Tiffany Girl (26 page)

“Good night, Cat.” He rubbed a knuckle between Cat’s ears.

Flossie’s chest rose and fell. The warmth inside her grew. Moving to her door, she gave him a quick glance, then let herself into her room, but the picture he made in his shirtsleeves, stocking feet, and swinging suspenders would stay with her for many a month to come.

CHAPTER

32

I
don’t really care for the Marylee character,” Miss Jayne said, cutting into her codfish cake. “She’s so, I don’t know, shallow. And a bit irritating, don’t you agree?”

Reeve’s fork stalled halfway to his mouth before he realized it and carried it the rest of the way.

“Oh, but wait until you read today’s installment.” Leaning in, Mrs. Trostle looked up and down the table. “I think the bibliomaniac is starting to fall in love with her.”

Reeve choked. Oyster pounded him on the back. “You okay?”

Reeve held up a hand, then hit his chest a couple of times. “Just swallowed wrong, but I’m curious, Mrs. Trostle. What makes you think that about the bibliomaniac?”

Miss Jayne’s eyes widened. “You read Mr. I. D. Claire’s column?”

“That is a ridiculous name,” he said.

She smiled. “I like it, I do declare.”

With a
humph
, he returned his attention to Mrs. Trostle. The woman was again dressed to the knocker in a gown whose upper sleeves were as full and round as a person’s head. Perhaps she, too, had a seamstress in her family, but then, that wouldn’t explain the jewelry.

Looping a long strand of pearls round and round her finger, Mrs. Trostle pursed her lips. “All the signs are there. The bibliomaniac’s perfectly composed and well-spoken in every situation until Marylee enters the room, then he becomes tongue-tied and self-conscious and only too anxious to make his exit.”

Reeve blinked. “He does?”

She gave him a patronizing look. “Well, I can understand why you didn’t see that, being a man and all, but we women have a sixth sense about these things.”

He scratched his jaw. “Interesting. I missed that completely.”

“Heavens.” She swatted the air with her hand. “It’s as obvious as the nose on your face.”

Unless you were the author,
he thought, then shook his head. The bibliomaniac was the normal character. Sure, Reeve had given him a few idiosyncrasies, like reading the dictionary from cover to cover, but for the most part that character was reason in a world of confusion. Order in a world of chaos. Practicality in a world of unfeasibility. For the bibliomaniac to have feelings for the flighty Marylee confounded not only him, but the entire plot.

By the time he drew himself back into the conversation, the topic had shifted to Miss Jayne’s paintings.

“You really have a remarkable talent, Miss Jayne.” Mrs. Trostle turned to her husband. “Don’t you think so, Chester?”

“Eh?”

“
Don’t you think Miss Jayne has remarkable talent?
” she said, her voice raised.

“Yes, yes.” Propping a monocle on his right eye, he looked at Miss Jayne. “Remarkable talent, indeed. The others have been telling us about you being a Tiffany Girl and the tremendous work you have done for Mr. Tiffany. You must tell us the things that they could not. Did you study art in Paris?”

She flushed. “Oh, no. I simply attended art school during the
summers of my youth and then enrolled in the New York School of Applied Design.”

“The School of Applied Design.” He nodded. “Is that where you did the seashore portrait that hangs above your bed?”

“No, I did that last summer.”

“Well, it’s an excellent piece. You have a definite affinity for painting women with auburn hair. Best I’ve seen, in fact.”

She smoothed the napkin on her lap. “Thank you. Red hair is my favorite.”

“Did you see her portrait of Mrs. Dinwiddie?” Miss Love asked.

“Indeed I did.” Mrs. Trostle tapped her mouth with her finger. “I wonder if Monsieur Bourgeois would be interested in seeing it.”

Her husband leaned close to catch her words. “Bourgeois? Jean-Pierre Bourgeois? An excellent idea. I’ll ask him when I see him next week.”

Holliday wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Who’s Jean-Pierre Bourgeois?”

“A gallery owner.” Mrs. Trostle placed her flatware across her plate at a precise angle, as if she’d just completed a meal at the queen’s table.

Mrs. Holliday imitated the woman, placing her flatware in the same position even though she’d not finished eating.

Miss Jayne craned her neck to better see the Trostles. “You know an art gallery owner?”

