The Tiffany Girls: A Novel

Chapter 1

July 1899

Montmartre

Paris

Emilie Pascal wipes her hands on the cleanest cloth she can find and carefully places the sheet of stationery on the desktop. It is her last one. She had managed to secrete two sheets from the d’Evereux writing desk this past fall when her father was finishing the chevalier’s portrait.

She’d already had to use one.

This one will be for her.

She aligns the sheet just so, pulls the inkwell closer. Takes a breath and slowly touches her cheek. The bruise will be gone before she arrives in New York with her letter.

But she must hurry.

She must also be very precise, something that she has learned over the years. One mistake could cost her everything.

Emilie pictures the letter she will write in her head, like a scene on a canvas before she begins to paint. A florid, but masculine script. Just enough explanation, not too much praise. She touches the pen’s tip to the page.

My Dear Mr. Tiffany . . .

The pounding on the door comes just as she is about to sign her near perfect forgery. She lifts the pen instinctually from the paper and, Dieu merci, it does not blotch the paper.

Carefully now . . .

Mes sincères salutations,

Le Chevalier d’Evereux

The door begins to shake under the increasing pounding. She has no blotter. Emilie blows on the signature, then folds the paper. She will not seal it with a wafer. Too much or too little is the one slip that will always give you away.

She stands and hurries to her bed and the black portfolio that awaits its last work of art.

Now the shouting begins. Dominique Andre Pascal! Open the door in the name of the Sûreté de Paris!

Emilie slips the letter into the portfolio.

The door will give soon. They won’t find him here. He is gone. She doesn’t know where, but good riddance. She throws a cloak over her shoulders and grabs her portfolio from the bed. One quick look about to make certain she has left nothing, and she races to the window.

She has planned for this moment. It seems her whole life she has planned for this moment. The window is open, and she slides her most precious possession onto the little balcony. Hoists her skirts, dark in color but light in weight, for her escape. One leg over the sill, then the other. She pulls the window closed just as the door gives.

She scoops up the black case, throws it onto the next balcony, and throws herself after it.

Jean and Marie are waiting to help her inside. They have heard the gendarmes in the hallway. Without a word, Marie helps Emilie into her cloak; they lead her over to the ladder to the roof, and she climbs up, gripping the handle of her portfolio as if it will sustain her in everything. And it will.

Jean wants to see her safely away, but Emilie shakes her head. "Non, tu dois m’oublier."

"Mais je t’aime."

"Non."

Marie hands up the valise they have been keeping for this moment. We’ll send your trunk when you’re settled.

Emilie nods. She cannot speak.

Marie begins to cry. Jean snaps a warning look. Marie wipes her tears in case the gendarmes come to question them about their neighbors.

Emilie looks out only long enough to make sure she is alone, then she climbs onto the rooftop.

Jean looks longingly up through the square opening. This is the way she will remember him. Framed in light.

Then the darkness closes over him, and Emilie is off over the rooftops of Paris.

She has only one last stop to make on her way to the docks and the ship that will take her far away from here. From her memories, good and bad, her friends and her enemies, and most of all from her father.

She climbs down to the rue Suger. The lights shine on silent cobblestones; no one is about. She hears no sound of searching police.

Clutching her belongings, she starts north toward the river. It is a hot night even for July and Emilie is slick with perspiration from her exertions and her fear. And she still has a distance before her.

Already the shadows of men and women appear in doorways, workers on their way to the factory, the river boats, the sewing shops, the flower market, where they will sell their wares to the few souls who will venture out in this weather.

Emilie walks faster, though her whole body fights her. She wants to sit down, to hide her face in her hands, but that will come soon enough.

And then she sees her, the little flower seller at the foot of the Pont des Arts.

The woman sees Emilie approach and grins her crooked smile. They are old acquaintances. She looks over her bucket of chrysanthemums, lilacs, and daisies and pulls out a long-stemmed rose from their midst. Emilie can see in the first rays of light that today it is red, a perfect symbol for parting.

Emilie drops a coin in the woman’s palm and takes the rose. She doesn’t even know the flower seller’s name.

She moves on measured steps to the crest of the bridge. Slows while two men, late from carousing the night away, pass her in their hurry home. Then she turns to look down at the deep waters of the Seine. She will not cry.

"I leave France tonight, Maman. I may not visit you for a long while. ‘Ne m’oublie pas.’" And she drops the rose into the darkness.

