Noon at Tiffany's (42 page)

“I received word from one of the Tiffany staff last night.” He wrapped his scarf about his neck. “I should have been at my office an hour ago writing up an account of Mr. Tiffany’s life, so it will be ready for print as soon as he passes.”

“You’re going to your office now? In the middle of the night?”

“This is the best time to write, when it’s still and the only things I have to contend with are my own thoughts. It’s similar to how your work is best done in natural light.”

Edward cleared his throat. “Well, sir, I wish you a good night and good writing.”

Afraid he might vanish and she would never see him again, Clara followed Mr. Allen to the door. “If you can find the time, please consider yourself welcome to join our group. Most of us are on the second and third floors at the front. My room is the usual gathering place. I can’t tell you exactly what it is we talk about or what adventures we have, but I can guarantee that whatever we say or do is usually pretty lively.”

“If you get lost,” Edward said, “Ask anyone you see to direct you to Clara Driscoll’s Impromptu Salon for Lively Dilettantes.”

She could not sleep for thoughts of Mr. Allen. Tossing about, first too hot, then too cold, Clara finally gave in and called to mind every line of his face, every gesture, every word spoken. She luxuriated in the memory of his voice and the scent of bay rum, until she remembered how she’d stumbled over introducing herself.

Her embarrassment deepened when she realized that, as a journalist, Mr. Allen might know the details of the Edwin Waldo story. The humiliation of it drove her out of bed. Crossing her arms over her flannel nightgown, she paced about the room, hoping to exhaust herself enough to sleep.

Philip Loring Allen. She liked the way the names rolled off her tongue, round and smooth. He’d charmed her, frightened her and made her laugh. His fire and his intelligence intrigued her.

Bone weary, she climbed back into bed and tried not to think about him. She couldn’t let herself be drawn in; she had work to do and a reputation to maintain. Romance was a sticky wicket—it had failed her in the past, or, more than likely, she had failed romance. Either way, she was better off remaining a widow.

Determined not to give the man another thought, she fell asleep an hour before she had to rise, her dreams betraying her with visions of Philip Allen.

Lenox Hill

February 18, 1902

Father dead this day, my fifty-fourth birthday. I am released from the Reign of the Iron Hand. My sisters and I are handsomely rewarded for our forbearance. From this day forward, I shall have complete control of both Tiffany and Company and Tiffany Glass and Decorating, and run them as I please. My restaurants will be four-star, my railroad cars private, and my hotel and liner suites, imperial.

But most importantly, without that controlling, strangling hand, I am now free to spend all I like on creating beautiful things for the world to enjoy. That, I solemnly promise. L.C.T.

Noon at Tiffany’s

March 26, 1902

Dearest Family,

Emily, we all read your story, ‘Poppa’s Mistake,’ in
The Century
. I’m so proud of you. Even Mr. Tiffany read and liked it. Our resident writer, Mr. Philip Allen, (In my mind I think of him as Philip the Fair, after King Philip IV of France) said it was well done; he ought to know: besides his reporting for the
Evening Post
, his stories and political commentaries have appeared in
Leslie’s Magazine, Scribner’s, Saturday Evening Post, Harper’s, The Century,
and
The Black Cat.

Kate, I’m so sorry about your hair. Miss Griffin suggests rubbing Vaseline into your scalp twice a day. Once this peritonitis is cleared up, I’m sure you’ll grow it all back. It’s encouraging that you’re only sometimes in pain and can sit up. My doctor has prescribed quinine and whiskey for my headaches. Perhaps this will work for your stomach pain as well.

Please come to Point Pleasant this summer. I’ll teach you how to swim. You’ll be restored to health before you know it. I’ll send the wallpaper stencils next week to keep you occupied for the time being.

Mr. Platt is having one of my novelty inkbottle and pen tray sets manufactured by the hundreds. They sell for $10 each. The inkbottle is a poppy blossom of red glass, and the stopper is of black and purple in the form of the center stamen and seedpod. It makes for a lovely gift.

Mama, Mr. Booth has gone over your contract for the oil furnace with an attorney, and they both think it’s a swindle. He says he can get a hot water furnace for much less and that they are better for your health than hot air.

We have another challenging play from Mr. Yorke. A Chinese play—in Chinese. Mr. Allen, who has had theatrical training at the University of Wisconsin, will be directing. He is brilliant!

With Love, Clara

P.S. George’s illustrations for ‘The Mountain Matchmaker’ in
The Century
will be published sometime between May and October. I was the model for ‘the girl,’ but I don’t think it looks one bit like me.

July 6, 1902

Point Pleasant Seashore, NJ

The summer cast a tranquil spell over their world, making simple pleasures all that was required to make life complete. Their cabin and the Palmié guesthouse were filled to capacity. The women slept two to a bed upstairs, while the men slept downstairs and on whatever available space they could find. Edward set up a hammock in the kitchen, so as not to disturb anyone when he rose at five a.m. to catch the fish for their morning meal.

By the end of their first day, they’d voted five to one to have Mr. Yorke as Point Pleasant General Manager instead of Edward, their complaint being that Edward was too task-oriented and not enough pleasure-bent to allow them time for quiet reading and long naps.

He didn’t object to having his title seized, but soon found it difficult to sit idle and let Mr. Yorke and the others do all the work, the worst of it being that he wasn’t allowed to tell the men
how
to do it. Taking pity, they agreed to let Edward catch breakfast, lunch and dinner. At once
Philip volunteered to accompany him to give instructions on the scientific approach to fishing.

