Tiffany Girl by Deeanne Gist Read Free Book Online

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 thirdflight 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.