Noon at Tiffany's (5 page)

“But you’re so well suited to each other,” Josie insisted, “Like Mama’s glass mantel clock.”

“What, pray tell, does
that
mean?”

“When you look at the back of the clock you can see the gears and intricate parts working; each piece balances another to produce perfect time without effort.” Josie looked at her, as if the answer were obvious. “Don’t you see? That’s how you and Mr. Driscoll are together.”

Clara got out of bed and perched on the edge of the windowsill. “It’s a charming image, and for all I know, it might be true, but you’ve ignored the most important factor.”

“You mean that he hasn’t asked for your hand yet?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I mean that married women aren’t allowed to work at Tiffany’s.”

Outside, a light rain fell, bringing with it a cool breeze. Below, she could hear water trickling from the eaves into the rain barrel. “I’ve worked hard to get to where I am now, let alone how much Mama had to sacrifice to send me to art school.”

“I suppose,” Josie stared up at the ceiling, “but if something happens to me, I don’t want you to be alone here without family.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you. You mustn’t think that way.”

She was distracted by a small spotted skipper moth that landed on a fold of the curtain. “Come for your portrait, have you?” As if it understood, the moth fluttered its wings, giving her a close-up view of forewings banded with bright orange, and the patch of silver that marked each hindwing. She took up her sketchpad and drew the moth in detail, down to the clubbed ends of its antennae, leaving off only when the breeze turned chilly.

Crawling in next to Josie’s warmth, she watched a spot of cream moonlight creep across the floor until her eyes grew heavy. First thing in the morning she would send word to her mother that her life as an artist was about to blossom.

Louis unclipped the small key from his watch chain and unlocked the compartment hidden at the back of the top drawer in his desk. He withdrew a leather-bound diary and sat down to write.

Lenox Hill

May 7, 1888

Louise with child. December confinement. I feel it is too soon after the twins’ birth, but I leave that side of women’s business to her physician. I told Louise this one had best be a son for my father’s sake. Four girls and a son, who is likely sterile from mumps, is certain to send the Tiffany name into extinction.

There will be no sons from brother Burnie, to be sure. I doubt the drunken lout could stay sober long enough to get a woman with child. The
only good thing about Burnie is that he is the one subject on which Father and I agree.

Belknap here tonight to discuss company matters, but left early to attend his mother. He is in dire need of distance from that suffocating grasp. I don’t put stock in this brand of filthy gossip, but, as of late, I’ve heard his name bandied about at the club. He possesses a flawless sense of what will sell, but no matter—such loathsome behavior, if true, or if made common knowledge, would not be tolerated.

Father regularly reminds me that sales are slow, even though Stanford White brought in a contract for ten large windows to install in his latest architectural feat. I must remember to send him a gold and emerald cravat pin from Father’s shop.

I’ve hired a new artisan, Miss Clara Wolcott. I suspect she is a diamond of the first water. An excellent eye for color, and her sense of balance and rhythm unusually good. Superb lines and shading. Her sample rendering of a butterfly with its wings pushed backward by the wind stays with me. It was so lifelike I dared not touch it, lest the creature fly off the paper. She will learn leaded glass, and then we’ll see about designing. She lingers in my thoughts, though I dare say that is due to her strong likeness to May.

I hear the nurse attending to the wailing twins, who are suffering with summer colds. Little Charles has sneaked away from the nursery to beg me once again for a pony, Simpkins interrupts to ask if I want a bath drawn, and Louise is insisting I come to bed.

Dear God, how I wish I were in Morocco out on the dunes with nothing more than water, brandy, canvas and paint.

Louise is on the stair. (I’m hunted down like a beast!) L.C.T.

H
AD SHE FORESEEN
what her life would become in the nine months since she’d taken the position at Tiffany’s, Clara would have dismissed it as fantasy. In a matter of weeks after she had designed her first windows, Mr. Tiffany put her in charge of the women’s glass cutting department. Almost, immediately, there began a never-ending stream of orders for her work.

By the end of the day, it was all she could do to find her way home and fall into bed. The only time she had to write her letter for the round robin was while she ate her lunch. Clearing a place on her worktable, she put her sandwich and coffee to one side and carefully dipped her pen.

Noon at Tiffany’s

March 8, 1889

Dearest Mama and sisters Kate and Emily,

The round robin arrived this morning. I couldn’t wait until this evening, so read it as I walked to work, depending on luck to keep me from falling off curbs or bumping into lampposts. I will try to get this written and posted before I return to the madness awaiting me in the workroom. There’s been a flurry of chaos here, with the getting up of four large windows for a rush order and finishing the windows Mr. Tiffany took away from the men’s department. In some ways the work seems to be a mountainous undertaking, but I try to look at it in detail and only with reference to the next minute, perhaps the next hour. When it seems overwhelming and I’m about to jump into the Hudson, I think of the long
years I’ve struggled to get to this place, and my confidence is restored.

I remain enthralled with this shining Mecca of New York, which provides limitless opportunities to the enterprising artists who flock here in great number. The thought that there’s an abundance of collectors who pay handsomely for what these same artists produce leaves me wild with impatience to get my work into the public eye.

