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Narrated by Rachel Botchan
Deeanne GistUnabridged — 12 hours, 46 minutes
Narrated by Rachel Botchan
Deeanne GistUnabridged — 12 hours, 46 minutes
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| BN ID: | 2940170730537 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Recorded Books, LLC |
| Publication date: | 05/05/2015 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Tiffany Girl
New York City, 1892
Twenty-two Years Later
Your father has decided to withdraw you from the School of Applied Design.”
Flossie Jayne looked up from the muslin in her hands, her fingers pausing, her needle protruding from the cream-colored fabric. “What do you mean?”
Mother secured a porcelain button to a short basque waist of a Louis Seize brocade in rich shades of burgundy and claret. The buttons had miniatures painted onto them. Miniatures Flossie had put there with her own brush.
“I mean,” Mother said, “when your current winter session at the design school is over, you will not be going back.”
Flossie lowered the bodice lining to her lap. The whalebone sandwiched between the two pieces of muslin slipped. “But, why? The painting classes won’t be complete until next summer.”
“Your father is aware of that.” She snipped the end of the thread, then picked up another button.
“Has something happened?”
Mother said nothing. Her hair was no longer as black as Flossie’s, but had softened with silver strands and was pulled up into a twist.
“Mother, I . . . I live for those lessons. Painting is the only thing that gets me through this endless sewing.”
Even though Mother was working, she had dressed with extreme care. Her emerald gown was not as fancy as the ensembles she sewed for the upper echelons of New York society, but it was certainly nicer than that of most barber’s wives. When customers came by the house, they’d see what a fine figure she cut and would often order something similar but significantly more expensive. Thus, she and Flossie both dressed exquisitely and in the very latest fashions no matter what their plans were.
“The sewing we do is not endless,” Mother said. “Endless sewing is what those poor unfortunates in factories and sweatshops do. You and I work in our warm, cozy sitting room and handle all manner of silk, velvet, mink, lace, and jewels.”
“We sew from first light until last light, until our eyes hurt and our heads ache. We stop only to do the cooking and cleaning.” The thought of sewing without interruption was bad enough, but to give up her passion, the one thing that not only offered her a reprieve but infused her with renewed energy, was not to be borne.
“You stop every afternoon for your lessons,” Mother said.
“Which is my whole point.”
Mother tsked. “You should be happy we have the work. With so many men losing their fortunes, many seamstresses are finding themselves with fewer and fewer customers.”
“You will never lose your customers.” Flossie once again worked her needle along the edge of the whalebone, boxing it in with neat stitches. “Not when every gown you make is nothing short of a work of art.”
Mother allowed herself a small smile. “Your pieces are not far behind.”
“Even if that were true, the difference is you love to sew. I hate it. No, I loathe it. The only thing that keeps me in this chair is knowing that if I want to attend the School of Applied Design, Papa said I’d need to bring in the income myself. But if he’s not going to let me go, then what’s the point?”
The fire in the grate popped, its heat warding off December’s chill. Flossie used to love this room, with its northern light and view of Stuyvesant Park. Its mauve floral walls and Baghdad rug had hosted many a happy occasion. The sense of warmth and well-being it once induced, however, had long since dissipated, leaving dread and drudgery in its wake, for this was where she and Mother did their work week after week, day after day.
She pushed the floor with her toe, setting her rocker in motion. “He went to the races again, didn’t he?”
Mother tied off the last button. “You really did do a lovely job painting these miniatures. Mrs. Wetmore is going to be very pleased with them.”
“How much did he lose this time?” Flossie rued the day her father had been invited to the races by one of his customers. What should have been a day of leisure ended up becoming a consuming passion. He’d even started to close the barbershop on Saturdays in order to go to the racetrack.
“It’s not for you to question how your father spends his money.”
“What about how he spends our money?”
“Hush.” Mother glanced at the door as if someone might hear, but they didn’t have a maid anymore, nor a cook. “You and I don’t have any money. It’s all his.”
“Why is that? We’re the ones doing the work. We’re the ones designing the clothes. We’re the ones taking care of your clients. Why don’t we get any of the money? Why do we have to hand it all over to him?”
“Because we do.”
“What if we don’t?”
“That is quite enough.”
