Tiffany Girl (44 page)

“What a silly twit,” Mr. Holliday said. “Does she really believe her little hobby is anything more than a frivolity? Honestly, I’m not sure but what the bibliomaniac would be better off without her. Maybe she’ll say no.”

“Hush your mouth.” Mrs. Dinwiddie waved her hand. “Go on, Flossie.”

“ ‘I could close up my shop, I suppose,’ Marylee said. ‘But I hate the thought of giving it up completely. What if we set up a little room for me in the back of our house? That way I wouldn’t have to give it up completely.’

“ ‘And still charge a fee for it?’

“ ‘Well, of course.’

“The bibliomaniac pulled down his brows. ‘Now, you know better than that. No woman is allowed to work once she has married. Not only is it rather crass, but all of your time will be taken up in the management of our home, in preparing our meals.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘And one day—very soon, I hope—in the raising of our children.’

“She blushed prettily.”

Clasping her hands in a prayer-like fashion, Annie Belle pressed them to her heart and sighed.

“
Marylee looked down, afraid to meet his eyes. All of what he said was true. And she wanted those things. She just . . . she just wished she could have them all plus her photography.
”

“She’s starting to really annoy me now,” Mr. Oyster said. “The fellow has offered her everything he has on a silver platter. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be free to do nothing while someone else does all the work and earns all the money?”

Flossie thought of her mother, her aunt, and her grandmother. “Marylee will not be sitting around doing nothing. She’ll be scrubbing, mopping, polishing, cooking, toting, and raising the children.
I daresay her photography would be much less demanding and a great deal more enjoyable.”

Total silence descended. Mr. Holliday’s mouth dropped open. Mrs. Holliday’s eyes widened. Annie Belle gave her an incredulous stare. Mr. Nettels curled his lip. Mrs. Klausmeyer’s expression remained unchanged.

Flossie moved her attention to Reeve. It was the first time he’d joined them in the parlor since the day of their kiss. Retaining eye contact with her, he propped his elbows on his knees, then rested his mouth on his clasped hands.

Clucking her tongue, Mrs. Dinwiddie smoothed her skirt. “I think you have forgotten something, Flossie. God has commanded us to be fruitful and to multiply. Marylee is being given the opportunity to fulfill the greatest commission a female can ever aspire to. The work of her hands as she takes care of her home and her children is not toil. It is a blessing.”

The
greatest
commission? Flossie wasn’t sure she agreed, but she decided not to belabor the point. She returned her attention to the paper. “
The bibliomaniac cupped Marylee’s face. Her cheek was as smooth and soft as the petals in her hands. ‘You haven’t answered me, my love. Will you be my wife?’

“Marylee stared into his eyes and realized all he said was right. Her camera would be a very lonely substitute for Mr. Bookish and the life he was offering.

“She smiled. ‘Yes, Mr. Bookish. Yes, I would be most honored to be your wife.’

Taking the bouquet from her hands, he set it on the table, then took her arm. ‘Come, let’s tell our families and celebrate with them the beginning of the rest of our lives.
’ ”

Flossie laid the paper in her lap, her heart in her throat.

The room erupted in applause, everyone talking and exclaiming as if they were the family members Marylee and Mr. Bookish had just announced their news to. All but Reeve. He hadn’t
moved. Still sat with his mouth against his clasped hands, his focus on her.

He was too far away for her to see his expression, exactly, but somehow she knew that even though he didn’t subscribe to everything the New Woman stood for, he was just as disturbed by the ending as she was.

She lowered her gaze. At least Marylee had a choice. Flossie didn’t have any. If someone ever asked her for her hand, she’d have to say no whether she wanted to or not. Still, she wished Marylee hadn’t given in so quickly and so readily. The entire thing left a bitter taste in her mouth.

METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART 
³⁵

“She wasn’t exactly sure when her playtime changed from courtship rituals and married life to the adventures of a woman on her own, a woman artist who was so renowned her paintings were in museums all over the world.”

CHAPTER

63

F
lossie excused herself early and returned to her bedroom. She’d been working and sketching and sewing so much that she found herself exhausted and in no mood for the festive atmosphere pervading the parlor. Lifting her chin, she unbuttoned the clasp of her bolero and caught sight of the phenakistascope. Mr. Holliday had given it to her just last week and she’d wedged it between the wall and her mirror for safekeeping.

Reaching up, she plucked it from its spot. It reminded her of a child’s pinwheel, except the face was flat and had been divided like thirteen pieces of a pie. At the end of each section was a photograph of her and Reeve. Turning it so the photographs faced the mirror, she held tightly to the wooden handle. With her other hand, she pinched the edge of the disc, then she looked through tiny slits Mr. Holliday had cut on either side of each photo. With a flick of her wrist, she spun the disc.

