Tiffany Girl (6 page)

She swallowed. “I can’t stay here, Papa. I have to move out.”

“Why?”

“Flossie.” Her mother looked close to tears. “Please.”

Papa tilted his head. “What is it?”

Some inner sense kept her from stating the driving reason—that she wanted to keep her earnings for herself. She’d hinted at it before and he’d not picked up on it. Besides, no matter what she thought, she simply couldn’t bring herself to confront him about that or his gambling. But there was another reason, one she’d thought of on the way home from school, one that had been building up a great deal of steam and excitement within her.

“If I lived in a boardinghouse,” she said, “I’d have siblings for the first time in my entire life, and I’ve always, always wanted them.”

Mother clasped her hand over her mouth, the tears that had threatened earlier spilling over her cheeks.

Too late, Flossie realized how her mother must have interpreted that. “No, Mother, I didn’t mean—”

Shoving her chair back, Mother tossed her napkin on the table and fled from the room.

Flossie rose halfway out of her chair, but her father stopped her with a hand on her arm. “No, moppet, I’ll go to her in a moment. Sit, and let’s finish this.”

She sank back down. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism.”

“Of course you didn’t, but your mother, she feels she failed me. I’ve told her a thousand times that you are enough, more than
enough. You are more than any father could ever hope for, but it never occurred to her, I don’t think, that she’d failed you.”

“But she didn’t fail me.”

“Then why this sudden need to have siblings?”

Setting an elbow on the table, she rested a palm against her forehead. It wasn’t a sudden need. It had been a lifelong need, or wish, anyway. “This is such a mess.”

“We’ll get it sorted out, but you must stop this nonsense about a boardinghouse.”

“Oh, Papa. Don’t you see? I want to spread my wings. I want to see what it’s like to be on my own, to be part of a big family. If I move into a boardinghouse, I’ll be able to do all of those things.”

“If you move into a boardinghouse, what you’ll have is a soiled cloth on the dining table, a mattress stuffed with pigs’ hair, and filthy bed clothing which holds an unspeakable odor, not to mention unemptied slop jars and dirty washing basins.”

She wondered if he realized who washed his bed clothing, who emptied his slop jar, and who cleaned his washing basin.

“What is Tiffany paying you?” he asked.

“Five dollars a week.”

“Then you won’t be able to afford a boardinghouse unless you share a room with someone, which means the second bed would be occupied with a person not of your choosing, but of the landlady’s choosing. What if she is of an unpleasant nature?”

“What if she isn’t? What if she’s—”
like a sister
, she finished to herself.

He studied her. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you? No matter what I say, no matter how much it will injure your mother and me, and no matter all that we’ve done for you.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I can’t really explain it to you, but my mind is made up. I would very much like your assistance in choosing the boardinghouse, but if you won’t help me, then I’ll have to do it myself. But I will do it, Papa.”

She didn’t know how she’d do it, though. The other girls at
the School of Applied Design already lived in houses without any vacancies or were going to stay at home, but the more Flossie thought about a boardinghouse, the more excited she became about it. She’d have no one to answer to. No one. Not her father. Not her mother. Not even a husband. She wouldn’t just be a New Woman, she’d be a whole new person.

NEW BOARDER 
³

“The new boarder swept by Reeve Wilder’s open door in a whirl of extravagant haberdashery and fur-lined clothing.”

CHAPTER

5

T
he new boarder swept by Reeve Wilder’s open door in a whirl of extravagant haberdashery and fur-lined clothing. Behind her was their landlord, Mr. Klausmeyer, a giant trunk strapped to his back, his gait slow and plodding. Snow had saturated the lower portion of his dingy brown trousers and clung to his hobnailed boots. Reeve wondered if the man had finally gotten around to shoveling their front landing.

He hoped the carting of trunks wouldn’t tax Klausmeyer so much that he abandoned the task. The boardinghouse betty was a former lodger who’d settled his back rent by marrying the landlady, making him her third husband and making it the third time the house was given a new name. It was rare, indeed, for Klausmeyer to even make an appearance. He was much more likely to lounge about in the back without ever lifting a finger to help.

“Hello! Are you Miss Love?” The new boarder’s voice held a lyrical component, flushed with innocence and enthusiasm. Reeve had expected her to continue to the stairwell, for all first-floor rooms were occupied. Instead, she’d stopped at Miss Love’s room. The room right next to his.

“I am, indeed, Miss Love. You must be Miss Jayne, the Tiffany Girl.”

The entire house was much atwitter about this Tiffany Girl who was coming to board with them. He’d kept his thoughts to himself, though. He wasn’t sure Tiffany’s women could manage the kind of work they’d been hired to do, but far worse was the fact that they’d undermined the hundred-plus men who were striking for reasonable hours and better wages.

“Yes, I’m Miss Jayne, but if we’re to be roommates, I insist you call me Flossie.”

Roommates? he thought. Miss Love was taking on a roommate?

“Then you must call me Annie Belle.”