“I mean it, Mother. What if we simply told him no? Told him he couldn’t have it?”
Standing, Mother shook out the bodice, then held it up by its shoulders, the light glinting on its gold-braided trim. “These buttons will become more popular than they already are once the senator’s wife wears this. Perhaps tomorrow you should paint some more.”
“Let’s go on strike.”
Glancing at her sharply, Mother draped the bodice over the back of her chair. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Let’s tell Papa we refuse to do any more work until he gives each of us a percentage of our earnings.”
Narrowing her eyes, Mother snatched up tiny scraps of fabric littering the worn oriental rug that had been in her family for generations. “You’ve been reading too many newspapers. If you’re not careful, your father will disallow it.”
“You ought to read them, too. The New York World gave a very detailed account of the feather curlers when they went on strike. It brought the entire feather industry to a standstill. By the end of it, night work was abolished and the women had won. Well, they’d won the first skirmish, anyway.” She scooted forward in her chair. “Don’t you see? If we both told Papa we wouldn’t work another day until he agreed to give us each a percentage of our work, he’d have no recourse but to give in to our demands.”
“No.”
“Then let’s just keep a portion and not tell him. They pay you, so he’d never know.”
Mother studied Flossie, her brown eyes catching the fire’s light. “Look around you, daughter. The rocker you are lounging in, the cup of tea at your elbow, the very walls that protect you from the cold . . . these are all a product of your father’s hard work. Surely you remember we haven’t always lived so well. It has taken him years to provide such nice things for us. If he wants to give himself a little treat, then I will not begrudge him and neither will you.”
“I remember we lived much more modestly until you started to take in sewing. Until you discovered you had a talent—no, a gift—for creating gowns of the highest caliber. I remember Papa being so delighted that he hired a maid and then a cook so you could devote more of your time to your sewing.” She folded the muslin lining. “Everything was wonderful at first, but it was never the same after we moved here and away from all our friends. Papa opened his new shop with fancy chairs and even fancier equipment. He joined those clubs. He stayed out late. He went to the races. He fired the help.”
Mother stood stiff, her lips drawn.
“I’ve heard you crying, Mother.” She looked down, picking a loose thread from the muslin. “I’m not a young girl anymore. I’m one-and-twenty. Old enough to see that something is very, very wrong.”
“We’re just going through a bad spell right now. Everyone is.” Her voice wavered.
Setting her sewing aside, Flossie stood. “But we shouldn’t be. Your business is booming and so was his, but he hardly ever opens his doors anymore. He simply takes the money we make and spends it.”
“He enrolled you in the School of Applied Design.”
“Only because you made him. And the reason I didn’t feel guilty about it was because I earned every penny of the tuition.” She bit her lip. “But as sure as the sun rises, I know that as long as we keep handing everything over to him, he’ll never change his ways. Why would he?”
“Your father’s a wonderful man.”
“He is. And I love him—very, very much. But what he’s doing to you—to us—is wrong and I’ll—I’ll not be party to it. If you want to work yourself to death and give it all to him, you are certainly free to do so, but not me. If I do the work, then I’m going to keep a portion of the wages.”
Mother closed the distance between them and lowered her voice. “You will not.”
“It’s time, Mother,” she said, matching her quiet tone. “Well past time.”
Mother slapped her.
Gasping, Flossie fell back, covering her stinging cheek. Tears sprung to her eyes. Never in her entire life had either of her parents raised a hand to her.
“We are women.” Mother’s hands trembled. “You can read all you want about unfeminine women who want to be treated like men, but no matter how hard we try, nothing will change the facts. We aren’t men. Not now, not ever. And if those women aren’t careful, they just might get what they are asking for, and then where will we be? Do you wish to load your own steamer trunks onto a wagon? To shovel snow from the sidewalk? To drive six horses? To fight in wars? To wear trousers? Well, I don’t, and I will have no such talk in this house. Have I made myself clear?”
Still cradling her cheek, Flossie ignored the tears spilling onto her fingers. “Crystal clear.”
Turning, she fled from the room and up the stairs. Flinging herself onto her bed, she buried her face into her pillow and sobbed. Not just for herself, but for her mother and all the other women who didn’t see that men—even the ones who loved them—were very careful to keep the fair sex in a state of subjection and complete subservience.
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