Noon at Tiffany's (22 page)

Clara knelt, taking her mother’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Mama. I should have wired you earlier, but I thought she’d rally—she always did.”

One of her mother’s tears fell on the back of her hand. Clara stared
at the glistening drop, and the wall of desolation that she’d held at bay crumbled. She lowered her head onto Fannie’s lap and wept.

“She didn’t belong to us,” Fannie said. “She was just on loan so she could teach the rest of us how to be.”

“I hope we didn’t disappoint her too much,” Kate said.

Emily stood and touched her mother’s shoulder. “Come, Mama. You need to rest. You can lie down in the sleeper car. I’ll read to you.”

When her mother and sister were gone, Clara found herself staring at the narrow casket, unable to imagine Josie shut away forever inside. “It doesn’t seem possible she was laughing and designing ladies’ summer frocks just a few weeks ago.”

“It does to the rest of us,” Kate said, her green eyes intent on her work. “You were with her every day; you weren’t aware of how much she’d changed over the last year. Mama and I could tell from her letters that she was giving up.”

The shuttle slowed and then stopped altogether. “Clara? I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to hear what happened the last few days before she died. I think knowing will help me get through this.”

“There isn’t much to tell.” Clara took up a stray piece of thread and wound it around her finger. “Josie had just finished her spring commissions for Mrs. Greenwald and seemed easier in her mind—in the same way people are relieved when they escape the city during the summer heat. She did seem a little more worn down than usual. I instructed her to see a doctor about getting some tonics to give her some vigor, but she balked.”

Clara smiled. “Our little sister had an excuse for everything. The pains in her back she told me were due to hunching over her drawing pad; that hideous rash on her stomach she said was an allergy to cooking oil; the swelling and the nausea was because, I don’t know—because the sky was blue.”

For a brief instant Clara met Kate’s eyes and then looked away. “The night before she died, the Waldos came to call, but Josie excused herself, saying she was going to retire early. I should have known then that something was different, because she loved George’s company above all else.

“I retired around midnight and found her restless and complaining of pains in her back and head. I gave her one of Edwin’s Chinese sleeping powders, and she slept through the night. She was still asleep when I left
for work at seven-thirty, so I asked the housekeeper to wake her in a half hour’s time and to make sure she ate something.

“When I arrived at work, Mr. Tiffany was waiting for me with the news that Dr. Mackley had been called to the house to tend to Josie and that I was needed. He insisted on taking me home himself.

“Josie was in a terrible state by the time I got there. She was frightened, fighting for breath. Dr. Mackley told me she’d contracted pneumonia, and there was nothing to be done except to administer laudanum to keep her comfortable.”

Clara stopped, waiting for the tightness in her throat to ease. When she felt able, she resumed. “I gave the laudanum to her, Katie. I probably gave her more than I should have, but she was at least peaceful when she slipped away.”

She saw the meaning of what she’d just said register on Kate’s face. “Don’t look at me like that, Katie. The one thing Josie feared above all else was dying in the same agonizing manner as Mr. Driscoll. The physical pain alone would have been unbearable, but worse for Josie would have been the terror of not being able to breathe. I refused to let her suffer in that way. You would have done the same.”

Rising from the bench, Clara walked to the far end of the car and sat by a window. Forehead pressed against the cool glass, she watched the half moon race over the open meadows, wishing she were ten again, when she believed they were all immortal. She trusted and loved Kate, but could not bring herself to share Josie’s last moments. They were private, just between her and Jo.

She closed her eyes, reliving how she’d wrapped herself around her sister’s small body, trying to force the cold out of her flesh. For hours, she recited every poem she could remember, and when the poems ran out, she resorted to telling fairy tales, just as she’d done when they were children.

She was awake when Josie’s hand moved over the bedspread, searching for her, her pale lips moving, forming words. Josie’s eyes were luminous, the pupils so fully dilated as to leave nothing of the colored irises. Clara brought her ear nearer to her sister’s mouth in order to hear the words that were so faint as to seem like puffs of smoke on the wind.

“I’m sorry, Clara. I gave you such little return on your sacrifices.”