July 1899

Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company

Manhattan

Clara Driscoll sat at her desk, squinting at the week’s expenses and thinking about dragonflies. Dragonflies. Hovering in the air, their iridescent wings reflecting the sunlight for a second before darting away, then reappearing somewhere unexpected. She’d seen them while cycling in Central Park on Sunday, and they wouldn’t leave her alone.

She leaned back, pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were already tired, though it was still morning, and she could feel one of her migraine headaches coming on.

As manager of the women’s division of Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company, it was her job to make sure her figures tallied each week. Normally she could separate her work as manager and that as designer without too much trouble. But not this morning. The business manager, Mr. Pringle Mitchell, had just instituted a list of new requirements that added to Clara’s aggravation; additional work taking up more of her time without actually being useful.

She and Mr. Mitchell were always at loggerheads over expenses. Mr. Tiffany insisted on quality unique art pieces. Mr. Mitchell was mostly interested in keeping costs down. Clara usually managed to navigate the waters between them well enough.

But this. The most egregious new rule was charging the women’s division rent for the space they used working for the company. Fifty dollars a month! It was outrageous. Especially since she knew Mr. Mitchell had done it just to annoy her.

Mr. Tiffany told her to pay it once and not worry about it again; he would sort it out. Which was all very well for him to say, but he’d left for his family’s trip to Europe. There he would consult with Mr. Bing about the Grafton Gallery exhibit the coming October. And, if Clara knew Mr. Tiffany, he would be in the thick of the on dit about the upcoming Paris Exposition Universelle to take place in April.

Clara considered herself a rational, understanding modern woman, and she was happy to both steer the ship, so to speak, and mentor the women learning their craft under her aegis—and do both while working on her own designs. But it was difficult to concentrate with dragonflies demanding attention. Especially on a headache day. And between the accounts, the loss of two workers to marriage in the past month, and the increasing summer heat stifling the fifth-floor workshop, this was decidedly one of those days.

Clara let her head roll back, closed her eyes. She would just rest them for a moment. Her eyesight had never been the best, and it was always exacerbated by her headaches.

And there were the dragonflies again. Flitting above her head, alighting on the stack of watercolors and sketches she had yet to file. Swooping onto the wooden mold for the lampshade she had just completed. Diving at the work tray of glass cuttings and tools that she’d pushed out of the way to make room for the accounts books.

Accounts. She opened her eyes and sat up. The sun was streaming through the window, making a perfect spotlight on the waiting columns.

Clara adjusted her muslin work sleeves, picked up her pen, and began where she’d left off.

Two large sheets of green opalescent glass #2435B. These she’d had to order directly from the Tiffany furnaces in Corona, Queens, since the triptych had already used a good portion of stock downstairs in the glass storage room. She’d gone to the furnaces herself to pick it up.

Round-trip trolley, ferry, and train fare. Though it hardly seemed fair that her department should pay for the trip just because the men couldn’t keep up with their supply of glass.

Clara sighed. Between their normal number of commissions and the extra work due to the additional pieces destined for the Paris Exposition, they were only halfway through July and already they were close to exceeding the monthly budget.

But there would be no scrimping on materials or construction. Mr. Tiffany had a bee in his proverbial bonnet about the Exposition. He had chosen not to exhibit in the last Paris world’s fair ten years before, and John La Farge, his most encroaching competitor, had taken all the medals Mr. Tiffany was convinced would have gone to him.

This time, he was preparing to astound the world like they’d never been astounded before, and he would at last be recognized as the undisputed king of art glass.

Clara didn’t disagree with the notion. Mr. Tiffany was a genius with a vision. The fact that making his vision of stained-glass windows, vases, lamps, pottery, mosaics, and all the other commissions Tiffany’s studios took on required teamwork among several departments and a myriad of individual craftsmen and artists to complete didn’t matter in the least.

He was their guiding force. And they all knew it.

Clara had never met anyone like him. She didn’t believe there was anyone else who could even come close to Louis Comfort Tiffany.

And Clara Wolcott Driscoll and her Tiffany girls were an indispensable part of his process.

She had just finished tallying the first row of figures when there was a quiet knock at the door. Clara dabbed at the perspiration on her upper lip and slipped her hankie into her sleeve. Enter.

Annie Phillips stood timidly in the doorway.

Well, come in, Miss Phillips. Is there a problem?

