Tiffany Girl (7 page)

Why has not Man a microscopic eye?

For this plain reason—Man is not a Fly.

Why is not Man served up with sauce in dish?

For this plain reason—Man is not a Fish.

Smiling to himself, he added a couplet of his own making.

Why has not Woman all jobs overran?

For this plain reason—Woman is not Man.

He blotted the ink and reopened his door, having learned in the course of the afternoon that Miss Jayne had been attending the New York School of Applied Design when Tiffany acquired her—
oil paint being her favorite medium. She was the apple of her parents’ eyes. And she could talk the ears off an elephant.

He rubbed his eyes. For better or for worse, it seemed the serene life he’d known here in his room at Klausmeyer’s Boardinghouse had come to an unexpected and unwelcome end.

TIFFANY GLASS AND DECORATING COMPANY  
⁴

“Tucking her head against the wind, she headed from the streetcar toward Tiffany’s grand four-story building on the corner.”

CHAPTER

6

J
anuary’s wind caught the corners of Flossie’s midlength coat and flung it back to reveal a bluish-purple skirt with subtle stripes of mignon. She’d never had a first-day-of-work before and wanted to make a good impression. Picking a gown should have been a simple task. Heaven knew she had a gown for every occasion, or so she’d thought. Yet there was nothing in
Harper’s Bazaar
or
The Ladies’ Home Journal
that discussed the appropriate attire for a Tiffany Girl.

At first she’d thought to wear a simple skirt and shirtwaist, much like what she wore to the School of Applied Design. But everyone at the boardinghouse had made such a fuss about her working for Mr. Tiffany that she’d begun to wonder if perhaps she shouldn’t dress up a bit. She’d tried on four different outfits before finally settling on her grosgrain. She hoped to heaven she wasn’t overdressed.

Tucking her head against the wind, she headed from the streetcar toward Tiffany’s grand four-story building on the corner. She was almost at the entrance before she realized something was amiss with the tight cluster of men congregated at the juncture of Fourth and Twenty-Fifth. Some tall, some short. Some stocky, some thin. Some old, some young. All of them displeased.

Slowing, she made eye contact with one of them. Red hair peeped out from beneath his hat, its color echoed in his closely cropped beard and mustache. His boxy overcoat was worn and scuffed with dirt.

He raked her with his gaze. “What do ya think yer doin’, lady?”

Her steps faltered.

“We got families, ya know.” This from another man gripping a rolled-up newspaper. “We got kids and wives and babies. Ya ever think o’ that?”

Low murmurs and grumbles bubbled up in all directions like a pot of soup starting to boil. Grasping the collar of her coat, she squeezed it against her.

“What’s the matter with you? Takin’ our jobs like that?” A man not too much older than she looked at those around him, gaining confidence from their nods of support. “You oughta be ashamed o’ yerself, that’s what I say.”

She continued to make her way to the door, not sure whether to look them in the eye or ignore them completely. Out of nowhere, a snowball pummeled her in the face, knocking her off balance. Gasping, she wiped it off and looked to see who’d thrown it. A little boy of six, maybe seven, leered at her and scooped up another chunk of snow. She picked up her pace.

A wiry man pushed his way to the front. “If’n you were a decent gal, you’d turn around right now and get yerself back to hearth and home where ya belong.”

“You know what we call folks like you?” This from an older man waving his cane at her. “
Scabs
. That’s what we call ’em. And if you think them skirts’ll protect you from how we deal with scabs, then yer mistaken. We got ways.” He narrowed his eyes. “We got ways.”

She shivered, then hurried up the steps and into the building. It was one thing to read about strikers in the paper, quite another to come face-to-face with them. By the time she climbed the third
flight of stairs, she was shaking so much she couldn’t even undo her buttons. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. When she opened them, she noticed a wad of spittle clinging to the skirt of her coat.

She pressed a hand against her mouth, then fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. Crinkling her nose, she swabbed her coat, then folded the handkerchief gingerly around its ugly cargo and returned it to her pocket. A door down the hall opened. Flossie straightened. Botheration. The woman who’d stepped out wore a black serge skirt and simple white-striped shirtwaist. Flossie had overdressed.