“That isn’t true, Jo. You gave us joy and made us look at the good in everyone.”

Josie turned slightly, a smile forming on her lips, her eyes wide. “I wish I could be here to see you win.”

“See me win?” She wondered if Josie were falling into the confusion that Dr. Mackley said was common at the end. “What is it you want to see me win, little one?”

Josie did not answer. The marvelous brown eyes closed, and a great peace seemed to have settled over her. For the few seconds her sister hovered between the earthly and spiritual realms, Clara dared not take her eyes away.

There was one long sigh, Josie’s hand loosened its grip and she was gone.

Clara had thought herself fully prepared, but she wasn’t. Panicked, she rubbed Josie’s arms and legs, trying to make them warm again. It wasn’t until Alice pulled her away an hour later that she finally let go.

Pushing the memories away, she went to sit at Kate’s feet. “I’m wretched.”

“I know, dear. We’re all wretched. Losing Jo is the worst thing that has happened to us for a long time.”

“No, what I mean to say is that I’m a wretched person.”

“I doubt anyone who knows you would agree to
that
nonsense.”

“After Josie died, there was a moment when I—” She shook her head. “I can’t say it. You’ll think me a monster.”

“Shall I say it for you?”

In the upheaval, she’d forgotten about Kate’s uncanny ability to see into people.

“You felt relief,” Kate said softly, “and not just because Josie’s suffering was ended. You’ve been worrying over Jo for eight years, caring for her all on your own. To feel some relief is natural. The sacrifices you made were not small.” Kate leaned back and smiled. “If you don’t believe me, try to imagine Emily making those same sacrifices.”

In spite of herself, Clara laughed.

Kate drew her up onto the bench and pulled her close. “Now, tell me about Edwin Waldo.”

Clara stared.

“Oh, don’t look so flummoxed.” Kate resumed tatting. “I know you too well not to have noticed your interest. Does he care for you?”

Clara shrugged. “His moods change so quickly, it’s hard to know what he feels. I admit there are times when I don’t like him particularly well, but then I see him working at the Settlement, and how he’s always striving to help people who are down on their luck, and my feelings change again.”

For a time, there was only the sound of the train wheels and the occasional piercing scream of the whistle. To keep herself from dozing off, Clara turned to sorting through the boxes of Josie’s belongings, separating clothes that still had good use in them from the shabby ones that would have to be made over into petticoats, aprons and smocks.

She found Josie’s sketchpad in the last box. Scanning the sheets with interest, she marveled at the large array of fashion designs, every dress, gown and coat beautifully executed, finely detailed and colored in.

She was about to show them to Kate, when her fingers brushed over a bulge inside the back cover. From the inner part of the cover she pulled several envelopes bunched together and bound with one of Josie’s hair ribbons. The top letter was addressed to their mother, Emily, Kate and herself. The second envelope bore George’s name, and the third was addressed to her.

April 15, 1896

My Dearest Clara,

I feel blessed to have been granted the pleasure of living with you for all these years. In many ways, I learned from your living example about true determination and courage. It is because of you that I didn’t give up, and it is because of you that I did not fail in touching my dream. In short, dear sister, your love and care have kept me alive.

I love you more than I have words or the amount of paper and ink it would take to describe. I don’t know when you will read this, or even if you will, but if you do, and I’m no longer with you, know that I love you with all my heart.

I want you to have the pink cameo broach Aunt Josephine gave to me on my sixteenth birthday. It’s my most valuable possession, and I cannot think of anyone more deserving to have it than you. Please wear it on occasion and think of me.

Send me a prayer before you sleep. I will always hear you.

My love forever, Josie

468 West 57
^th
St.

June 11, 1896

Dearest Robinites,

Last Friday, I attended a reception for Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany at the Majestic Hotel on Central Park West. I was impressively announced as ‘Mrs. Clara Driscoll,’and escorted to my table. We ate while Marie Clary sang. Since I last saw her eight years ago, she’s added fully two hundred pounds to her frame so that she resembled a tightly stuffed pink and white satin cushion. Isn’t it strange how singers always transform into behemoths if they attain any notoriety?