Clara tagged along to watch the competition and play referee, should one be necessary. For two hours, she listened to their boasting about how one had caught more fish than the other had ever seen. Philip repeatedly threw out his line, discoursing all the while on the art of fishing
scientifically
, while Edward caught two flounders and three bucktail flukes.

Back on shore, Edward gave Philip careful instruction on the scientific way to gut and clean a fish.

After lunch, they all adjourned to the beach where Alice, her luxuriant black hair freshly washed, sat in a scarlet kimono reading a volume of Henry James. At her feet, Philip rubbed lemon juice into his hands to rid them of the fish odor, at the same time having a rousing debate with Miss Nye about women’s right to vote; he being for the idea, while Miss Nye held that most women would not be able to cope with the responsibility of political decision.

Clara unfolded the latest round robin and commenced to read Kate’s part.

…
According to the doctor, there are so many other worse diseases I could have had, that I consider myself lucky to just have peritonitis. Clara, you’re so good to send money for our new furnace, and we’re grateful to Mr. Booth, et al, for assistance in avoiding a swindle. Mama says his letters are the most enjoyable part of her week. He does make us laugh with his stories. I hope—

A shadow came between her and the sun. Clara looked up to find Mrs. Palmié, a tall, robust woman, standing over her, looking as though the family dog had died. As the capable proprietress of a busy guesthouse, this woman wasn’t often given to fits of worry. She put down the letter, endeavoring to remain calm.

“I’m sorry Clara, but Mr. Tiffany called. He asked me to tell you and Alice that it’s of the utmost importance that you return to work immediately. He wants both of you and someone by the name of Miss Northrop in his office tomorrow at nine sharp. He was adamant that you be on time. He kept repeating, ‘Nine a.m. sharp! Do you understand? Nine a.m. sharp!’”

“What could Tiffany be thinking?” Philip said, after the initial groans of protests had died away. “Wasn’t it his decision to give you the week off? Perhaps he meant next Monday.”

“No, he was quite clear,” Mrs. Palmié said. “He wants them in there tomorrow morning.”

“Did he sound …” Clara stopped herself before she could say ‘drunk’. It was, after all, only one in the afternoon. “Reasonable?”

Mrs. Palmié paused. “Reasonable?”

“What Clara means to ask,” Alice said, shielding her eyes from the sun, “is, did Mr. Tiffany sound as though he’d breakfasted with the brandy bottle?”

Mrs. Palmié thought for a moment. “No. As a matter of fact, he sounded more like he
needed
a drink.”

Clara began gathering up her things. “I’ll take the next ferry. Something serious must have happened at the factory or the shop. He promised he wouldn’t call unless it was a matter of life and death.”

Philip briefly touched the small of her back. Without thinking, she pushed against him so his arm slipped around her waist. “There isn’t any reason to go in now. You and Alice can return with me first thing in the morning. We’ll arrive at Miss Owens’s in plenty of time.”

Lillian Palmié looked up from her embroidery hoop. “Anyhow, you can’t leave; you’re the only one brave enough to lead us in the discussion on
Dorian Gray
, and how it pertains to the current state of society.”

“If you go now,” Philip said, “you’ll miss Mr. Yorke’s sailing lesson and my tutorial on how to fish scientifically.”

“I agree with all arguments,” Alice said. “There’s nothing to be gained by our going into the city today, so we may as well have one more afternoon and evening of relaxation. I’m sure whatever the problem is, we’ll be there in plenty of time to save Mr. Tiffany and his company from ruin, just as we have so many times before. Finish your letter. We can worry about what Master Legree has in store for us tomorrow.”

They were again drawn back to the beach, this time to watch the full moon rise out over the water like a great gold ball. Mr. Yorke softly played the harmonica, while Marion Palmié read aloud the last few chapters of
Dorian Gray
.

Just as Dorian plunged the knife into his portrait, Philip pulled Clara to her feet and danced her down to the beach. They strolled barefoot in
the surf, held spellbound by the silver moonglade cutting across the water.

“What do you think Louis wants of you this time?”

She shrugged, concentrating on the moon and the sound of the waves instead of his physical proximity. “It could be anything. Mr. Tiffany is a man of many surprises. Whatever it is that he wants, it’s going to be a challenge. Chaos is what drives him, and because of that, he believes it should drive everyone, especially me.”

“And, what exactly
does
drive you, Mrs. Driscoll?”

“Nature,” she answered in earnest, “and making beautiful things.”

Philip swung her around to face him. “If you weren’t dependent on your salary, and if Mr. Tiffany were not so dependent upon you, would you still work yourself to exhaustion to make these beautiful things? Surely you’d follow more pleasurable pastimes?”

“Tell me, Philip, why do you write about social activism?”

“Because I have to—it’s my passion.”

She went ahead of him. “Then we understand each other. Were I as wealthy as Mr. Tiffany, I would still work at my art—it’s what I was meant to do.”

“Clara?”

She heard his intent, and her skin pebbled with gooseflesh.

His maneuvering brought her around so that she was again facing him. In the moonlight, he seemed dream-like. “You are like no other woman I have ever met.”

There were a hundred clever things she could have said that would break the tension of the moment and deflect his attentions, but she could not make herself form the words.