No, ma’am. Not a problem . . . exactly. It’s just. Well . . . She thrust out her hand, revealing a cheap gold-looking ring with a tiny glass stone faceted to its surface.

Clara’s heart dropped; her head throbbed in response. Annie was one of her better glass cutters. This was the third engagement her department had suffered this month. And when a girl became engaged, married, or, heaven forbid, got herself in trouble without the legality of marriage, she was let go immediately.

Mr. Tiffany might be an excellent employer, paying his girls on a par with his men, even going so far as to say they made better cutters and selectors than their male counterparts. But he sided with the other business owners and the law on one point. No married women were allowed to work in the studio.

Which seemed utterly shortsighted on his and the law’s part. Most married women had even more reason to stay employed than not.

And who is this young man?

Jack Mills, ma’am. He’s respectable and comes from a good hardworking family.

Which most likely meant they were as poor as church mice.

And he’s ever so handsome, Mrs. Driscoll.

Ah. How many times had Clara heard variations of this speech? How many girls had left to pursue their dreams of marriage and home and family and had never been heard from since? She used to try to talk them out of it. She had learned from her own experience that the promise of love and security could become a harsh reality.

And what does Mr. Mills do for a living?

He’s a carter, Mrs. Driscoll. Over in the garment district. He plans to work his way up to manager.

They all did, Clara thought, despondently. And he most certainly earned less than the girl standing hopeful before her. Clara was above all else a practical woman, and if she did usually side with the philosophy of the New Woman, she also understood the allure of handing over your responsibilities to a wider pair of shoulders. After all, she had done the same thing herself.

Well, if you’re certain this is the right decision for you . . .

Oh, I am, Mrs. Driscoll. I am.

In that case, we’ll all be sorry to see you go, but wish you the greatest happiness. Clara stood, ending the interview and Annie Phillips’s employment.

Annie’s lip quivered.

Now, now, Clara said, coming around her desk. Chin up. You’re embarking on a wonderful new adventure. Why had she said that? It was stupid to think that this girl would have anything but an ordinary life of drudgery, having baby after baby and working her hands to the bone, while her husband made his way in the world . . . or didn’t.

It must be her headache and the heat that were making her so pessimistic. She didn’t as a rule allow herself to be negative. It wasn’t useful or helpful to others.

Have all the girls seen your ring? It was a superfluous question. Of course they had. Sometimes Clara felt the studio was no better than a train station, a temporary place where young women waited for their next journey to begin.

She smiled reassuringly and walked the girl to the door. Watched her hurry back to the other girls, then Clara closed the door.

She’d barely sat down at her desk before another knock sounded on her door. She groaned. Please heaven, not another one.

July 1899

Mrs. Bertolucci’s Boardinghouse

Manhattan

Grace Griffith barely made it back for eleven o’clock curfew. Mrs. Bertolucci was standing at the door, key in hand, when Grace slipped inside.

Whew, Grace said. I was afraid I was going to have to climb in the kitchen window.

Mrs. B, as the boarders all called her, gave her an arch look. You better not be out carousing with some young man.

You know I’m not, Grace said truthfully.

What was it tonight?

Who. A woman named Emma Goldman. She was giving a talk on birth control, free love, and women’s emancipation. She was magnetic.

Mrs. B crossed herself. "That woman. She’s a notorious anarchist, causing trouble wherever she goes. Don’t get yourself mixed up in that nonsense. They’re violent people, those anarchists. I saw it myself in the old country. Oh dio mio."

I would never, Grace insisted. I’m all for women’s right to vote, to get equal wages, for owning our own properties and not being bullied by husbands—but Miss Goldman . . . Grace shrugged. She makes for excellent caricature.

Mrs. B cut her off with a wave of both hands. Maybe, just make sure you don’t get swept up in things you can’t control.

Her vehemence took Grace by surprise. I promise. No violence for me. I make church windows all day.

And you’ll be getting fired if you fall asleep over your glass.

Not if I find a husband first, Grace quipped.

You’re a pretty girl, Grace. Smart, maybe too smart. Maybe a little tall for some men, but you just find one tall enough and rich enough.

Grace opened her mouth—

I know. Not if you have to give up your work, both your works, but I worry about you.

And I appreciate it, but you’re a modern woman, too, Mrs. B. A model for us all . . . even if you won’t admit it.

