Tiffany Girl (35 page)

“Mr. Wilder had been extremely attentive at the beginning of the evening when Flossie pointed out the Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Roosevelts, and, of course, the Tiffanys.”

CHAPTER

49

B
ustle pinchers?” Mr. Wilder asked, his expression stormy. “On the streetcars?”

“Yes.” Nan crinkled her brows, her wide forehead accentuated by the clips holding back her long brown hair woven with fresh flowers. “We all suffer because of them.”

Suppressing a sigh, Flossie turned her attention to the dancers on the ballroom floor. Eight of the twelve Tiffany Girls had come. Mrs. Driscoll instructed them to sit in chairs in the far, far corner.

Mr. Wilder had been extremely attentive at the beginning of the evening when Flossie pointed out the Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Roosevelts, and, of course, the Tiffanys. He’d glazed over a bit at her descriptions of the gowns, but took notes all the same. He’d then spent the rest of the evening sitting with each Tiffany Girl, asking about her work, her aspirations, the ending of the strike, and how it would affect her. At the moment he was interviewing Nan.

Flossie had known he would be gathering information, she just hadn’t realized how much time it would absorb. It was almost three o’clock now and she had yet to dance. She wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t dance, wouldn’t dance, or was too busy to
dance. Whichever it was, she’d be sorely disappointed if she ended up attending her one and only soiree only to sit on the sidelines the entire evening.

“We’re constantly being jostled and crowded by the men.” Nan twirled a lock of hair round her finger, her lips forming a coquettish pout.

In stark contrast to the pale pink of Flossie’s gown, Nan wore one of black satin, slightly relieved by white. She’d borrowed it from Flossie, and because Nan was the taller of the two, she hadn’t been able to pull the sleeves up over her shoulders without the underarms cutting into her.

So she’d left the sleeves off her shoulders, showing a pretty curve of skin, in the 1830s fashion. To hold the gown up, she’d attached two straps of jet beads. Despite herself, Flossie couldn’t help but admire the picture Nan made.

“We’re subject to all manner of improprieties by gangs of drunken loafers,” Nan continued. “You would be shocked to hear some of the things said to me in undertone.”

Mr. Wilder’s jaw began to tick. His dark evening jacket rested with precision on his broad shoulders, its swallow tails cut square in back instead of in the old oblong shape. The white, double-breasted waistcoat hugged his flat stomach and trim waist.

He turned to Flossie, his expression tight. “Do you experience this as well?”

She lifted one shoulder. “More often than not.”

His tone deepened. “You’re pinched, groped, and forced into conversation with men you’ve not been introduced to?”

“I don’t converse with them. They do all the talking.”

His breathing grew deep. “Why don’t you simply sit down?”

“No one offers up their seat.”

Mrs. Driscoll tapped Nan and those beside her with her fan. “Sit straight. Mr. Tiffany is coming.”

Flossie scanned the room, then spotted him. He looked well enough in his evening garb, but he didn’t hold a candle to Mr. Wilder.

“What a sight you ladies make.” Placing an arm across his waist, he gave them a formal bow. His abundance of wavy brown hair had been combed to the side. “Has everyone had a chance to dance, I hope?”

Flossie saw Mr. Wilder blink back his surprise at Mr. Tiffany’s lisp.

“Most of us, yes.” Mrs. Driscoll was not of a size to borrow Flossie’s clothes, so she’d added a white chiffon collar to a simple black silk dress, then trimmed the gown with black velvet.

“Most of you?” Mr. Tiffany glanced between the girls. “Who’s not danced?”

“Miss Jayne hasn’t yet danced,” Nan said. “Nor has Mrs. Driscoll.”

Flossie felt the heat in her face match the deep red flooding Mrs. Driscoll’s.

Mr. Tiffany’s gaze touched on Mr. Wilder and the other escorts, then he bowed once again to Mrs. Driscoll. “Well, we can’t have that. Would you do me the honor?”

Mrs. Driscoll’s hands skimmed over the buttons of her gown, then patted the back of her hair. Mr. Tiffany extended his elbow. She accepted it and allowed him to guide her onto the floor. Flossie kept her attention on them, waiting in silence—along with everyone else—to see if Mr. Wilder would ask her to do the same. When it became apparent he would not, Nan’s brother, who’d accompanied Nan, stood.

