Noon at Tiffany's (19 page)

She lowered herself to the chair, her heart beating hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

Forgive me. I forgot …

Her breath grew shallow, as the truth of the matter came to her. She loosened the buttons of her collar. He never mentioned anything about having made appointments with his solicitor—or about forgetting to keep them. But then, he rarely told her the details of his daily dealings, and, she realized with a twinge of regret, it was just as rare for her to ask.

“Item one,” Mr. Dugro continued. “First and foremost, I commit my soul into the hands of Almighty God our Savior …”

Clara blinked. In the two years they had been married, she’d not known Mr. Driscoll to be particularly devout. When pressed, he would admit to leaning toward the Methodist Episcopalian faith, but his attendance at church was sporadic, at best, and even then he viewed it more as a social gesture than a religious event.

“Item two. To Mr. Peter J. Hulse of New York City, my friend and longtime business associate in Empire Properties Incorporated, I hereby acknowledge and honor the terms of our partnership agreement, dated December twenty-first, eighteen seventy-one, including the right of the survivor to all assets and obligations of said partnership in Empire Properties.

“Further, I release to Peter J. Hulse all proprietary interests in Empire Properties that are held by me at the time of my death to be his as sole proprietor. Any business debts that I may so leave behind, I hereby direct Mr. Hulse to pay in full.

“Item three. I hereby give and bequeath to my beloved daughter, Mary Margaret Driscoll of the Sisters of Charity of Convent Station, located in New Brunswick, New Jersey, the sum of five thousand dollars, to be held in trust for her by the legal firm of O’Hara and McAvoy, 157 Sutton Street, New Brunswick, New Jersey, attorneys for St. Peter the Apostle Parish, also in New Brunswick.”

Five thousand dollars to a cloistered nun? Clara bit her lower lip. What could a nun who wasn’t allowed to have so much as a letter from the outside world do with such a fortune?

“Item four. To my dearest friend …” Mr. Dugro paused. Even in the dim light, his discomfort was obvious. After a momentary silence, he resumed. “To my dearest friend, Clara Pierce Wolcott, of Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse, 32 Oxford Street, Brooklyn, New York, I hereby bequeath the sum of five hundred dollars, all my personal property, including my jewelry, my rare books and my Egyptian antiquities collections, to do with as she pleases.

“Further, to her sister, Josephine Wolcott, of the same address, I bequeath the sum of two hundred fifty dollars, to be used exclusively for the completion of her art studies at the Art Students’ League of New York City.”

He rushed on. “Item five. I hereby direct that the remainder of my estate which, at the date of this document, amounts to no less than thirty thousand dollars …”

There was a sharp, collective gasp. Clara clutched the arm of her chair, her mouth gone dry.

“… and includes all my personal bank accounts, stocks and bonds heretofore listed at the conclusion of this document, be given to St. Peter the Apostle Parish in the Diocese of Newark, New Jersey. I hereby direct that these monies are specifically to be used in the building and maintenance of an orphanage and school for impoverished children who …”

Clara stopped listening as despair descended over her. He’d promised.

I meant to. I forgot …

He’d betrayed her. How could he have forgotten such an important thing as changing his will? She was his wife.

I failed you. I forgot …

Her anguish changed abruptly to guilt. If only she’d talked to him, made him explain his plans instead of waiting for him to bring up the subject. She was sick with the realization that she’d simply not paid attention. She’d been so busy pursuing her own interests and insisting he become part of her life, that she’d not bothered to become a part of his.

Thirty thousand dollars! She pulled off her gloves and removed her collar altogether, not caring what any of them thought. Perhaps she’d not heard correctly. Mr. Dugro might have said thirteen thousand. But even at that, she could easily have afforded a large studio with a showroom gallery. She could have formed a cooperative with twenty-five or even fifty rentable spaces for the best young artists in New York. With Mr. Belknap’s connections and marketing savvy, the entire lot of them could have made a fortune.

She let out a strangled cry and got to her feet. A church! A church he’d never mentioned, let alone frequented. A church in New Jersey, of all places. Holding onto the back of her chair, she steadied herself before heading to the door. There was much to be done—it was only a matter of figuring out what to do first.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Driscoll.” Mr. Dugro looked up from the document. “You can’t leave yet. You have papers to sign.”

