Noon at Tiffany's (36 page)

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Miss Griffin break with her normally upright stance and slump at the shoulders in anticipation of what was to come. “But that’s only five weeks away,” Miss Griffin said, “and we already have so much to do. There’s no way we could take on more.”

Mr. Bracey bobbed his head in agreement. “His Highness is gettin’ mighty greedy, ain’t he? He’ll work us to death at this rate.”

“I suppose,” Clara said, “but our things are very popular with the customers right now, so we must feed the fires to keep them hot. You know Mr. Tiffany’s motto: ‘Gain we must’!”

“Except it isn’t ‘we’ who are gaining,” said Miss Hawthorne.

The Palmié twins raised their hands. “Why doesn’t he lock the doors,” Marion began, “… and let us all go home for the summer?” Lillian finished.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” Clara said, “but it’s not to be. I’ll tell you now, so there will be no surprises or great disappointments later—it’s going to be uphill work from now until December. It’s not …”

She hesitated, unsure about telling them everything all at once.

“Go on, Mrs. Driscoll,” Joe Briggs prompted. “No sense sparing the whip in the middle of the beating, you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Briggs.” She cleared her throat. “It’s not yet been accepted, but Mr. Tiffany has put in a bid for a ten foot by thirty foot mosaic panel of the Virtues.”

Their groans of protest made her wretched, though she tried not to show it. “If we are awarded the job, and depending on how soon Mr. Tiffany wants it completed, we may be thrown into another mad rush. In light of this, I want to share with you a thought that came to me in the middle of the night, while I lay worrying about getting things done on time: If, for some reason, the work started slowing down and we were left twiddling our thumbs, wouldn’t we all wish we were back in the whirl?”

She could see from their expressions that the thought struck them as the truth of the matter. “Knowing this about ourselves, we should be grateful to be so busy. I expect that Mr. Tiffany will be looking over your shoulders. Try not to be nervous, and under no circumstances are you to take his critiques or his destructions personally. Remember, it’s not your fault. It’s simply a matter of …”

“… of a man who has too much money for his own good.” Marion Palmié finished for her.

She let the ensuing laughter lull her into what she knew was a false sense of well-being.

July 27, 1899

Bent over her newest lamp design, Clara was absorbed by Mr. Briggs’s latest tales about his ill-natured wife. Her atrocious behavior at times seemed so far-fetched as to be fictional, though he didn’t appear to be the type of man to invent such stories.

He was recounting an amusing story involving a frying pan and his head, when she sensed someone standing in the doorway. It wouldn’t be like her girls or Mr. Bracey to eavesdrop. Mr. Tiffany and Henry were on a steamship bound for Europe, and none from the men’s department would lower themselves to enter the women’s department.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Mitchell?” she asked without looking up.

Embarrassed at having been caught spying, Mr. Mitchell waved a hand around the room. “What is all this you’re working on?”

“You know perfectly well these are the lamp designs that Mr. Tiffany wants done before he returns. He specifically told me to have at least ten finished.”

“That’s all well and good, Mrs. Driscoll, except Mr. Tiffany isn’t here now, and I’ve had an inspiration.”

There was something about his smile that made her stomach flip.

He clasped his hands behind his back. “I think you and your girls should take time off. All you women are looking peaked lately. Have yourselves a nice rest. Go to the seashore and frolic … or whatever it is you do in those sorts of places.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “How would that suit you?”

She could just imagine Mr. Tiffany returning to find his lamps unfinished and the Virtues mosaic in the same state as when he left. His rage would know no bounds, and the blame would be placed on her.

“It doesn’t suit me at all,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “While I appreciate your kind consideration of our health, I’m afraid we have too much to do to go gallivanting about.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” He gave her an ingratiating smile. “I’ll make sure everything is taken care of in your absence. The men’s department can easily finish up whatever it is Tiffany wants.”

“The men don’t have the skills to complete what has to be done,” Mr. Briggs said bluntly. “What about the lamps and the mosaics? It isn’t fair to Mrs. Driscoll’s department. Tiffany will fire the lot of us.”

“It’s fair if I say it is,” Mr. Mitchell said, heading out the door. “As of noon, I want every woman gone from the workroom. Mrs. Driscoll, I want you to stay on and give the men’s department directions as to what Tiffany wants done. Mr. Briggs, you and Daniel Bracey are to stay on. Just make sure the workroom is ready for occupancy by the men.”

After he was gone, she turned to Joseph. “What are we going to do now?”

Mr. Briggs broke into a smile. “I think our best bet would be to introduce Mr. Mitchell to Mrs. Briggs on one of her snappish days.”

Alice shook her. “Wake up! There’s a call for you.”

Bounding out of bed, Clara searched blindly for her wrapper. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know. Miss Owens said there’s a gentleman on the telephone who wants to speak with you urgently.”

Anxiety propelled her down the stairs. The prospect of hearing
bad news delivered in such a cold and direct way as a telephone seemed heinous; telegrams were so much gentler. One could take one’s time with a telegram. Trembling, she picked up the dangling earpiece. “Hello? This is Clara Driscoll speaking.”

“Clara? This is Henry.”

The voice was Henry’s, but she could make no sense of it. Henry Belknap was on a ship somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean on his way to Paris. “Where are you?”

“I’ll explain later. I’ve sent a private cab for you and Alice. We need both of you to come right away.”

