Noon at Tiffany's (10 page)

“Your counsel regarding my social life is not appreciated,” Henry blurted. “I get quite enough of that from my mother.” Halfway out the door, he turned. “And really, Louis, you should make up your mind as to how I am to be condemned. Only a short time ago you were suggesting something quite different from romancing the women employees.”

Louis stared at the door for several minutes before grabbing his hat and cane. Making a mad dash for the street, he hailed a cabriolet. “Tiffany and Company on West Union Square at Fifteenth Street,” he called to the driver, “and don’t spare the horse.”

From the window of the cab, Louis watched his father cross Fifteenth Street. Walking as tall and straight as a soldier, Charles Lewis Tiffany made a dignified impression in his formal silk top hat and double-breasted Chesterfield. The stubborn set of his mouth between a bristly hard mustache and full white beard revealed a determined man, who knew what was rightfully his. As he turned into his establishment, he nearly collided with a fashionably dressed matron. Charles bowed, tipped his hat in apology and entered the store.

Louis got down from the cab, but did not immediately release his hold on the handrail. He stood for several moments, trying to get his nerves under control, aware that the cabbie awaited direction. “Wait for me,” he
said finally, and crossed the street.

Larkin, Tiffany and Company’s head clerk, greeted him stiffly. For as long as Louis could remember, the old codger had been Charles’ personal guard, protecting him from the rabble who dared to intrude on his precisely ordered world. Larkin included Louis as one of those to be kept away.

Louis brushed past him and entered his father’s office without knocking. Charles looked up from his writing, pen arrested in midstroke. At once his eyes took on the cool, distrustful expression they always held whenever his son came into his presence.

“Louis,” Charles gave a curt nod, “to what do I owe this visit?”

“Why did you reject the lamp, Father? You know full well how much I value the project. Haven’t you drilled it into my head since I was old enough to walk that the Tiffany men are born with an uncanny knack for divining the taste and fashion of the times?”

“Yes,” Charles hissed, “and in that statement you will find the answer to your first question. Colored bits of glass fabricated into a wild design of flowers and leaves are not what our class of clientele wants. It is neither tasteful nor fashionable—nor is it art.”

The older man shook his head “I can’t even imagine Mrs. Astor or Mrs. J. P. Morgan purchasing such a silly thing. They wouldn’t have it, because it is simply not fine enough for our people.”

“They
would
have it and be eager to get it!” Louis countered. “People of all classes—especially the elite—are bored with the old standards. With a new century approaching, they want modern styles—more color, more light, and natural lines. People look to me to give them fashionable decoration. The lamp is uniquely beautiful. It has all the things our clath—our kind of people want. They—”

Charles stopped him with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Like any fad, it would soon fall out of favor. The old standards you deem beneath you will endure for time immemorial. Our people want quality and value that will last for centuries, items they can hand down through generations with pride.

“It is easy to imagine a woman a hundred years from now saying to her daughter, ‘Here is the Tiffany diamond-and-ruby necklace that once belonged to your great-great grandmother, as exquisite and stylish today as it was then.’ I assure you no one will be passing on one of these silly lamps that had sat for years in someone’s dusty attic.”

“You’re wrong, Father. It is exactly what the younger generations are looking for. They desperately want to break away from the antiquated standards and embrace the new. This lamp reflects those desires. It’s far more avant-garde than anything you’ve designed in years.”

“Make peace with my decision,” Charles said sternly. “I’ll not provide a penny for this foolish project, and therefore it will fail.”

“Why can’t you allow me
my
vision, Father? I’ve been experimenting with different typeth of glath that the world has never theen—” Louis took a careful breath “before.”

Charles made no effort to hide his look of disgust.

Louis wanted to scream and rip the tongue out of his head. It was his lisp—that evil thing his father most hated about him. Summoning a last vestige of control, he went on more slowly, taking great pains to make his tongue obey and enunciate each word. “There is nothing like these lamps. People will clamor for them.”

Charles shook his head. “Just remember that windows and mosaics are your stock-in-trade. You can indulge your artistic whims after I am dead. If you must stray from the windows, take commissions for your exotic interior design and decoration. There’s no shortage of men with too much money whose tastes run to that sort of nonsense. Keep your attentions on your windows and conform to the standard. Stop playing the rebel artist.”

“But Father, that is what I am; a rebel in glass. I want to make glass art that will draw the attention of the world. Why can’t you have faith in my worth as an artist?”

“I did,” Charles said crisply. “I gave you a fortune to build a Tiffany family home. In return, you built a crazy house that no one who likes to sleep soundly at night would live in.” He whirled his hands in the air “Turrets, fountains, foreign gewgaws hanging from the ceilings like an overdone Christmas tree.”

“The Tiffany Mansion is an innovative architectural masterpiece.” Louis protested. “The greatitht architects in the world have said as much.”

“I admit the house is imposing on some level, but it isn’t a home; it’s the creation of an eccentric dreamer who thinks he is a great artist. You have always been a foolish man, Louis. It is a condition caused by your mother and me. We spoiled you with our coddling.”

“Coddling?” Louis cried. “Your memory is faulty, Father. I was barely fourteen when you sent me away to spend three miserable years imprisoned in that godforsaken military academy, thleeping on a hard board. You never once allowed me to come home, even though I begged you in letter after letter. I doubt that could be called coddling!”

