Tiffany Girl (38 page)

FAUERBACH BEER WAGON  
³¹

“A brewer’s wagon with bright green wheels ambled by, three dozen kegs stacked against its flareboards.”

CHAPTER

54

T
he door of Bourgeois’ Art Gallery was locked, its window covered with brown paper from the inside.

“Are you sure it was tonight?” Papa asked.

“Yes, yes. I’m sure.” She fumbled with her reticule, then extracted the invitation. Everyone hovered around her, reading over her shoulder. She pointed to the date. “See there? ‘Saturday evening, the eighth of July, at seven thirty.’ ”

Papa flicked open his pocket watch. “Well, it’s seven forty-five now. Where is everyone? Is it the right address? Let me see that.”

She handed it to him, looking again at the number on the door plaque. “I’m sure this is it. I was here a few weeks ago. And—and Monsieur Bourgeois was inside. He—he showed me a painting by, um, Mr. Audubon. You know, one of those beautiful etchings he does of his birds?” She walked to the window and tapped on its glass. “Hello? Hello? Anyone home?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie exchanged a glance with Reeve, her brows drawn together. He lowered his chin, studying his shoes.

Flossie touched a bit of gold paint flaking off the window. “This—this used to say Bourgeois’ Art Gallery.” She drew an arch with her finger across the glass. “But, it’s gone. I—I don’t understand.”

Papa’s
face turned red. “I’ll check with the neighbors.” He walked to the next shop, but it was vacant. He knocked on three more doors, shouting for someone to answer. A brewer’s wagon with bright-green wheels ambled by, three dozen kegs stacked against its flareboards.

Flossie looked at her mother. “What’s happening? I don’t understand.”

Mother took her hand and patted it. “There, there. Your father will find out what’s amiss. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. See there? He’s talking to someone now.”

They all looked down the walkway, the sun so low the buildings’ shadows stretched clear across the street. Papa conversed with a man in an apron, his arms making big motions and pointing in their direction.

A cab rolled by. “Anyone need a ride?”

No one said a word.

Papa shook hands with the man, then headed back toward them. A shiver raced through Flossie.

Mother pulled her close. “What did you find out, Bert?”

“Bourgeois is gone, has been for days. And we’re evidently not the first to inquire about him.”

“What do you mean?” Reeve asked.

“There were others, quite a few others, who’d paid him money to show their artwork.”

Flossie frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“He skipped town, girl.” His tone impatient, he snapped his fingers. “Vanished. Took the money and ran.”

The blood drained from her face. “Skipped town? Took the money? Are you sure?”

He stretched both palms toward the boarded-up gallery. “What does it look like to you? A gallery opening, or a shyster who pretended to be something he wasn’t?”

She wrapped her arms about her waist, a wave of nausea slamming through her.
Oh, no. Oh, no
. Her mother’s money. Her mother’s seventy-five dollars and the money her family at 438 had given her.

Papa shook his head. “A hundred dollars. To think he tried to take me for a hundred dollars.” He closed and opened his fists. “Thank goodness I didn’t give him any money.”

A tiny moan escaped from the back of her throat. “Mother.”

Mother placed an arm about her. “Yes. Thank goodness for that, Bert. No harm done.”

“No harm done?” Papa growled. “He got away with Flossie’s painting. He had no right.”

“Try not to upset yourself, dear. You know what happens when you get upset.”

But he was already wheezing, his face turning a deeper shade of red, almost purple. Reeve held up a hand and whistled for one of the cabs circling the block.

Mother released Flossie and took her husband’s arm. “Come, Bert. Take me home.”

Papa shook his head. “Flossie. She needs us. We need to, we need to . . .”

Hiding her distress, she rushed to him. “I’m fine, Papa, just fine. And look, my whole family is here.”

“Family?” He pulled back, his scowl even worse than before.

“Friends.” She twirled her hand toward them. “My friends. They’re all here. I’ll be fine.”

Reeve helped Mother and then Papa inside. Before he closed the door, Papa grabbed Reeve’s arm. “You’ll see . . .” He took another wheezing breath. “Flossie safely home?”

“I won’t leave her side.”

Papa fell back into his seat. “Good man.”

LAMP LIGHTER 
³²

“A lamp lighter on the street lifted a long pole and ignited a stem on a lamppost, the flame just discernable in the onset of evening shadows.”

CHAPTER

55

H
er parents’ cab rounded the corner. Hugging herself, Flossie bent slightly over. Something wasn’t right. Monsieur Bourgeois had taken her to Delmonico’s. She’d just seen him here herself, at this very gallery. The walls and floor had been freshly polished. The furniture was to have been delivered that day. Stacks of paintings had leaned against the deeply grained panels.

But, no. She hadn’t actually seen the paintings. Only wrapped canvases with names scrawled across them. Had the Audubon he’d shown her been real? She didn’t know. She hadn’t looked that closely. Hadn’t even thought to. Wasn’t sure she’d have been able to tell even if she had.

Her mother. What was she going to do about her mother? Her head became light. Her vision doubled.

She turned back to her family at 438. A group of them had already filled one cab, the rest had hailed another. No one said a word. No one made eye contact.

“I’ll pay you back,” she said, her voice cracking.

Mrs. Dinwiddie
tsk
ed. “Nonsense. You’ll do no such thing.”

Mr. Nettels exchanged a look with Mr. Holliday.

She swallowed. The newspapers were filled with banks
closing, railroads failing, and farmers going belly-up. She wasn’t exactly certain how that impacted a music teacher and a photographer, but it had. Mrs. Dinwiddie told her the number of students Mr. Nettels taught had diminished by half and that Mrs. Holliday hadn’t received her allowance from her husband in over a month.

Flossie rubbed her temples, her chest aching. Annie Belle gave her a furtive glance, then stepped into the cab. When all had boarded, Reeve stood at the open door waiting for her.

Emotion rushed up her chest to her throat. Her eyes filled. She shook her head. “I’ll . . . I’ll walk.”

“It’s too far.”

“I’ll walk.” She turned around and began to walk.

The door of the cab closed. The cabbie clicked his tongue and flicked the reins. Flossie kept her eyes forward, looking neither left nor right. The two cabs rolled past. She bit her lip. Her nostrils flared. Why was this happening?

Reeve caught her elbow and pulled her to a stop.

She yanked her arm out of his grip and kept going. “You were supposed to get on the cab.”

“I promised your father.”

She spun around. “Is that why you’re not on it? Because you promised my father?” She curled her lip. “Well, of course that’s why. It couldn’t be because you cared. Not with that blasted brick wall you have right in there.” She shoved him in the chest.

He fell back a step.

“That’s waaaaaay too solid to breach, isn’t it? So, thank you, but no. I’m not interested in being escorted home by someone who only pretends to care. Or worse, who denies he cares. I want you on a cab.” She lifted her arm. “Cab! Cab!”

But no one stopped. No one gave her any notice, for a woman wasn’t supposed to call for a cab. Only men had that privilege. Fine, she’d walk.

A man coming their way looked her up and down, then crossed to the other side of the street. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Reeve pulled her to a stop again. “Do you want a cab? If you want one, I’ll get you one, but I’m riding with you.”

She pushed him away. “Don’t take my arm again. And if I want a cab, I’ll jolly well get one myself, if I have to lie down in the middle of the road to do it.”