Last Supper window, Clara had little else on her mind except color, hue and light. It was the part of making the windows she loved best, for it was when they came alive.
As the clock inched past the closing hour, Daniel Bracey was anxious to lock up and get over to McSorley’s for the one libation Mrs. Bracey allowed him each week. He noisily moved chairs and easels about the room, and finally resorted to clearing his throat with theatrical volume.
“You needn’t stay on my account, Mr. Bracey,” she said, holding a piece of yellow glass to the light. “Mr. Tiffany wants this window done by Thursday, so I may as well make good use of the light while I still have it.”
Mr. Bracey frowned. “An’ who might be escortin’ ya home, Miss? ’Tain’t proper fer a lady to be alone out on the streets after dark.”
The man removed his cap and pushed a shock of auburn hair out of his eyes. “An’ with all that business with Jack Ripper over there in London? It gives me the shivers. If anythin’ happened to ya, Miss …” Mr. Bracey made the sign of the cross, “Jesus, Mary, ’n’ Joseph an’ all the martyred saints, Mr. Tiffany would skin me alive an’ throw what were left to the dogs.”
She knew he meant well, but just for once she wished he would leave without a fuss. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Bracey, but you needn’t worry. Mr. Driscoll will be here at six to escort me to my boardinghouse.”
“Ah, well, that’s all right then. Have ya got yer keys?”
“Yes, Mr. Bracey,” she sighed. “Rest assured my keys are on my person at all times, even when I sleep.”
“If ya please, Miss, give me regards to Miss Josephine. God willin’she’ll be right as angels afore long.” He removed his cap and a shaft of sun fell across the upper portion of his face. For an instant she was distracted by his eyes, which were exactly the shade of green she needed for her secret project.
“I’ll make sure to tell her. Have a good night.” She returned her attention to the halo, hoping his leave-taking was drawing to a close. She was itching to get to the bins of scrap glass. There were bound to be a few pieces of green left over from the “Sermon on the Mount” window.
She slipped off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, listening to the bill and coo of pigeons on the ledge outside the open window and the rough-voiced cab drivers shouting to their horses. The moment she heard the rumble of the basement delivery door that heralded Mr. Bracey’s departure from the building, she rushed to her private workroom and slid the wooden fruit crate out from under her desk. Pulling off the top, she feasted her eyes on her prize creation.
Not only unique, it served a practical purpose as well. It was just the sort of thing to generate the talk Mr. Tiffany was seeking for his showroom. She didn’t like thinking about her work in terms of profits, but the piece did bring with it the possibility of extra income.
From the basket of discarded shards, she chose a sliver of green and commenced to work.
Francis Driscoll paused over his letter and stared out the drawing room window. After a moment he resumed writing.
I imagine you, dearest Mary, in a sunny orchard, harvesting apples to give to the poor. I miss you with all my heart and hope that someday we shall be reunited. Perhaps then—
Without so much as a nod, Josie entered the drawing room and settled near the fireplace. Despite the warm glow of afternoon light, the normally cheerful girl looked drawn, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
In an instant he crossed the room and took her hands in his. “Your hands are cold as ice. Are you ill, my dear?”
“No,” she replied, barely above a whisper. “I’ve received a letter from my mother insisting that I return home.”
Uneasiness gripped him. “Has someone in your family fallen ill?”
She picked at an invisible snag in the weave of her skirt. “No, it’s only that my mother fears I place too much of a
As the clock inched past the closing hour, Daniel Bracey was anxious to lock up and get over to McSorley’s for the one libation Mrs. Bracey allowed him each week. He noisily moved chairs and easels about the room, and finally resorted to clearing his throat with theatrical volume.
“You needn’t stay on my account, Mr. Bracey,” she said, holding a piece of yellow glass to the light. “Mr. Tiffany wants this window done by Thursday, so I may as well make good use of the light while I still have it.”
Mr. Bracey frowned. “An’ who might be escortin’ ya home, Miss? ’Tain’t proper fer a lady to be alone out on the streets after dark.”
The man removed his cap and pushed a shock of auburn hair out of his eyes. “An’ with all that business with Jack Ripper over there in London? It gives me the shivers. If anythin’ happened to ya, Miss …” Mr. Bracey made the sign of the cross, “Jesus, Mary, ’n’ Joseph an’ all the martyred saints, Mr. Tiffany would skin me alive an’ throw what were left to the dogs.”
She knew he meant well, but just for once she wished he would leave without a fuss. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Bracey, but you needn’t worry. Mr. Driscoll will be here at six to escort me to my boardinghouse.”
“Ah, well, that’s all right then. Have ya got yer keys?”
“Yes, Mr. Bracey,” she sighed. “Rest assured my keys are on my person at all times, even when I sleep.”
“If ya please, Miss, give me regards to Miss Josephine. God willin’she’ll be right as angels afore long.” He removed his cap and a shaft of sun fell across the upper portion of his face. For an instant she was distracted by his eyes, which were exactly the shade of green she needed for her secret project.
“I’ll make sure to tell her. Have a good night.” She returned her attention to the halo, hoping his leave-taking was drawing to a close. She was itching to get to the bins of scrap glass. There were bound to be a few pieces of green left over from the “Sermon on the Mount” window.
She slipped off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, listening to the bill and coo of pigeons on the ledge outside the open window and the rough-voiced cab drivers shouting to their horses. The moment she heard the rumble of the basement delivery door that heralded Mr. Bracey’s departure from the building, she rushed to her private workroom and slid the wooden fruit crate out from under her desk. Pulling off the top, she feasted her eyes on her prize creation.
Not only unique, it served a practical purpose as well. It was just the sort of thing to generate the talk Mr. Tiffany was seeking for his showroom. She didn’t like thinking about her work in terms of profits, but the piece did bring with it the possibility of extra income.
From the basket of discarded shards, she chose a sliver of green and commenced to work.
Francis Driscoll paused over his letter and stared out the drawing room window. After a moment he resumed writing.
I imagine you, dearest Mary, in a sunny orchard, harvesting apples to give to the poor. I miss you with all my heart and hope that someday we shall be reunited. Perhaps then—
Without so much as a nod, Josie entered the drawing room and settled near the fireplace. Despite the warm glow of afternoon light, the normally cheerful girl looked drawn, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
In an instant he crossed the room and took her hands in his. “Your hands are cold as ice. Are you ill, my dear?”
“No,” she replied, barely above a whisper. “I’ve received a letter from my mother insisting that I return home.”
Uneasiness gripped him. “Has someone in your family fallen ill?”
She picked at an invisible snag in the weave of her skirt. “No, it’s only that my mother fears I place too much of a
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