Tiffany Girl Read Online Free Page A

start?”
    “January second. Our studio is at the southeast corner of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-Fifth Street. The Women’s Department is on the third floor.”
    “I’ll find it.”
    Mrs. Driscoll gave her a nod. “See that you do.”
    After Mr. Tiffany and Mrs. Driscoll left, Flossie’s hands shook so much, she could no longer paint—not even the sloppy parts. She’d need to find someplace to live that was closer to Tiffany’s studio. Not just because her parents’ house was too far away to be practical, but because her father would keep her wages if she stayed home. And she needed those wages, needed them so she could save up tuition for art school.
    She wondered how to find a room, how much they cost, and what her parents would say. Shying away from that last thought, she glanced at the other girls whom Mrs. Driscoll had singled out. Maybe one of them would be interested in sharing a room with her. Either way, she would now be what the papers called a New Woman, and what her father called an abomination.

FASHION PLATE FROM HARPER’S BAZAAR   2

“ ‘We decided on some sleeves entirely of velvet for the plissé crépon. ’ ”

CHAPTER
    4

    M other had a customer in the back. Flossie wasn’t sure who it was, but she used the time to whip up some marmalade pudding. Orange marmalade was the thing Papa loved most and which he insisted be kept upon their table at all times. Chopping up some suet, she tried to decide how best to break her news to them.
    Should she tell Mother, then let Mother tell Papa? Tempting as it was, it seemed rather cowardly. The question then became, should she tell them separately or together? She gathered up the suet and dropped it into a bowl, gave Mother’s vegetable soup a stir, put a different pot on to boil, then spent the next several minutes collecting ingredients. By the time Mother’s customer left, Flossie was whipping up the breadcrumbs, flour, sugar, soda, and marmalade.
    “That was Mrs. Cutting,” Mother said, coming into the kitchen. Taking an apron from a peg, she slipped it over her neck, then tied it around her waist. “She’s ready for the black plissé crépon, the flowered brocade, and the peau de soie gowns to be remade.”
    Flossie added a touch of buttermilk to her mixture. Mrs. Cutting was known for never being seen in the same gown twice,so Mother designed them to be remade, added to, and subtracted from.
    Grabbing an agate bowl, Mother began to grease it. “We decided on some sleeves entirely of velvet for the plissé crépon, a round waist of black baby lamb for the brocade, and a spangled satin collar with pointed tabs for the peau de soie.”
    “That’s nice.”
    Mother glanced at her, then paused and put down her rag. “It was your last day at school. I’m sorry. I should have realized. Are you all right?”
    Flossie whipped the ingredients more feverishly. “Yes. Is that bowl ready?”
    Mother brought the greased bowl and steadied it while Flossie scraped the pudding into it. A sweet, citrusy aroma wafted up and around them.
    “Thank you for preparing this.” Mother’s voice was low, gentle. “Your father hasn’t been himself ever since he realized you’d have to quit. This gesture, well, it will mean a great deal to him.”
    Avoiding her gaze, Flossie set the pudding, bowl and all, in the pot of boiling water, then placed a lid on the pot so it could steam. Mother stood at her side. Flossie stared at the pot.
    “I’m so sorry,” Mother whispered, placing a hand on Flossie’s arm.
    Swallowing, Flossie looked down. “Mr. Tiffany—the younger Mr. Tiffany who does the stained glass? Well, he stopped by our class today.”
    Mother said nothing. Just kept a soothing hand on Flossie’s arm.
    “He was looking to hire women who could make stained-glass windows for his World’s Fair exhibit.” The heat from the stove warmed her. The scent of orange began to permeate the room. “He . . .” She took a deep breath. “He asked me to