The Tiffany Girls
New York Times bestselling author Shelley Noble wows with a gripping historical novel about the real-life “Tiffany Girls,” a fascinating and largely unknown group of women artists behind Tiffany’s most legendary glassworks.
It’s 1899, and Manhattan is abuzz. Louis Comfort Tiffany, famous for his stained-glass windows, is planning a unique installation at the Paris World’s Fair, the largest in history. At their fifth-floor studio on Fourth Avenue, the artists of the Women’s Division of the Tiffany Glass Company are already working longer shifts to finish the pieces that Tiffany hopes will prove that he is the world’s finest artist in glass. Known as the “Tiffany Girls,” these women are responsible for much of the design and construction of Tiffany’s extraordinary glassworks, but none receive credit.
Emilie Pascal, daughter of an art forger, has been shunned in Paris art circles after the unmasking of her abusive father. Wanting nothing more than a chance to start a new life, she forges a letter of recommendation in hopes of fulfilling her destiny as an artist in the one place where she will finally be free to live her own life.
Grace Griffith is the best copyist in the studio, spending her days cutting glass into floral borders for Tiffany’s religious stained-glass windows. But none of her coworkers know her secret: she is living a double life as a political cartoonist under the pseudonym of G.L. Griffith—hiding her identity as a woman.
As manager of the women’s division, Clara Driscoll is responsible for keeping everything on schedule and within budget. But in the lead-up to the most important exhibition of her career, not only are her girls becoming increasingly difficult to wrangle, she finds herself obsessed with a new design: a dragonfly lamp that she has no idea will one day become Tiffany’s signature piece.
Brought together by chance, driven by their desire to be artists in one of the only ways acceptable for women in their time, these “Tiffany Girls” will break the glass ceiling of their era and for working women to come.
"The Tiffany Girls is a richly detailed and impeccably researched story of art and friendship. Shelley Noble has crafted an intimate view of the professional and personal lives of the incredible women who brought Tiffany glass to life. A beautiful novel!”
~Chanel Cleeton, New York Times Bestselling author of The Cuban Heiress
“A historical fiction of bold new beginnings and the creative courage of three women artists who forged their careers at Tiffany’s glassworks.”
~Tessa Arlen, USA Today bestselling author of In Royal Service to the Queen
“Rich with finely-wrought detail, The Tiffany Girls is the moving, little-known story of the women who worked as artists making glorious glassworks for Tiffany, their struggles, heartaches, and triumphs. Not to be missed!”
~Christine Wells, author of One Woman’s War
“The Tiffany Girls sparkles with as much light, hope, and wonder as Mr. Tiffany’s stained-glass creations.”
~Kaia Alderson, author of SISTERS IN ARMS
“Under Noble's deft hand, Grace, Clara, and Emilie come vividly to life in turn of the century New York City in her new novel, THE TIFFANY GIRLS. I couldn’t help but root for the trio of heroines as they strived to become artists in their own right through their work for Louis Comfort Tiffany, renowned master of stained glass. Readers will revel in the fascinating and lavish details, and never look at a Tiffany lamp the same way again. An immersive, wonderful read!”
~Heather Webb, USA Today bestselling author of Strangers in the Night
“A fascinating look into the art world, and the working conditions of women, at the dawn of the 20th century. A sweeping cast of characters, comprised of both historical figures and fictional ones alike, brings the high-stakes word of the Tiffany Glass Works to life in vivid detail. Through tragedy and triumph, readers will find themselves rooting for these women as they face their personal challenges and the mounting pressure as Tiffany Glass Works prepares for a major display at the 1900 Exposition Universelle in Paris. Richly researched, and utterly captivating, a must-read for fans of turn-of-the-century historical fiction.”
~Aimie K. Runyan, bestselling author of The School for German Brides and A Bakery in Paris
“TIFFANY GIRLS is an engaging story filled with unforgettable characters as incandescent as the iconic Tiffany stained-glass designs they helped create. Brimming with passion and reverence for the artistic mastery of the Tiffany style, Shelley Noble’s excellent storytelling presents a portrait of turn-of-the-century New York City and Paris that illustrates the dedication and determination of women to gain recognition for their contributions within the art world and take control of their lives. A must read!”
~Monica Chenault Kilgore, Author of Long Gone, Come Home
“A fascinating look into the lives of the women employed at the Tiffany Glass Company studio in New York City, as they work toward the final showing of their projects at the exposition in Paris. Noble brings the late 19th century alive in her story of these young women from various walks of life who work and live together as they forge their own artistic paths while supporting each other through the ups and downs. An inspiring friendship tale of talented female artists, and their search for independence in a world that wasn’t too keen on female autonomy.”
~Eliza Knight, USA Today bestselling author of STARRING ADELE ASTAIRE
"This story is beautifully written, and as rich, colourful, and breathtaking as Tiffany glass.”
~Lecia Cornwall, Author of That Summer in Berlin
“Best-selling Noble... transforms the mundane lives of a group of working women into an engrossing and fascinating story that brings the magic of Tiffany Glass to life.”
~Booklist
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 secret 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, and 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, and she wipes her eyes 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 parcels, 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 working women and men appear in doorways, 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’s 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 last 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 do, Mrs. Driscoll. I do.”
“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, Clara then 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 Boarding House
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 boarding house 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.
“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’s 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.