Mrs. B could have remarried after her husband died. She’d been a reputable widow with a comfortable inheritance of a boardinghouse in a nice, safe neighborhood. But she hadn’t, though she’d had plenty of opportunity.

Bah. Your dinner is in the warming tray but don’t blame me if it’s as hard as shoe leather.

I won’t. You’re a dream, Mrs. B. Grace bent over and planted a kiss on her portly landlady’s cheek.

Now get on with you and turn out the lights in the kitchen when you’re done.

I will, thank you. Grace hurried down the hall, relieved and thankful. She was starving, and the idea of trying to sleep on an empty stomach in this heat was daunting.

She carefully removed the covered plate from the warming oven and placed it on the table. Lifted off the cover and breathed in the heavenly aroma. Pork chops, roasted potatoes, and cabbage. She slipped her sketchbook out of her knapsack, and alternating between fork and pencil, the pork chop and potatoes disappeared, and the firebrand anarchist, Emma Goldman, became a recognizable caricature.

And a good one at that. The gold-rimmed spectacles, the prominent, somewhat bulbous nose, and the hair that sat like a mushroom over her forehead, all exaggerated under Grace’s pen. It was not flattering, but it captured her spirit and features fairly well, if Grace did say so herself.

Grace sat back, satisfied. Now to come up with a pithy caption and get some newspaper to buy it.

Until then she would go each morning to her other cartoon work. It was ironic really that the large-scale drawings she made of the small watercolor window designs at Tiffany Glass and Decorating were also called cartoons. She supposed because they were line drawings. But they couldn’t be further from most of Grace’s other cartoons.

With the window designs she helped to bring art and beauty to scores of people, but with her political cartoons, Grace Griffith intended to change the world.

Chapter 2

Emilie sat upright on the bed in her second-class cabin, valise still packed and sitting at her feet, her portfolio on the narrow bed beside her. As if she thought there would be any escape if she was found. Were the authorities even looking for her? She had done nothing wrong. Not willingly. But they might want to question her, have her attest to her father’s guilt. She hadn’t been able to go that far, though she’d known from the beginning that one day she would have to make him stop.

But surely she was safe now. No one had prevented her from boarding the train to Le Havre or the Gascognia just before it sailed. But even so, she had made up her mind. Her future lay in New York in the studio of Louis C. Tiffany. She would turn light into art, her way, her vision, all hers.

She heard the ship’s engines change from their rhythmic chug to the steady hum of power that told her they were well underway, out of the harbor and into the sea. Into safety.

Emilie let out her breath, not expending it all at once but slowly, as if the slightest ruffle of air might set things she couldn’t control into motion.

The last time she’d sailed, she and her father had a first-class suite, a cadre of ship’s personnel to see to their every need. A beautiful dining room and library; deck chaises where one could sit sipping lemonade or champagne before dressing for dinner or a ball or a salon. Of course, then her father had been an established portrait painter, much in demand.

Before the world discovered how he really could afford such a lavish style of life: copying the lesser known old masters—and some of the new ones—and selling them as originals to gullible, mostly foreign, collectors.

He was an adequate painter in his own right, but it was the appearance of affluence that made people think he had to be excellent to be so much in demand. Which brought more clients who wanted their own portraits painted by an artist who was au courant—and were willing to pay for it.

And there, Emilie might be considered guilty. For when her father got too busy with his illicit art endeavors, he left the finishing of details on the portraits to Emilie.

She hated it. She hated portraiture. And most of all she hated her father.

Those people didn’t see the other times, when they fled in the night because they couldn’t pay the rent, or when he came home enraged and took it out on his wife and daughter. And then on Emilie alone, when her mother could take no more.

Emilie shuddered. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had an untroubled sleep. She was tired to the bone, but she knew sleep would elude her. Once she was safe in America, she could sleep.

So she sat in her cabin, so small she could almost touch the opposite wall. Sat as the ship shuddered and rolled beneath her. Sat until they were well out from shore and she could hear movement outside her door, which meant it must be noon or later.

A steward knocked on her door to ask if she wished to have luncheon in her cabin. She said yes, knowing it would cost her extra, unlike the people above her in first class. She pushed away the thought. She needed to watch her money, but she also needed to eat, and she wasn’t ready to face the world just yet.

When the tray came, she opened the door, face averted while the steward put the tray on the desk and departed.

