Tiffany Girl (50 page)

T
he pond had finally frozen over. Flossie dug into the ice and pushed off, enjoying the feel of freedom and relishing an opportunity to wear her sky-blue skating habit from last year. Mother and Papa had moved back to their old neighborhood and were gravely disappointed when Flossie again refused to come home. When it was apparent she wouldn’t change her mind, they implored her to teach—anything other than keeping the chambermaid job. But she didn’t want to teach and there simply weren’t many other options for women, other than factory work, which was out of the question.

Still, it felt magnificent to be out of her drab alpaca gowns and in a fashionable ensemble, even if the sleeves were a bit less poufy than what was now in vogue. A crisp wind picked up the edges of her large sailor collar, making her feel as if she had wings. Stretching her arms wide, she spun in a circle, the braid-trimmed pleat on the side of her skirt flaring.

She tilted her head back, continued to spin, then pulled her hands in, resting them on the oversized buttons marching down her corsage. Faster and faster she spun until her head felt light. Finally, she slowed, stopped, and breathed in.

A group of men organized a baseball game on the far end of
the ice. Young boys played tag and keep-away. Tots just learning to skate folded up at the waist and sat. But it was the couples who drew her attention. Some skated side by side without touching, others hooked elbows, and yet others joined right and left hands promenade style. She couldn’t help but think of Reeve.

No one had heard a word from him, not even Mrs. Dinwiddie. The woman saved all his newspaper articles, though, and let Flossie read them since the paper in the parlor was for boarders only, not servants.

If he hadn’t become a champion for the women’s movement, exactly, he’d certainly become a voice of reason. He exposed the bustle pinchers and made an entreaty for separate cars just for women. He refuted the widespread belief that any woman who was economically independent must therefore be immoral, then backed it up with fascinating articles featuring highly respectable women in all walks of life and all manner of occupations.

Just last week he’d written about a bevy of girls who’d done decorative painting on a ceiling of a downtown theater. The women worked from nine until five on scaffolding just as men did, lying down and letting their feet hang over. To lessen the chance of catching her skirt, one woman wore her brother-in-law’s trousers under her blue flannel painting costume.

Flossie shook her head. Her father would have a wheezing attack for certain if she did something like that. Still, it made her wonder what Louise had worn when she and Mr. Cox had done their murals in the Manufacturer’s Building, and it made her wish she could afford to go see the ceiling Reeve had written about.

An elderly gentleman in an old-fashioned jacket tipped his hat as he skated by. She smiled, wondering if he was here alone, wondering if Reeve would one day be like him.

She sighed. Reading his columns had made getting over him much more difficult. They kept her connected to him somehow,
and with each piece her respect for him grew. Never, however, were there any new stories from I. D. Claire.

Blowing on her hands, she passed a dozen young men who offered inexperienced skaters lessons for twenty-five cents an hour. Most of the students were women, though there was an occasional man. Again, she thought of Reeve, then shook herself. She needed to stop. Even though she was no longer consigned to life as an old maid, it was long past time to push him from her mind. Sometimes she managed to follow her own advice. Other times, like today, she missed him so badly she almost ached.

“Flossie? Flossie Jayne? Is that you?”

Flossie spun around, skating backward and looking for the woman who’d called out.

“Flossie! Here!”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to see who was beneath the shawl-wrapped head. “Mona?”

“Yes!” The girl skated right up to her and gave her a giant hug. “How are you? We all miss you so much.”

Nostalgia swept over Flossie. Mona was the errand girl at Tiffany’s. She ran messages back and forth between the men’s department and the women’s department. She took their mail to the post office, and she ran any errands Mrs. Driscoll needed.

Flossie didn’t know her well, had barely even noticed her while she was there, but Mona had clearly remembered her. Warmth flooded Flossie. “How are you? How is everyone?”

“Wonderful, though we still miss you, of course.”

She smiled. “Did anyone else lose their job? What about Aggie? Is Aggie still there?”

“Everyone is still there, including Aggie. She’s wrapping foil as usual.”

Turning, the girls began to skate and Mona caught her up on the happenings at Tiffany’s. The chapel had won fifty-four awards at the World’s Fair—more than any other single exhibit—and had
been brought back to New York. “They’re assembling it right next to the showroom so that anyone who missed seeing it in Chicago can see it here in New York.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“We’re very excited, though by the time they reassemble it, I’ll be gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.” A large smile crinkled her eyes. “I’m getting married.”

“Married!” But she was so young. “When?”

“Next week.”

“Well, I . . . I . . . congratulations.”

“Thank you. Oh, there he is now.” She waved, and a man across the pond waved back as he made his way toward them. “I’d best go. It was wonderful seeing you.”

“You, too. Tell the girls hello for me.”

