight she decided it would behoove her to be on her best behavior. “Yes, Mother.”

“How old is this Bourgeois fellow?” Papa asked.

“He’s an older man—about your age, I think. He’s secured a space over on West Twenty-Third that he plans to use as his gallery.”

Mother lowered the fabric in her hands. “What did he say about your paintings?”

“He liked my seashore one very much. And guess what? He thinks he can get four hundred dollars for it.”

Papa’s brows shot up. “Four hundred dollars?”

“Yes, and if he can’t get that, he said he wouldn’t take any less than three hundred. Can you imagine? He’s going to be featuring European artists, of course, but he wants to make a name for himself as the gallery with premier American artists.”

“Like who?” Papa asked.

“Remington, Chase, and Sargent are the ones I know of for certain. I’m not sure who else.”

“That’s quite the company you’ll be keeping.”

She gave a small smile. “Yes, it’s rather hard to believe. I’m very excited.”

He tapped his finger on the back of the couch. “Is he only taking that one painting?”

“I wouldn’t be able to afford more than one.”

“Afford?” He frowned. “What do you mean, afford?”

Reinforcing a pleat at her waist, she glanced at Mother, then back at him. “Well, artists are subject to set-up costs.”

“What kind of set-up costs?”

She took a deep breath. “A hundred dollars paid in advance.”

He jerked himself upright. “A hundred dollars?”

“It was one-hundred-fifty at first, but I bargained him down to one hundred.”

“That’s thirty-five percent. Highway robbery.”

Mother set her sewing on the table beside her. “But even if she sells it for three hundred, Bert, that would still leave her two hundred. Think of it. Two hundred dollars—for
one
painting.”

He scowled at Flossie. “Why isn’t he taking his cut out of the sale? Why is he making you pay it up front?”

She clasped a locket at her neck and ran it back and forth across the chain. “He says it’s very expensive to put on an exhibit, but he’s confident my painting will sell, and when it does, the three hundred dollars will only be the beginning.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And just where are you going to get a hundred dollars?”

She said nothing, simply looked at him.

He began to shake his head. “Oh, no. Not this time, little girl. It’s one thing to send you to the School of Applied Design, but this, this is totally different. I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t give you that much.”

“I wasn’t asking you to give it to me. I’ll pay you back.”

“And if the painting doesn’t sell?”

“For heaven’s sake, Bert.” Mother shook out her skirt. “The painting will sell. It’s outstanding. Your favorite, in fact.”

He rubbed his eyes. “It’s a lovely painting, and I don’t wish to upset you, but realistically I’m simply not sure someone will pay three hundred dollars for it.”

Flossie swallowed, her heart in her throat. “I know it’s a lot,
Papa, but people come into Mr. Tiffany’s showroom all the time and pay twice that amount for nothing more than a vase.”

He peeked up at her. “His name is Louis Comfort Tiffany. That’s why he can demand those prices. Your name is Florence Rebecca Jayne. It’s not the same.”

“Mr. Tiffany’s name didn’t always mean what it does now.” She looked him directly in the eye, knowing better than to show any weakness. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Tiffany—his father, the jeweler on Fifth Avenue, I mean—originally borrowed a
thousand
dollars from his father, a mere miller, when he was first starting out. He used it to open a small stationery and gift shop, and look at him now.” She clasped her hands. “I’m only asking for a hundred, Papa. And I’ll pay you back, just as soon as it sells.”

Much as she wanted to mention the races, she couldn’t quite work up the nerve.

“I want you to consider it, Bert.” Mother wet her lips. “If Flossie’s painting sells—and I’m sure it will—then she won’t have to work for Tiffany anymore and she’d be able to come home.”

Clasping her hands, Flossie said nothing. She wasn’t coming back home. She loved living in the boardinghouse and she loved her job at Tiffany’s. Now wasn’t the time for that quarrel, though.

With a pained expression, her father pushed himself up off the couch. “I’m sorry, moppet. It’s too much. And we really don’t know anything about this Bourgeois fellow.”