She drank the water, dipped a bit of bread in the wine, but her stomach rebelled. Nerves or the sea, she couldn’t eat.

Emilie pushed the tray aside, hoisted her valise onto the bed, and pulled the key out from where it hung around her neck. Slowly she unlocked it, irrationally listening for the final sounds of the chase. They didn’t come.

She had packed two serviceable skirts and shirtwaists and two work aprons that she hoped would make her fit in with the others. She shook out the skirts and hung them in the narrow closet. Next came a visiting dress that should suffice until she was settled and could send to Marie for her trunk. She stowed her undergarments and nightdress in the little set of drawers on the wall.

And there at the very bottom of her belongings was what she wanted. Her sketchbook and several gallery catalogs and art magazines. From these she would continue learning the fine art of stained glass. She’d been reading and practicing ever since discovering Tiffany’s work in Monsieur Bing’s Maison de L’Art Nouveau months before.

She’d never dared go into the gallery before. She couldn’t afford to buy anything, and his displays of the new art were ridiculed by the members of the Académie des Beaux-Arts, where she studied, and abhorred by her father, whom she feared. But she was walking by one day when a flash of color from the window caught her eye. And in an act of defiance and curiosity, she strode bravely inside to see what had caused it.

And stopped dead as she came face-to-face with a mounted window made of glass unlike any she’d seen before. Favrile glass, they called it. In the most amazing patterns and colors imaginable, from inside the glass itself, not painted and enameled on the surface. Not at all like the dreary windows of the cathedral or myriad old churches that dotted Paris neighborhoods.

Set on pedestals, vases of impossible fragility seemed to embrace the air around them, vibrant and moving, and alive. And as Emilie stood awed, the sun shifted outside and needles of magical light refracted in all directions, flooding the floor and walls with moving color.

Louis C. Tiffany.

After that, she returned again and again. She searched Paris for more examples of his work, learned that he kept a large studio in New York where scores of artists and artisans designed, created, and constructed these wonders. And that one particular atelier was composed entirely of women.

Emilie scoured magazines and catalogs for examples of this glass, read about how it was made. Jean managed to confiscate several from the Académie library where he worked to support himself and Marie while they both pursued life as painters.

Dear Jean, loyal and honest and talented; his love for Emilie had made him a thief. Her need had tainted his life, too.

Among the cache was a copy of The Art Journal, an American magazine that explained how it was all done. And Emilie was determined she would learn.

Then her world exploded.

No matter, she would just have to teach herself on the voyage over. Learn enough to get a toehold in the Tiffany workshop. It could be done if she set her mind to it. It would have to be done. Just enough to get her an audience with Mr. Tiffany, and then she would convince him to hire her. Oh, how hard she would work.

Emilie closed the valise but didn’t remove it from the bed. Its hard surface would make an acceptable desk for the work she needed to do while at sea.

But work receded from her brain almost immediately. She yawned, then yawned again and curled against her valise and portfolio, her arm draped protectively over them, she fell asleep.

When Emilie awoke again, all was quiet except for the rhythmic churning of the engines. She wove almost drunkenly to the door, bracing herself on the wall when a particularly large swell threatened to throw her off her feet. She poked her head into the hallway and seeing no one about, crept out to the second-class deck to breathe in the cool fresh air.

Night had fallen. It was dark. A kind of dark you never saw in Paris. In Paris, someone was always awake, reveling and lighting up the sky. But here, not a hint of the harbor lights of Le Havre shone through that inky black. No coastline of France was silhouetted against the night sky. That was good.

She turned away from the past, knowing the darkness would follow her west, like a shadow that refused to let her go. But for now she would work and work until she was so tired, she would have to sleep. And when she awoke again, it wouldn’t matter if it was day or night.

The deck swelled beneath her feet; her stomach swelled with it. She would have to go to the dining room tomorrow or she would be too weak to do anything when they arrived in New York.

How had she come to this place of exile? One drunken accusation thrown out in anger on the street, repeated at Madame Hubert’s salon several nights later. A rumor, you understand. Nothing more. But the damage was done, and the news spread, quietly at first, some not believing, some brushing it aside as idle gossip or jealousy.

It was jealousy, but it was also true.

Dominique Pascal was an art forger.

And then the speculation turned toward Emilie. She noticed it first at the Académie where she was training as an artist and would sometimes sit for established painters. A statement whispered under the breath. Surreptitious glances in her direction, quickly darting away when she returned their look.