Alice’s yellow crepe gown fit me perfectly, and, with yellow roses and yellow feathers in my hair, I was a vision, albeit a canary-like vision, but a vision nonetheless. You might ask about what shoes I wore—please don’t.

Mrs. Tiffany was very gracious. She told me I resembled Robert Louis Stevenson closely enough to be his sister and promised to send me a sprig she took from his grave the day he was buried. Mr. Tiffany remained on the other side of the ballroom, and for this I was glad, considering that every time I see him, he has another set of orders for my department.

Please make note of my new address as noted above. Alice, Miss Griffin, and I each have our own room. However, for the $7 a week that we each pay, we agree Mrs. Gordon’s Boardinghouse for Ladies should provide better meals.

We are all delighted for George, whose portrait of Madam Helena
Modjeska, the Polish actress, is to be sent to the Chapman Gallery in Stratford, London. He’s such a fine artist when he sets his mind to it.

Two of my Tiffany Girls are spending the night, so that we can get an early start for Troy. One of the churches there has windows that we created after we completed the Byzantine Chapel. I feel we deserve to see them in place.

Young Miss Wilhemson (a beautiful, six-foot Swede) is stretched corner-to-corner on my bed. The other is Beatrix Hawthorne, Nathaniel’s granddaughter. I like her a great deal, for she’s unusual, outspoken and very bright. She and I will squeeze in together on the sofa. I see that Miss Hawthorne is already in her nightgown and staking out her half, so goodnight.

Love, C.W.D.

PS: I’ve ordered a dozen copies of Josie’s photograph ($6.00) and will send them as soon as they are ready. Unbeknownst to any of us, she had this photo taken just a year ago. Taking into account how much she hated to be photographed, she must have guessed how much we would cherish a remembrance.

T
HE CHURCH WAS
divided into even sections by shafts of sunlight coming through the stained glass windows.
Her
windows.

Clara pulled the woolen scarf higher on her neck and sank into the warmth of her coat. She’d never seen her windows in their final resting places. Rarely did she know where they ended up, let alone what they sold for. Henry Belknap once confided that the larger ones went for as much as five to ten thousand dollars, a sum she could hardly imagine.

In the window above her, Christ, surrounded by a bevy of saints, rose on a cloud made up of seven different shades of white glass. The sky into which he floated was of a rare blue that she’d special-ordered from the Corona factory for this sky alone.

The three women moved together to the next window, The Annunciation. Miss Hawthorne pointed to each section of the Virgin’s gown. “That piece of glass there is green number twelve, and this one here is red number twenty-one. Remember how Mr. Mitchell insisted red twenty-one was too expensive, because the key ingredient is gold?”

“Didn’t you have to go behind Mr. Mitchell’s back for that one, Clara?” asked Miss Wilhemson.

“You might say that.” Clara smiled. The irony of confessing her small crime in church did not elude her. “After Mr. Mitchell insisted we couldn’t afford red twenty-one, I went to the Corona factory and became my own shipping and delivery company. It wasn’t easy, carrying three, five pound sheets of glass in one’s portfolio case and not breaking anything.”

Possessed of a tomboy’s sense of mischief, Beatrix Hawthorne perked up noticeably. “You snitched the glass? How did you manage that, with all those men around?”

“Secret artillery.”

Miss Hawthorne smiled uncertainly. “What secret artillery?”

“Ice cream,” Clara said, moving on to the eight Beatitude windows. To her mind, the Beatitudes were much more interesting and lively than the wearisome and repetitious Stations of the Cross that most churches coveted. She stopped at her favorite, The Meek Inheriting the Earth.

“I don’t understand,” said Miss Wilhemson. “You gave them ice cream?”

Clara nodded. “I had it delivered a few minutes before I arrived. I believe all parties thought it a fair trade. I’m just thankful the need for red twenty-one came in August and not February.”

She stood on tiptoes to examine Jesus’s robe more closely, wondering how many eyes missed the intricate embroidery pattern in the hem. It was one of her special details that delighted everyone at Tiffany’s, mainly because no other studio could boast such precision.