“I need to walk,” she said without slowing. “I need to take measure of … of my situation.”

Mr. Hulse followed her into the hall. “May I be of service, Mrs. Driscoll?”

“No. I need … I want to …” her voice broke.

Mr. Hulse draped her coat about her shoulders and guided her down the stairs. The moment she stepped onto the pavement, she set off at a fast clip, gulping the freezing March air.

Mr. Hulse called to her, but she dared not stop for fear of breaking down altogether. She broke into a run, taking no notice of the people turning to stare. She needed to keep her thoughts organized. She couldn’t afford to dwell on questions that had no answers, just as she couldn’t berate herself or Mr. Driscoll for what they had or had not done. She needed only to keep moving forward.

Five hundred dollars.

His antique books and the Egyptian collections would have to go to an auction house that could get the best prices; Mr. Belknap would help find a dealer she could trust. That might cover the funeral expenses and Dr. Hydecker’s bill, but there was no way of telling.

When her lungs began to burn, she slowed, her mind cleared of confusion. If they were careful, the money might take them to the end of May, but no longer. Without studio, supplies or gallery, she would need to find work, the sooner the better.

She rounded the corner from Park Place onto Broadway. Mr. Driscoll was a businessman. How could he have left her in such a mess? Was it forgetfulness, or had he resented their chaste arrangement? She shook her head, refusing to believe such a thing; he would not consciously have left them destitute.

It wasn’t until she turned down Murray Street that she felt her ultimate refuges of logic and practicality had been restored. They had saved her in the past; they would save her now. She would go back to washing her own laundry. The order for their new afternoon dresses needed to be cancelled. They were well-fixed for warm coats and boots, but she would have to sell her gowns and use the money to buy sturdy skirts, waists and shoes for work.
She could certainly go without breakfast and lunch. The extra seven dollars a week was better spent elsewhere, and she could definitely spare a few pounds. Since she’d been married, she’d indulged herself with three meals a day, plus tea and biscuits before dinner. Her once-lean frame now sported an extra layer of flesh she neither needed nor wanted.

By the time she reached Church Street, she had already determined what prices she could get for the silver samovar and the parlor sofa. When Mr. Hulse caught up with her, he was out of breath, and, she noticed, he’d forgotten to put on his gloves.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hulse. I didn’t mean to run off like that, but vigorous exercise helps clear my mind, especially when I’ve had a shock.”

“Most women faint,” he smiled, “but I think I like your method better.”

She took his arm. “If you would be so kind as to escort me to Mr. Dugro’s office, I’ll do what is required of me.”

They had gone only a short distance, when Mr. Hulse slowed. “Mrs. Driscoll, I won’t pretend to understand why Francis failed to make proper arrangements for you and your sister, but I was aware of his increasing absentmindedness. Still, to leave such an important matter unattended was unconscionable.

“If you will permit, I’ll speak to my attorney about how you might enforce your dower rights. I believe New York laws give you the legal right to claim a third of Francis’s estate, possibly more. Properly invested, even a third of his estate would leave you financially independent.”

She shook her head. “I appreciate your concern, but I shall not challenge Mr. Driscoll’s will. Pursuing legal recourse would be a great expense and undoubtedly cause embarrassment in all quarters.
The New York Times
is guaranteed to print some lurid story that will vilify us all and forever tarnish the good names of Wolcott and Driscoll. I’d be condemned as a fortune-seeker for the rest of my days.

“I can already imagine the headline: ‘Greedy Widow Steals Food and Shelter From New Jersey Orphans.’”

“I understand how you might feel,” he countered, “but for the sake of your sister’s and your own wellbeing, you must consider that ten thousand dollars is not an amount to be dismissed so quickly.”

“Thank you, sir, but even a fortune such as that isn’t worth the misery
it would cause my family. I’m sure most people would consider me a fool, but I won’t ask my mother and sisters to live with that embarrassment.”