They were wondering if she knew. If she had helped him, if she was as guilty as he. And it all supported what they had known all along. Women had no place in the Académie des Beaux-Arts.

At first Emilie tried to ignore them. Her stubborn streak forced her to lift her chin and continue to study even as they shunned her, snickered as she passed by, grumbled when she entered a room. And still she went every day though it shredded her heart.

And then Dominique Pascal had disappeared, leaving his only daughter (at least the only one he claimed) to face Parisian society and the police on her own. If she had had a family or even powerful friends, she might have been able to weather the storm, but she didn’t. So like the father, the daughter had fled.

And now she was free.

For the next four days, Emilie remained in her cabin, shunning the sunlight and curious eyes. Sometimes she would go to the dining room and force herself to converse with the other passengers just to practice her English. Sometimes she would take her sketchbook to the deck, but it didn’t lend itself to the careful work she needed to do. Mostly she stayed in her cabin and drew, copying the photos from the gallery catalog and the other magazines.

She began with the art nouveau posters. With their dark accentuated shadows, they were well suited to understanding how to turn a painting into a puzzle of glass pieces. At first Emilie copied straight from magazine to sketchbook, then she would grid out a smaller section and draw it to a larger scale. And then a smaller section and an even larger scale.

It was painstaking work and sometimes she just wanted to explode with lines and color until they ran off the page and curled in the air like the vases she’d seen. But she kept her discipline. Precision and attention to every detail would eventually far surpass whatever need to create she possessed now.

But someday. She could already see her work in her mind’s eye. Someday.

She bent her head and realized that she was moving her pencil in tune with the rolling ship. Very rarely did she lose control of the line, except when a sudden lurch sent the tip slashing across the page.

One night there was a storm; the ship rolled so violently that Emilie had to leave off drawing or even reading. There were very few people in the dining room that evening. Emilie found it difficult to even contemplate eating, but she forced down a few morsels of meat and pudding. Only to lose it back in her cabin in waves and waves of nausea.

She didn’t attempt to ingest anything but liquids for the next two days, and then miraculously the seas calmed. And a day later the engines shut down and they were towed into New York Harbor.

Shaky and weak from not eating, from nerves, from excitement, Emilie dressed in her best work skirt and shirtwaist. Paid special attention to her hair, which she braided and twisted into a coil at the nape of her neck. Not the usual sweep of red-brown curls she favored, but flattering enough, and the style would show her serious intent.

She went to the dining room, determined to have a good breakfast before she left the ship. But when the food appeared, she could manage only a small roll and some black coffee.

Well, no matter. As soon as she was employed, she would treat herself to a steak dinner in a nice restaurant where you didn’t have to chase your silverware each time you wanted to take a bite.

Then suddenly the ship slowed, the engines stopped altogether, and the passengers made their way on deck. The first thing she noticed was the heat. Much hotter than Paris. She was wearing the same cloak she’d worn the night of her escape. There was no room for it in her valise, and it was too heavy to carry along with her valise and portfolio. She was already perspiring by the time she reached the front of the line and presented her carte de visite to the customs man.

Traveling alone, are you?

Not that it was any of his business. Yes.

He took a second look at her carte.

All the fear Emilie thought she’d left behind flooded over her. She swayed slightly on her feet. But he handed the carte back to her and passed her on.

Can you tell me the way to Fourth Avenue?

Take Fourteenth Street across town. That’s Fourteenth right out there. He jabbed his finger in the direction of the street. Gave her a quick scrutinizing look, and Emilie froze.

It’s about seven blocks, so if no one is waiting for you, you’d best take the trolley or a cab. Don’t think about walking it. We’re in the midst of a heat wave, worst in years if you ask me. And if you’re carrying all that luggage and wearing that coat . . .

She thanked him and hurried away, his muttered foreigners echoing in her ears.

Seven blocks to Fourth then from Fourteenth to Twenty-Fifth where the Tiffany studio was located. A long walk and it was unbearably hot. She didn’t want her first impression to be one of a frazzled, disheveled waif. But a cab . . . it was too dear. If it became too hot on the way, she would merely stop at a fountain to cool her face.

Emilie had never been to New York before. But her mother had been English and made certain that her daughter was raised with English manners as well as French. But that was only until Emilie was eleven, when the river took her from them.

But Emilie even at eleven knew that it wasn’t the