“My, my, yes.” Mrs. Trostle took a sip of tea. “We’ve known Monsieur Bourgeois from when we were living in Paris years ago. He’s opening a new gallery on West Twenty-Third, and instead of catering exclusively to European art, he also wants to promote interest in American art.”

Miss Jayne exchanged a glance with Miss Love. “And you think he might be interested in my paintings?”

“I do, but
for some reason I seem to remember he was looking for landscapes.” Mrs. Trostle shrugged. “It’s of no matter. Chester will speak to him and if he is interested in portraits or ladies with glorious auburn hair, then we shall arrange for you to meet him.”

Miss Jayne’s entire face lit. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Trostle.
And thank you, Mr. Trostle
,” she said, projecting her voice.

The man relaxed the muscles around his eye and tucked the monocle into his vest pocket. “No promises, my dear. Monsieur Bourgeois is very particular, but as my wife mentioned, he is always willing to look at new talent. So, we shall see.”

The conversation turned to the arrival of the princess of Spain at the Chicago World’s Fair, but Reeve could see Miss Jayne’s mind was a million miles away. He hoped her disappointment wouldn’t be too great if her painting was refused. Maybe he could work something similar into his Marylee story. The bibliomaniac situation, however, was a concern. He’d definitely need to do something about that.

DELMONICO’S RESTAURANT  
²⁰

“The maître d’hôtel opened a door leading to an outdoor dining area, the summer breeze stirring her gray-and-rose-striped taffeta gown.”

CHAPTER

33

F
lossie stood uncertainly inside the doorway of Delmonico’s in Madison Square, the aroma of sweet bread a favorable portent of the meal to come. The Trostles had not only spoken to their friend, Monsieur Bourgeois, but they’d shown him her paintings last week while she was at work. He’d been impressed and had asked if she’d join him for lunch.

She scanned the dining room in search of a Frenchman by himself. The mirrors lining the walls of the restaurant multiplied its size. Crisp white cloths covered the tables. The fresh flowers gracing their centers could not compete, however, with the stunning summer toilettes of the women surrounding them. A robust fountain in the center added the soothing sound of water to the low murmur of voices. Never had she been in a restaurant so fine. Certainly, her father was a member of a few clubs, but nothing like this.

A clean-shaven maître d’hôtel in an impeccable black suit stepped forward.

She clutched her parasol. “I’m to meet Monsieur Jean-Pierre Bourgeois.”

“Right this way.”

She glanced up at the frescoed ceiling, briefly thinking how much prettier a Tiffany glass mosaic would be. The maître d’hôtel opened a door leading to an outdoor dining area, the summer breeze stirring her gray-and-rose-striped taffeta gown.

A diminutive man with olive skin and warm brown eyes sat alone. At their approach, he stood. “Mademoiselle Jayne?”

“How do you do.”

He took her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles, then held the chair for her as he addressed the maître d’hôtel. “Punch à la Romaine for the lady,” he said, his French accent thick.

She’d never been without the buffering presence of another person when partaking of a meal with a man, but he looked to be her father’s age, so what could be the harm? Besides, she was a New Woman now. If she were going to make her way in the world, she’d best learn to stand on her own two feet.

“I was expecting someone older,” he said. “Your paintings suggest an expertise not often seen in such youth.”

“Thank you.” She flushed with pleasure.

Over calf’s head soup, chicken cutlets, and stewed beef à la Jardinière, she told him of her work at the School of Applied Design and at Tiffany’s. He told her of his exhibitions in Paris and London, his affiliation with the Society of French Artists, and the relationships he’d established with American painters living abroad—including Remington, Chase, and Sargent.

“I’ve been much impressed with the art coming out of this country.” He gestured with his hand, a gold ring on his pinkie finger catching a ray of sunshine. “I was stunned, therefore, to discover the galleries here only show European work. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to introduce your patrons to something that’s been right under their noses this whole time.”

“You’ll only be showing American work, then?”

The clamor of iron-shod wheels on Fifth Avenue’s Belgian blocks partially drowned out his answer. “. . . include European art, of course, but my main focus will be on American painters,
which brings me to your work. I was quite taken with the painting of the woman at the seashore. Tell me about it.”