“Annabel Love?”

“Annie Belle Love. I was named after my grandmothers, Annie and Belle.”

“Oh, isn’t that lovely? My name is short for Florence, but no one ever calls me that, thank goodness.” She paused. “Oh, dear. I hope you don’t have any loved ones named Florence. I meant no offense, of course. Where should Mr. Klausmeyer set my things?”

A solid
thunk
indicated the placement of her trunk before any response was given.

“Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.”

Klausmeyer hauled in three more trunks—how many clothes could one woman have, for crying out loud? And how would that tiny room have space for them?

He didn’t have long to wait for his answer, for unpacking commenced, and as soon as one trunk emptied, Klausmeyer carried it back out. Just when Reeve expected things to settle, the man commenced to lug in a bookshelf, a rocking chair, a lamp, an artist’s easel, a small table, several paintings, a brass headboard, and three rugs.

Death and the deuce, there was no chance of Klausmeyer completing his shoveling now. He’d done more work in the last two hours than he had in the last two years. Worst of all, Miss Love’s door remained open through it all.

“
What beautiful clothes.” The awe in Miss Love’s voice bordered on covetousness. “I’ve never seen such fine garments up close.”

“My mother’s a seamstress for the wealthy set. She tries out her ideas on my wardrobe.”

“Oh, it must be wonderful to have so many gowns.”

“You and I appear to be close to the same size. Is there one in particular you like? Why don’t you try some on, then wear your favorite to dinner tonight? What do you say about that?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t.” Miss Love’s voice, however, said she’d be more than willing.

“I insist.” Their door clicked shut.

He glanced at the clock sitting on the corner of his desk. He’d mentioned the Tiffany Girl to his editor at the
New York World
. It had spurred a long discussion between them that culminated in an assignment where Reeve was to write a series of exposés on this breed of New Women who were trying to infiltrate what had been—and what should certainly remain—man’s rightful and exclusive dominions.

His first piece was to be sent out in two hours. Yet he’d only managed three paragraphs since Miss Jayne’s arrival. He closed his door, too, even though it would disrupt the flow of air between the hall and his cracked window. Still, the women’s voices and exclamations came through the thin walls as easily as if they stood in his very room.

“Have you met Mr. Tiffany?” Miss Love’s voice flowed like old rye whiskey, easily discernible from Miss Jayne’s, whose was of a more bubbly, champagne variety.

“He wasn’t at all what I’d pictured him to be,” Miss Jayne said. “There’s nary a gray hair on his head, yet I just found out his forty-fifth birthday approaches. And such a lovely man. I can’t comprehend how all those lead-glass workers walked out on him at such a critical time.”

Miss Love’s
response was muffled beneath layers of clothing being whisked on and off. Perhaps he should interview one of the glassworkers. There were less than a hundred and fifty men in the entire city who knew how to do the work Tiffany required. With the exhibits for the World’s Columbian Exposition due to Chicago in a few short months, it was the perfect time to stage a strike.

He dipped his pen in an inkwell.

Women of today have a perceptible restlessness for something which baffles this writer and others of the stronger sex. When asked, the New Woman can give no particular reason for her malcontent, though, in a rather mystical way, she expresses a desire to attain what she calls her “true place” in the social and economic world. Yet what could be a truer, more perfect place than the position which she currently holds?

“Oh, dear. No, no,” Miss Jayne said. “This color is all wrong. Here, let’s try this one.”

More rustling of clothing.

“Mrs. Klausmeyer tells me you teach school,” Miss Jayne continued.

“Yes, I teach the primary grades.”

“Do you ever whip any of the children?”

Reeve paused.

“Goodness, yes,” Miss Love answered, her voice not the least bit repentant. “I’ve whipped lots of them. In my class right now I have a boy who last year put his master right out the window. So at the first sign of trouble, I had Georgie take off his coat, then I gave him a good whipping with a strong switch. He’s almost as large as me, but he’s behaved good as gold ever since.”

Tightening his jaw, Reeve wondered if she’d be quite so quick to use the rod if she’d ever been subjected to such ignominious torture
in front of all her peers. Trying to tune them out, he reread what he’d written, then again wet his pen with ink.

Everyone knows men were created to do the world’s hard work, to blaze a path for civilization, to strive, to battle, and to conquer. Everyone ought to know woman was created to make it possible for man to do this work. To ease his struggle with her sympathy, to keep him from faltering by her belief in him, to supply him with a love so great it inspires him to achieve. This, then, is a woman’s part in life.

“Oh, Annie Belle, you look absolutely beautiful. This is the gown. You must wear this one. Now, what would you say to letting me style your hair? It’s such a beautiful shade—a mix of ochre and burnt sienna. I could fluff it up into the Gibson girl style everyone is wearing. I’m very good at it.”

He listened to them chatter while he finished his piece. An hour later, all that was left was the last sentence, but everything he tried fell flat. Finally, it came to him. First, he jotted down two stanzas from a popular essay.