“Hello,” the woman said. “You must be one of the new girls.” She had an owl-like appearance—large head, hooked nose, squatty neck, and buggy eyes. The color of those eyes were a deep, lovely blue. Flossie wondered if she could reproduce it with her oils. Perhaps sapphire with a touch of umber? She’d have to try it and see.

“Yes, hello. I’m Flossie Jayne. There were some . . .” She pointed a thumb behind her shoulder, indicating the front of the building.

“I heard. I’m sorry. Most of them work for other glass manufacturers, though Mrs. Driscoll recognized a couple of them from our glassworks. Either way, Mr. Tiffany is already devising a plan for everyone to get to work through another entrance.”

Flossie’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

“Of course.” The woman tilted her head. “Are you all right?”

“A little shaken, to tell you the truth. Nothing like that’s ever happened to me.”

“It’s a nasty business, that’s for certain. We’re glad you’re here, though. There were only six of us before, not counting Clara.”

“Clara?”

“Clara Driscoll. She would have been with Mr. Tiffany when he visited the School of Applied Design.” Tightening her lips, she
looked toward a window at the end of the hall. “It was supposed to be me.”

“I’m sorry?”

The woman gave a little shake of her head. “Nothing. I’m Nan Upton. I select the glass. At least, right now I do, but I know how to do all of the jobs, including the designing, so if you need any help with anything, you just let me know.”

Flossie smiled. “I wish I’d known that this morning when I was trying to decide what to wear. I’m afraid I’ve overdressed.”

Nan flicked her gaze over Flossie’s coat and skirt. “Don’t worry. I’ll see if I can find a smock for you.”

The strain of the morning began to ease. “Thank you. It’s wonderful to think I might have made a friend before I’ve even stepped into the shop.”

Nan’s smile faltered, as if she were forcing herself to maintain it. “Think of me more as someone who can guide you if you are in need of direction. It’s been like that between me and the other girls since long before Clara came back.”

“Came back?”

“Yes, she was part of the Women’s Department several years ago, then left when she married. Quite recently, she became widowed and asked Mr. Tiffany if she could return. Right out of the blue. Right after Agnes had told Mr. Tiffany she couldn’t stand to be manager for another minute. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t Agnes who put her up to it.”

Flossie blinked. “I see.” Though she didn’t, of course. Who was Agnes? And how could someone be encouraged to become a widow? Rather than ask, she simply waited to see if Nan had anything further to say.

Instead, Nan waved her toward the door. “Well, the shop is right through there. Go on in. I’m going to go wait in the lobby for the rest of the girls. The men outside aren’t exactly the welcome we had planned.”

CHAPTER

7

F
rom the back of the crowd, Reeve tugged down the rim of his hat and watched Miss Jayne scurry into the building. One of his contacts had told him there were to be protestors outside Tiffany’s this morning, so he’d come to see if he could find someone to interview. Never had it occurred to him the men would harass a lady. New Woman or not, scab or not, she was of the fair sex and therefore commanded a certain amount of respect.

Certainly, she had no business trying to usurp a man’s job. She should, indeed, return to hearth and home as one fellow had suggested, for if women abandoned their homes, who would take care of the children? Reeve knew firsthand what it was like to grow up without a mother.

It wasn’t her fault she’d died, of course. He knew that now, but it hadn’t made him feel any less deserted at the time. If his mother had chosen a mere job over staying home with him, the repercussions would have cut deep and been everlasting. He’d heard some women argue no children would be left at home because only unmarried women could hold positions, but it was a slippery slope they walked. Today they might have to be unmarried, but tomorrow, who knew what might happen?

All that aside, he couldn’t stand here and watch while women were abused, so he’d best find himself someone to interview or take his leave. A fellow with frowsy brown whiskers and a paper collar stood back from the others, his brows knit, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. Reeve couldn’t tell if it was due to the cold or discomfort over the men’s conduct.