“Miss Jayne, might I have this dance?”

Her face flamed hotter, even her ears warmed. “Thank you, yes.”

She slipped her gloved hand into his, then scooped up her
train when they reached the dance floor. He spun her around the room, a proficient dancer. She smiled and nodded, paying no real attention to what he said, for it took every bit of energy she had to appear gay and happy when, for some inexplicable reason, she wanted nothing more than to tear up and cry.

WAITING FOR THE STREETCAR 
²⁹

“A bicyclist whooshed by, giving his bell a
ringaling-ringaling
.”

CHAPTER

50

F
lossie strode down the boardinghouse hallway, nearly colliding with Mr. Wilder as he stepped out of his bedroom.

Reaching out, he steadied her, then immediately let go. “Excuse me.”

With a nod, she continued toward the entry hall. She’d graduated from disappointment to outright anger. She should have invited Mr. Oyster to Saturday’s soiree. He’d have been attentive. He’d have made her laugh. He’d have danced with her all night long.

Instead, she’d tried to do the nice thing by bringing Mr. Wilder, not only because he had a writing assignment, but because she thought it would help him break out of his shell. He was going to be a hermit by the time he was thirty if he didn’t change his ways. She’d thought to show him that being around her and others would be fun and enjoyable. He’d repaid her by more or less ignoring her, and never once asking her to dance.

In retrospect, she’d realized interviewing the girls shouldn’t have taken all night, particularly when they all said the same thing: They loved it at Tiffany’s and they were concerned about what would happen to them when the men returned.

She herself was particularly concerned, for it seemed Lulu had
some kind of mystical powers for glasscutting. She was not only incredibly fast, but also accurate. If one of the cutters had to go, it wouldn’t be Lulu. But Mr. Wilder hadn’t asked Flossie what her concerns were, only the other Tiffany Girls.

She sighed. Perhaps her concern over her job was making her overreact. Whatever the case, she was through trying to draw Mr. Wilder out, through bending over backward to make him feel included, through trying to be his friend. If he wanted to fossilize in his room with his writing and his cat, so be it.

She reached for the front door handle only to have his arm swoop around and open it. Without thanking him, she marched out onto the stoop and down the steps. He followed two paces behind. The polite thing would be to turn around and wait for him. To engage him in conversation. To ask him where he was off to this early on a Monday morning.

Instead, she headed toward the streetcar stop, widening her stride in an effort to outstrip him. Yet whether she sped up or slowed down, he kept pace. Not beside her like any normal human being, but just enough behind her to keep from having to talk to her. Typical.

Men in work trousers and gray caps rubbed down their horses and hitched their wagons, getting ready to start their deliveries. A rooster crowed from an alley, and smoke ascended from various chimneys, evidence that some women were still cooking breakfast.

Finally, she reached the streetcar stop. Only, Mr. Wilder didn’t keep going, he was evidently catching one, too. At least it wouldn’t be hers. He’d probably be going to his newspaper office, which was a different car.

He stood beside her, casting her occasional sideways glances. She said nothing. Did nothing. Simply stared at the flower shop across the street, her view interrupted by conveyances coming and going from all directions. A bicyclist whooshed by, giving his bell a
ringaling
-
ringaling
.

One streetcar came and went. Then another. And another. Finally, her car arrived, its horses shaking their harnesses and blowing gusts of air from their nostrils. She boarded, as did he. Lips tightening, she shouldered her way into the interior and grabbed onto a leather handle at the top of the car.

He followed. And though she was surrounded by men, the one at her back was not a stranger. It was him. The man facing her gave her a hooded look and suggestive smile. She scooted back to keep from brushing him. Mr. Wilder scooted back, too, giving her room.

The man in front of her began to close the gap when something over her shoulder captured his attention. He froze, then pressed back into those behind him.

She bit her lip. She could easily guess at Mr. Wilder’s expression. She’d been the recipient of many a fierce look from him, but never had he used them on her behalf. The edge of her anger dissipated a little, but she hardened her heart, listing again the woes he had caused her. She needed the anger, needed it desperately, for without it, she feared more telling emotions might surface.