“All right,” he sighed, “but rest assured that Francis’s’ funeral and medical expenses, along with any outstanding household expenses, including the money due on your lease, I insist on paying out of the business account as part of his just debts. It isn’t much, but I hope it will relieve you of some immediate worry.”

Moved by his generosity, she studied the stooped and graying man and wished she’d taken the time to know him. “Your kindness is much appreciated, Mr. Hulse.”

He gave her arm a consoling squeeze. “I should have paid more attention. I would have made sure Francis attended to his duties the moment you were married. I’m worried for you. How on earth will you and your sister get by?”

“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Hulse. Mr. Driscoll was fond of saying that I was capable of managing even if the sky fell in. I believe his theory is about to be put to the test.”

Lenox Hill

March 4, 1892

Wonder of wonders. I’ve received a note from Clara requesting a meeting. It hasn’t even been two weeks since she was widowed. I don’t know whether to be appalled by her blatant disregard of the rules of genteel conduct during the mourning period, or shout for joy at the prospect of having her back again—and at such an auspicious time. I’ve sent word that I’ll see her Monday in my office.

Baby Dorothy bears the closest resemblance to me of all my children. If only her eyes were blue instead of brown. Nonetheless, she’s a hearty, sweet-natured child.

Burnie outdid himself at Sunday dinner. The children were terrified. I wanted to take the addlepated bully to the cellar and pummel him.

Rather than move to The Briars for the spring season, Louise wants to stay at Lenox Hill until the end of June, so as not to upset Baby Dorothy. I’ve agreed to wait until the end of April, with a stern warning that she had best have her children and herself ready to go, so that I might tend the gardens.

I suspect her reluctance to accompany me to The Briars has nothing to do with the babe, but rather with my flirtation in Paris. Ever since she caught wind of it through the infernal gossips, she has kept the door between our bedrooms locked and regards me as one might an insect. I will allow some time for her to calm herself, and then I’ll assert my rights, even if I have to break down the door to do it. I am sick to death of her sanctimonious attitude.

I went to Stourbridge Furnaces in Queens this morning for my meeting with Arthur Nash, hoping to find this latest batch of glass to be more in line with what I’m looking for. It wasn’t anywhere near what I’d asked for.

I smashed the entire lot. Damn the man! I despise being restricted by his traditional approach. This time I have insisted he experiment with free-form glass in all manner and colors. I hope the damned building goes up in flames with him in it!

A brandy and then off to the theater with Stanford White. L.C.T.

March 7, 1892

Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company

T
HE FAMILIAR SMELL
of Mr. Tiffany’s freshly pressed shirts jarred her memory. As implausible as it might seem, Clara realized that she’d missed him, despite his volatile temperament. She didn’t even flinch when he took her hands in his, with no apparent intention of releasing them. Certainly some license could be taken for a show of sympathy toward a newly widowed friend.

From under the brim of her hat, she gave him her warmest smile. Her mission, she reminded herself, was to impress without appearing needy, something she hoped to accomplish by countenance alone. Never before had she given so much attention to her appearance. She’d spent the better part of an hour rubbing her hair with silk until it shone, and had even gone so far as to use red crepe paper to apply the faintest touch of color to her lips and cheeks.

Her plum silk dress was the best of those she hadn’t sold. Cut to flatter her figure, it was of a shade that few women could have worn so successfully. Alice made over her black taffeta hat by adding netting, and while it wasn’t a perfect match for the dress, it was so elegant it didn’t matter—the overall effect was fashionable, yet somber enough to be considered proper mourning garb.

“How good it is to see you again, Mrs. Driscoll,” Louis said, returning her smile. “Please accept my condolences for your recent loss. Though my
acquaintance with Mr. Driscoll was brief, he seemed a fine man. How is your sister, ah… ?”

She let him flog his memory for a few seconds before coming to his aid. “Josephine has resumed her studies at the Art Students’ League. Mr. Driscoll bequeathed her sufficient funds expressly for that purpose, and—”

She bit the inside of her cheek. The details of what Mr. Driscoll set out in his will were not the sort of thing one discussed with anyone other than a relative or an attorney. “And she’s happy to be actively creating again.”