On Sunday, I walked by the Tiffany mansion on Lenox Hill at the head of Madison Avenue. You should see it, Mama—the structure is a magpie’s nest of bizarre Moroccan design elements that somehow make the place rhythmic.
The New York Times
reported that it’s viewed by many to be the most brilliant architectural feat in all of New York. I’d give my eyeteeth to explore the innards of that beast.

Mr. Belknap has invited Josie and me to a lecture at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. My opinion of him rises a little each day, and I’ve almost forgotten that when standing next to him, I look like a clumsy, ill-groomed giantess. We share a good many opinions of people, art, and politics. At 28, he is but a year older than I, and yet he’s one of the worldliest men I’ve ever known.

Mr. Tiffany is a dichotomy. On one hand he’s a boorish, avaricious man and on the other, a sensitive artist. Yes, he is handsome, but not to my taste, for I have the disadvantage of seeing the ugly side of him much too often.

Please assure Grandmother that electric lights aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. They have none of the warmth of gas lamps, though one does see much better.

Josie is well, all ailments at bay. More importantly, she is happy.

Love, Clara

P.S. The boarders have taken in a stray kitten we’ve named Ida B. Smith. She’s the sorriest thing you ever saw. Miss Todd said that cats always begin washing themselves as soon as they feel loved. Evidently, Ida has never felt quite loved enough, so I’ve decided to give her a bath. I thought I’d—

“Excuse me, Miss?”

Her mouth full of bread and a slice of yesterday’s roast beef, Clara broke off writing.

“I dunno what ya must be thinkin’ on that Saint Anne window.” Daniel Bracey took off his cap and slapped it against his leather apron.

It had taken time, but she’d managed to coax him from the pit of disapproval up the steep hill of acceptance. However, while she may have gained his respect, his devotion belonged entirely to Josie.

“How do ya expect the men to came them wee bits an’ pieces in her hands?”

“Well, Mr. Bracey,” Clara smiled, “I expect the men to do them very carefully. Please, won’t you sit down and share this apple with me?”

“I’m not wantin’ no apples, Miss. I come to find out how the men is ’sposed to use cames fer pieces of glass no bigger than a splinter.”

She nodded in understanding of his dilemma. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pocket knife, would you?”

Mr. Bracey produced a jackknife from his pocket and handed it over.

She commenced slicing the apple into sections. “Saint Anne was the mother of the Virgin Mary, was she not?”

“Aye, but I dunno what that’s got to do with the—”

“What I mean to say is that Saint Anne is a special saint. She’s the grandmother of Jesus Christ Himself, after all.”

At the mention of Jesus, Mr. Bracey bowed his head. “True enough, Miss. In Ireland she’s the patron saint of the childless.”

Clara bit into a slice of apple and held one out to him. He hesitated, and then took it. Diplomacy was, she thought, rather like fishing: you had to offer the bait at the right moment.

“Did you know, Mr. Bracey, that this window is going all the way to Saint Augustine, Florida, to be used in the main church there?”

“Ah, no. Where the windows go ’taint none of me business.”

“It’s going into an alcove devoted specifically to Saint Anne. Think of all the poor childless couples who will come from miles around to kneel before this very window and pray to Saint Anne for the blessing of children. Later, when they’ve been blessed, they’ll bring their wee ones to see this magnificent window of Saint Anne, perfect in her likeness.”

She pressed another apple section on him. “We owe those people the most realistic and beautiful window we can possibly produce.” She paused. “More than that, we owe Saint Anne a lovely set of hands with which to receive and bless those poor people.”

He chewed thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose.”

She handed him the remaining apple slice. “Only the other day, Josie told Mr. Tiffany that your workmanship is perfection itself and that she’s honored to have you as her tutor.”

A faint smile broke at the corners of his mouth. “A fine gal, that one.”

“Yes, and you’re a clever artisan, so I have no doubt you’ll find a way to lead the details in Saint. Anne’s hands. I and the other girls have faith in your talents and trust your work completely.” Slowly, but surely, she was reeling in the line.

He finished the last section of apple, all trace of irritation gone. “All right then, I might undo the cames an’ use a wee strip of lead instead of the full width.” Warming to the idea, he smiled at his own inventiveness.

“Or, you might use thin copper strips; it would look more delicate.”

Mr. Bracey smiled. “A grand idea. I could make the cames thin as wire.”

On his way out, he collided with Josie. The two blushed, smiled and bowed with the deepest respect, as if they were meeting for the first time and didn’t, in fact, work together nine hours a day.

Josie set her sketchbook on the worktable. “I thought you might give me your opinion on these.”

Clara wiped her hands on her apron before examining the twenty or so detailed drawings of elegant dresses. “These are the best designs you’ve done so far,” she said when she finished. “You could easily design for
Godey’s
or
Harper’s Bazaar
.”

Josie searched her face. “Do you mean that, or are you simply being kind because I’m your sister?”

“You know very well I don’t give false flattery. You need to show these to George. He must know someone at one of the fashion magazines.”

Josie ceased smiling and removed the book from Clara’s hands. “They aren’t ready to be viewed by anyone except you. I don’t even want Alice to see them.”

“They
are
ready. Don’t hold yourself back, Jo; believe in your talent. You were designing dresses for dolls before you were five. Mama is convinced you’re going to end up in Paris designing for Charles Worth.

“Talk to George tonight. If you sold even a few of your designs it would bring in extra money, and Lord knows we need it.”