Before her eyes, she and Reeve danced round and round in the mirror. So fluid was the movement, no one would suspect that Mr. Holliday had positioned them for each step. That Reeve had taken a gentle pull on her ear with his lips. That he’d not kept his hand above the small of her back where it belonged. That he’d whispered sweet sentiments into her ear.

She spun it again and again, remembering the feeling of being in his arms, the potency of his kiss, and the connections they’d made—not just when they danced, but when they talked in his room, when they rode on the streetcar, when they answered each other’s questions at dinner, when they’d walked home after the debacle at the gallery, and even back when he’d warmed her feet the night she’d been caught in a storm.

She thought of Mr. I. D. Claire’s characters who shared a love so strong that Marylee had given up her life’s passion for the man who’d asked for her hand.

She spun the phenakistascope again. Her eyes filled. The image blurred. She was in love with Reeve Wilder.

Snapping her finger and thumb on the disc, she brought it to a halt and peeked at herself over the disc. She didn’t look like a woman in love. She didn’t have any glow or starry expression. She had bags under her eyes, wilted shoulders, and a mouth that showed no indication of joy.

Lowering the phenakistascope, she ran a thumb over the photographs, now still and frozen. All during her childhood she’d dreamed about the man she’d eventually love. She’d made up elaborate courtships, scooting two child-sized chairs side by side and going for buggy rides with her pretend man. Setting up rows of chairs and playing church. They’d listened to pretend sermons while she fanned herself and he gave her loving looks.

Soon they had babies. Lots of babies. Gathering her dollies around them, they went on Sunday picnics on her bed. Both she and her man played games with their children. Games that could only be played with bunches of children, not just one.

The two of them collected their tired babies and rode home, the swaying of the buggy lulling the little ones to sleep. She gave the dollies baths, dressed them in their nightclothes, and when it was time to put them to bed, he came to help, too, because he couldn’t stand to be away from her or them for very long.

She spun the phenakistascope again. Such a lovely fantasy, a charming dream. Back then, there was no such thing as a New Woman. There were no options for women at all other than wife, mother, and old maid. She wasn’t exactly sure when her playtime changed from courtship rituals and married life to the adventures of a woman on her own, a woman artist who was so renowned her paintings were in museums all over the world.

Suddenly, instead of sitting next to her husband in church, she was surrounded by imaginary friends from the cream of society. Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Morgans. She knew all the names of the important ones, for she’d read the society pages to see if Mother’s gowns were ever mentioned.

She received imaginary invitations to dinner at the governor’s house, and even the White House. First Lady Arthur was a great admirer of Flossie’s work. The president’s wife commissioned her to paint enough pieces to convert one of the rooms in the White House to the Florence Rebecca Jayne Room, and Flossie was invited to stay in it whenever she wanted.

Well, now she really was a New Woman and also in love. Neither looked even remotely like her fantasies. She’d been swindled. She owed more money than she could pay back. She worked her fingers to the bone. Her job was in jeopardy. She hadn’t painted in ages. And even if the man she was in love with reciprocated her feelings, she couldn’t act on them or she’d lose her job.

Swallowing the emotion in her throat, she began to tuck the phenakistascope back into its place, then paused. She wanted no constant reminder of a love that would never be. She ran her thumb along the edge of the disk. She couldn’t get rid of the phenakistascope, not as long as she lived in the same house as Mr. Holliday. Perhaps she should give it to Reeve. He wouldn’t have any problems with it.

He liked her, of course, and watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking. And he’d certainly kissed her as if he had feelings
for her, but he hadn’t pursued her or followed up on those kisses. So chances were, this little device would be nothing more to him than a simple novelty.

With a deep breath, she headed to his room. Annie Belle passed her.

“You turning in for the night?” Flossie asked.

Annie Belle covered a yawn. “I am. Where are you off to?”

Flossie held up the phenakistascope. “I’m going to drop this off in Mr. Wilder’s room. I haven’t had time to show it to him yet and don’t know when I will.”

Nodding, Annie Belle continued into their room.

Flossie peeked into Reeve’s. It was empty, other than Cat curled up on his bed. He must still be in the parlor.

Stepping inside, she set the phenakistascope on his desk. The cat figurine she’d given him held a place of honor not too far from his inkwell. She remembered struggling with her decision about what token she should bring him from the fair. His gift had been by far the hardest to select. She wondered if even back then she’d been in some degree attracted to him. Certainly, she’d always thought him handsome, but never had she expected to fall in love with him.

Cat jumped up onto the desk, startling Flossie and knocking some neatly stacked papers onto the floor.

“
Tut, tut
,” Flossie said, running a hand down Cat’s back. “You know how your master is about everything being just so. He wouldn’t like to see his papers scattered all over the place, so I’ll collect them for you and save you from a scolding.”