Charles took up his pen and resumed writing. “Stop your sniveling. I won’t give my approval to this folly of yours, and that is my final word. It’s fool’s gold and nothing more. If you want to produce such things, you will have to do it with your own money or wait until I’m dead. I refuse to discuss this further. Give my regards to Louise, and tell her that your mother and I will see her and the grandchildren at dinner this evening. Good-day.”

The familiar hurt lodged in Louis’s chest, making his throat ache. “I am forty-one years old and yet you dithmith me as if I were a meddling child. What is it, Father? Are you jealous of my triumphs? Are you afraid I’ll thteal your thunder?” He brought his fist down on his father’s desk, making the inkwell jump.

Charles fixed him with a cold stare.

“You are wrong this time, Father! The lamp and the things that follow it will make my fortune. I shall eclipth you. I’ll rise to prominenth without your money or your damned approval!” One angry sweep of his cane across the surface of the desk sent papers, pens and ink tray to the floor.

Charles sprang to his feet, calling for Larkin.

With amazing speed for a man of his age, Larkin bounded up the stairs, his eyes going from Charles to Louis and coming to rest on the long splash of ink soaking into the expensive carpet. “My son was just leaving, Larkin,” Charles said, his voice flat. “Please see to it that a cab is called.”

As he brushed past his father, Louis brought his mouth close to Charles’ ear. “You would do well to remember the Tiffany modus operandi, old man,” he whispered. “It is the obligation of the son to honor the father, then follow the urge to surpass him.”

The Metropolitan Opera House

1411 Broadway, Manhattan

As Desdemona lay dead upon the stage, Clara leaned close to whisper in Mr. Driscoll’s ear, “You see?
This
is what comes of marriage.”

To her dismay, her witticism did not produce the expected response. Mr. Driscoll took on a stricken expression, as if she’d told him a close relative had died. Not knowing what to make of him, she directed her attention back to the stage where Othello was deep into his lament.

Mr. Driscoll had been jittery and unlike himself all week. Clara glanced over at Josephine, who, unlike Mr. Driscoll, was in unusually high spirits, despite their mother’s continued insistence that she return home to Ohio—a prospect that as a rule reduced Josie to a state of wretchedness.

When the last bows were taken and the house lights came up, a familiar mane of dark hair caught Clara’s eye. In the box closest to the stage, Henry Belknap was helping to arrange an evening cape about the shoulders of an older, elegantly appointed woman. The close resemblance between the two left no doubt of their familial relationship. Both disturbed and fascinated by the overt proprietary attitude that the imposing dowager displayed toward her son, Clara could not take her eyes off the pair.

As if summoned, Henry turned and found her at once. The warmth of his smile drew the attention of his mother, who searched the sea of faces for the object of her son’s interest. When the dowager’s eyes met Clara’s, she fixed her with such a powerful look of distaste, that Clara felt it almost as a physical blow. The old woman touched Henry’s arm, questioning.

His smile vanished, replaced with an expression that Clara had seen on the faces of prisoners who were paraded out of the Tombs and made to shovel snow off the city streets. He leaned close to his mother with a conspiratorial air and, after an exchange of words, shook his head. Assured that there was no threat of infiltration into their sealed circle of two, Mrs. Belknap resumed arranging her evening cloak.

Clara, painfully aware that she hadn’t even warranted a second glance, drew herself up to her full height and took Mr. Driscoll’s arm. Wearing a smile bereft of pleasure, she allowed herself to be led out of the theater.

The moment the threesome arrived at home, Josie retired to her room, using exhaustion as her excuse.

This mystified Clara. Only a half hour before, it was Josie who had insisted that they walk from the station instead of hailing a cab, and it was Josie who had kept such an energetic pace that both Clara and Mr. Driscoll had difficulty keeping up with her. The girl’s unending chatter about the ladies’ evening dresses, the weather and the effect the different seasons had on artists left her wondering if Josie had mistakenly indulged in a glass of champagne instead of lemon squash during the intermission.

She was about to excuse herself, when Mr. Driscoll touched her shoulder.

“Clara? If you would please join me in the drawing room, there’s a personal matter I’d like to discuss.”

Surprised by his use of her Christian name, she looked at him more closely, mildly alarmed at how flushed he was. Mr. Driscoll waited until she was settled on the settee before delving into his subject. “Have I ever spoken to you of my wife?”

“I don’t believe so,” Clara said, arranging her skirts around her. “You do have a tendency to play your cards rather close to the vest, Mr. Driscoll.”

He chuckled. “I suppose that is the way of most men in my business. Discretion is the better part of making a good deal. Why, I remember once when I was first—”

“You were speaking about your wife?” She was tired and wanted to go to bed.

“Ah, yes. Catherine was a devout woman, although fanaticism might better describe her religious zeal. Our daughter, Mary, was a docile child. By the time she was ten, she’d been so beaten down by her mother’s strenuous daily catechism and stern rules, that there wasn’t an ounce of self-will or joy left in her. I tried to intervene, but Mrs. Driscoll was not to be deterred in her mission.” He made a helpless gesture. “She put Mary in a convent at the age of thirteen.”

Horrified, Clara pulled back. “But surely you could have withheld your consent?”

“I never gave my consent; it was solely her mother’s doing. When Mrs. Driscoll died a few years later, I went to the Mother Superior to demand that my daughter be released. I was informed that her soul was committed to God,
and any further attempt on my part to see her would be denied. I challenged this but learned soon enough there was no reasoning with the church.”