certain, even if Miss Jayne was a magpie and a New Woman, he didn’t want to see her hurt. Perhaps he should speak to her tonight, implore her to quit this nonsense and return to her home.
TIFFANY GIRL SELECTING GLASS 5
“Flossie glanced at a woman behind Mrs. Driscoll who crouched in front of a giant stained-glass window, her skirts pooled about her as she held up different pieces of colored glass.”
CHAPTER
8
F lossie’s insides bobbed like a cork. In a few moments she’d be assigned to the role she’d have at Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company. She hoped to be awarded the job of painting faces on leaded glass windows, for portraits were her specialty—particularly women’s hair swirling in the breeze. She could do the Virgin Mary with flowing hair, or the woman at the well, or Esther.
She frowned, trying to recall if she’d ever seen swirling hair in a stained-glass window, then pulled her mind back to the present. Nan had mentioned six women being in their department, but she only counted five, all busy working.
A wall of windows flooded the room with light. Beside one window, a huge white painter’s canvas as big as a palace-sized tapestry hung against a wooden frame. An intricate geometric pattern had been sketched across its surface. A young woman added watercolor to the sketch, her arm propped against a maulstick to keep it from tiring. It was clear the rendering was for a yet-to-be-made stained-glass window of enormous proportions.
The six girls Mr. Tiffany had chosen from the School of Applied Design sat on one side of a table. It was made of nothing more than giant boards set upon sawhorses, its surface so large she felt sure two front doors could have lain side by side atop it.
At the head of the table, Mrs. Driscoll studied Flossie and her schoolmates as if they were insects beneath a magnifying glass. Everyone except for Flossie wore serge skirts, simple shirtwaists, and no hats. Folding her hands in her lap, she tried not to squirm.
Mrs. Driscoll cleared her throat. “As you know, the Chicago World’s Fair opens in five months, and Mr. Tiffany is planning to debut a first-of-its-kind exhibit—an enormous one-thousand-square-foot chapel whose interior is made up of nothing but reflective glass mosaic surfaces.”
Flossie glanced at a woman behind Mrs. Driscoll who crouched in front of a giant stained-glass window, her skirts pooled about her as she held up different pieces of colored glass. The entire window was one-and-a-half times as tall as Flossie, yet it stood propped against the bank of windows along the wall. It was a wonder it didn’t go crashing right through them.
“Without lead-glass workers,” Mrs. Driscoll continued, recapturing Flossie’s attention, “Mr. Tiffany’s project will not be completed on time and his dream will not be realized. And that is where you come in.” Her expression softened. “He believes our gender is well-suited to this work. Our fingers are more nimble than men’s, our eyes are more sensitive to nuances of color, and we possess a God-given disposition for decoration.”
Flossie kept her expression neutral. She’d never in her life heard a man admit such a thing. Were those truly Mr. Tiffany’s words or Mrs. Driscoll’s interpretation of them?
“The carved plaster arches of the chapel, the mosaic columns, the electrified chandelier, the white glass altar, and the dome-shaped baptismal font have all been completed by the men.”
Flossie lifted her brows. What on earth was left to do?
“But there are several windows that have yet to be completed. And those, my dears, are what you will take on. You will do them as well, if not better, than the men and with a delivery date thatwill ensure the Women’s Glass Cutting Department is not a temporary department, but a department that will outlive the fair and many years beyond it.”
Flossie sat up a little straighter, knowing she was ready for the challenge and relishing the thought of
TIFFANY GIRL SELECTING GLASS 5
“Flossie glanced at a woman behind Mrs. Driscoll who crouched in front of a giant stained-glass window, her skirts pooled about her as she held up different pieces of colored glass.”
CHAPTER
8
F lossie’s insides bobbed like a cork. In a few moments she’d be assigned to the role she’d have at Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company. She hoped to be awarded the job of painting faces on leaded glass windows, for portraits were her specialty—particularly women’s hair swirling in the breeze. She could do the Virgin Mary with flowing hair, or the woman at the well, or Esther.
She frowned, trying to recall if she’d ever seen swirling hair in a stained-glass window, then pulled her mind back to the present. Nan had mentioned six women being in their department, but she only counted five, all busy working.
A wall of windows flooded the room with light. Beside one window, a huge white painter’s canvas as big as a palace-sized tapestry hung against a wooden frame. An intricate geometric pattern had been sketched across its surface. A young woman added watercolor to the sketch, her arm propped against a maulstick to keep it from tiring. It was clear the rendering was for a yet-to-be-made stained-glass window of enormous proportions.
The six girls Mr. Tiffany had chosen from the School of Applied Design sat on one side of a table. It was made of nothing more than giant boards set upon sawhorses, its surface so large she felt sure two front doors could have lain side by side atop it.
At the head of the table, Mrs. Driscoll studied Flossie and her schoolmates as if they were insects beneath a magnifying glass. Everyone except for Flossie wore serge skirts, simple shirtwaists, and no hats. Folding her hands in her lap, she tried not to squirm.
Mrs. Driscoll cleared her throat. “As you know, the Chicago World’s Fair opens in five months, and Mr. Tiffany is planning to debut a first-of-its-kind exhibit—an enormous one-thousand-square-foot chapel whose interior is made up of nothing but reflective glass mosaic surfaces.”
Flossie glanced at a woman behind Mrs. Driscoll who crouched in front of a giant stained-glass window, her skirts pooled about her as she held up different pieces of colored glass. The entire window was one-and-a-half times as tall as Flossie, yet it stood propped against the bank of windows along the wall. It was a wonder it didn’t go crashing right through them.
“Without lead-glass workers,” Mrs. Driscoll continued, recapturing Flossie’s attention, “Mr. Tiffany’s project will not be completed on time and his dream will not be realized. And that is where you come in.” Her expression softened. “He believes our gender is well-suited to this work. Our fingers are more nimble than men’s, our eyes are more sensitive to nuances of color, and we possess a God-given disposition for decoration.”
Flossie kept her expression neutral. She’d never in her life heard a man admit such a thing. Were those truly Mr. Tiffany’s words or Mrs. Driscoll’s interpretation of them?
“The carved plaster arches of the chapel, the mosaic columns, the electrified chandelier, the white glass altar, and the dome-shaped baptismal font have all been completed by the men.”
Flossie lifted her brows. What on earth was left to do?
“But there are several windows that have yet to be completed. And those, my dears, are what you will take on. You will do them as well, if not better, than the men and with a delivery date thatwill ensure the Women’s Glass Cutting Department is not a temporary department, but a department that will outlive the fair and many years beyond it.”
Flossie sat up a little straighter, knowing she was ready for the challenge and relishing the thought of
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