“I will.” She pushed off and sailed toward her fiancé.

Married. Good heavens. She watched the two of them greet each other, then head in the opposite direction.

It wasn’t until later that night when it occurred to her that Mrs. Driscoll would be in need of a new errand girl, for Mr. Tiffany did not allow married women to be in his employ.

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F
lossie paused at Mrs. Driscoll’s doorway, a rush of well being sweeping through her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the place until just that moment. Scraps of glass, paper, and an assortment of tools lay scattered across the woman’s desk. She held a mold of what appeared to be a small lampshade in her hand. Looking over her shoulder, a man who managed the kiln made suggestions in an Irish brogue so thick, Flossie couldn’t understand a single word.

Finally, she tapped on the door. “Knock, knock?”

Mrs. Driscoll looked up, pleasure lighting her plain features. “Miss Jayne, how very nice to see you. Come in. You remember Mr. Briggs, of course?”

Flossie gave a short curtsey. “Mr. Briggs.”

“Hello, lassie.” Wiping his hands on the white apron he wore, he headed toward the door. “We’ll talk more later, Mrs. Driscoll.”

But Mrs. Driscoll had already set down the mold and given Flossie her full attention. “Come in, come in. How are you, dear?”

“Very well, thank you. I know how busy you are, so I’ll come right to the point. I saw Mona this weekend in Central Park and
understand you may have need of an errand girl. Have you filled the position by any chance?”

She tilted her head. “I have not. Four girls have been recommended to me. I consumed about six valuable hours in the tenements going to meet them in their homes, but was disappointed in three of them. The fourth is to call at my boardinghouse this evening. Why?”

“I’d like to submit my name for consideration.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “As an errand girl? But, it wouldn’t pay what your other position did. Are you sure you’d be interested?”

“I actually think I might prefer it. I loved being a glasscutter, of course. Who wouldn’t love working with all that brilliant glass? But as an errand girl, I’d be able to go all over the building and see what the men are doing, too. And didn’t Mona sometimes go to the factory in Corona?”

“Occasionally.” Mrs. Driscoll stared, her expression speculative. “The pay would only be four dollars a week, though, instead of five.”

Flossie grimaced. “I understand I can’t make as much money as the other girls, but did you ever think about having the errand girl stick down the paper patterns onto the glass? It would have saved us so much time, and that’s certainly a chore I could do between errands. I could also cut Aggie’s foil for her. That simply takes a snip of the scissors, not at all like cutting glass. There are any number of things like that I could do to speed up the others’ work.”

Crossing her legs, Mrs. Driscoll leaned back in her chair.

“You wouldn’t have to train me,” Flossie continued. “Other than to show me where everything is in the building. I might be slow at glasscutting, but I’m very nimble on my feet. I could fly all over the place with any message or errand you could think of. And Corona.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Oh, how I’d love to go to Corona and have even the slightest of peeks at the men forming the glass. What do you say, Mrs. Driscoll? Can I be your errand girl?”

“Well, if you don’t want her,” Mr. Tiffany said from the doorway, “I’ll sure take her.”

Flossie whirled around, a smile bursting across her face. “Mr. Tiffany! It’s so wonderful to see you. How ever are you?”

His eyes twinkling, he approached them. “I’m very fine, Miss Jayne. It’s been awfully quiet around here without you.”

She bit her lip. “Oh, dear. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Laughing, he shook his index finger back and forth. “Now, I know a trick question when I hear one.” He turned to Mrs. Driscoll. “What do you think? Shall we give Miss Jayne a chance?”

Mrs. Driscoll swung her foot. “I believe you’d pout for a week if I didn’t.”

“I most certainly would.” He clapped his hands together. “So, do you accept, Miss Jayne?”

She shifted her weight. “Do you think I could talk you into four-fifty a week instead of four? Especially if I do some of those extra chores for the girls?”

He raised his brows, then turned to Mrs. Driscoll.

The woman lifted one shoulder. “She’d probably be the best errand girl we’ve ever had, certainly the most knowledgeable of the window-making process, and everyone loves her.”

With a sigh, he spread his hands wide. “All right, then. Four-fifty a week.”

Jumping with delight, Flossie clapped her hands. “Thank you! Thank you so much. Both of you.”

He grinned.

Mrs. Driscoll shooed her out. “All right, Miss Jayne, off you go. Report back on Wednesday and I’ll have Mona show you the different parts of the building and where everything is.”

“I will. I’ll be here first thing.” She all but skipped to the door.

“And Miss Jayne?”

Flossie turned back around at Mrs. Driscoll’s inquiry.

“Be sure to wear something sensible, for heaven’s sake.”

With a laugh, she raced past Mr. Tiffany, down the hall, and into the workroom to greet the other girls and tell them her good news.

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