Before she could ask what was wrong, she heard several clicks then a sound like that of wind blowing through an endless tunnel.

44 Irving Place

August 3, 1899

Dear Ones,

George has typhoid. Take care not to mention this in your letters to Mrs. Waldo. One son is as good as dead to her; she couldn’t bear the thought of losing the other.

The day Henry Belknap was to sail with Mr. Tiffany to Europe, George was brought home from Hyde Park with a high fever. He was then struck down by several hard seizures in a row, and was only half-conscious. Refusing to abandon his friend, Henry sent word to Mr. Tiffany to go on without him.

Alice and I, Dudley and Mr. McBride were summoned late that night to Henry’s apartment, where I set up nursing duties. Dudley and Henry took turns changing George’s bed linens and making him drink water, Alice and I bathed him with cold water mixed with witch hazel every half hour, and Mr. McBride was left to do the pacing for all of us.

The next morning, a doctor was summoned, who insisted George be taken to a hospital. The men carried him to the carriage and laid him flat. They raced up 5
^th
Avenue to Presbyterian Hospital, while the doctor alternately took George’s pulse and administered whiskey followed by sniffs of ammonia and cocaine.

When we arrived back at Irving Place, Saint Edward had saved breakfast for us, and made sure we had a full pot of hot coffee. We could
not have borne another hard day at Tiffany’s without it, for my brain is already numbed with constant work and worry.

One good thing that has come out of this is that Henry has canceled Mr. Mitchell’s orders. Mr. Tiffany means to win at the Paris Exposition at all costs, and my department is the only way he’ll ever manage to do that.

Love, Clara

P.S. St. Vincent’s Hospital has its first horseless ambulance this week. I’m told it can race at a speed of 30 miles an hour! How I would love to try my hand at driving at such a dizzying speed.

December 14, 1899

Dearest Ones,

Tomorrow I turn 38. How did I get so old without noticing? The days are short, and my last few hours here are in the dark, which is bad for mosaic work, the color being different by artificial light. In spite of that, the Virtues panels go well—all 300 square feet of them. There is some satisfaction to be had in knowing I’m one of a handful who is able to do this kind of work.

I’ve also designed a new pen tray, where each end is a scarlet poppy with black centers, so that whichever way you lay the pen, the inky part rests on the black centers. I would love to own one of these, but alas, I can’t afford it.

The fates are again against me as to time. I wish I could have balance in this matter—to have some of the time full and running over, so that you leap from one thing to another in such a manner that you feel the exhilaration of accomplishment. The rest of the time, I would wish to feel the luxury of repose and, when I wish to think at all, have only pleasant unhurried thoughts.

George’s health continues to worry us, and although he says he’s never felt better, I don’t think he has ever fully recovered from the typhoid fever. He doesn’t allow himself to rest, but I shall refrain from throwing stones from my glass tower.

Miss Griffin has taken the room across from mine. She is efficiency in
motion, and I love seeing her all curled up on my sofa with a book. She’s an intelligent, free-spirited little bird-like woman, who has blended into our circle without a ripple. She and Mr. Yorke get along splendidly, but a romance might be too much to hope for.

There is much excitement in the department these days. Tiffany’s exposition windows have been chosen to flank the entrance to the American Arts pavilion.

Love, Clara

P.S. Kate: What is it exactly that you want to know about opera? I can sum them all up in two words: everybody dies.

T
HE TIFFANY GIRLS
were lined up straight as soldiers. Like a general at inspection, Clara went down the line, smiling at each woman, straightening a crooked collar here, tapping a slouched shoulder there.

Joe Briggs walked calmly at her side, though she knew he was far from relaxed. A sensitive man, he’d not yet grown used to the nature of Mr. Tiffany’s rough-and-tumble critiques. For her part, she was sick to death of Louis’s tyrannical intimidation. She’d lost too many fine artisans to his bullying, and spent far too much time putting to right those things he’d spoiled.

“Since Mr. Tiffany is delayed, I wish to take this opportunity to again thank you for your hard work and dedication. I also want to say that I’ve never received a better birthday surprise than the one you have given me today. To be met with cake and coffee was rather wonderful in and of itself, but to be given such a magnificent and special gift is sublime.”

She turned to admire the desk lamp proudly displayed on the table outside her workroom. It was a beautiful piece, made all the more precious by the knowledge they’d all had a hand in the making of it. The women and Mr. Bracey used her clematis design for the shade, while Alice, Mr. Briggs and the foundry men created a base of bronze stems rising up around bubbles of jade milk glass.

“I’ll make this lamp the centerpiece of my home no matter where I live, be it a palace, or my cell at the Tombs.”

While they laughed, she checked her watch. Louis Tiffany was late
by twelve minutes. Reading her thoughts, Joseph touched her elbow. “Perhaps his automobile has broken down.”

“Either that,” said Miss Ring, “or he’s been delayed at the livery, where the smithy is reinforcing his cane with iron.”

Their giggles were cut short when Louis barged through the door. From the set of his jaw and the poisonous gleam in his eyes, it was clear he was already on a rampage. Greeting no one, he glared at the
Four Seasons
window, slapping his cane menacingly against the palm of his hand.

Clara prayed that whatever put him in his fractious state of mind wouldn’t taint his artistic judgment.