Noon at Tiffany's (18 page)

The hard, insistent knock that came an hour later did not alarm her, for she intuited the importance of this particular summons. With a resigned sigh she opened the door to what fate had brought her.

February 21, 1892

Hotel San Remo

Numb with exhaustion Clara measured out several drops of peppermint oil into a glass of warm water and prepared to rinse her husband’s mouth. For the two days since he’d been carried home half-conscious between two policemen, Francis Driscoll had labored for his every breath.
She’d insisted on tending to him herself, never leaving his bedside except when exhaustion forced her into a few moments of fitful sleep. Alice made sure to keep her fed and in constant supply of hot tea or coffee, while Josie tactfully turned away well-wishers and the morbidly curious.

Clara moistened a piece of cotton with the peppermint water and daubed it over his parched lips. Francis’s eyes flew open, a crazed, frightened expression twisting his features into an ugly mask. He searched the room, frantically tugging at her sleeve.

“What is it, dear? Do you need more sedative? Shall I send Josie upstairs to fetch Dr. Hydecker?”

Mr. Driscoll shook his head, his lips moving without sound. He turned pleading eyes on the glass of water. His thirst had been relentless, though she dared not go against Dr. Hydecker’s orders that his patient was to be restricted to only a few ounces of water, so as not to overburden his failing heart. It was an order she found hard to enforce.

She propped him up with extra pillows and pressed the glass to his lips. “Rinse your mouth and spit out the rest. Remember what Dr. Hydecker told you about the—”

Francis grasped her arm, knocking the glass to the floor. She moved to pick up the shattered pieces, but he held her fast with a strength that shocked and frightened her.

“I’m done for,” he rasped. “Forgive me. I forgot …” He pulled her close. The fetid smell of his breath brought the bile to the back of her throat.

“I meant to, Clara, but I—”

Summoned by the sound of breaking glass, both Alice and Josie appeared in the doorway.

“Alice, run upstairs and bring Dr. Hydecker,” Clara ordered, unable to keep the alarm out of her voice. “Tell him it’s urgent. Josie, make hot compresses. His legs and hands are cold as ice.”

Josie did not move, but gaped at the wild-eyed man struggling for air.

“Do it now!” Clara shouted. “Go!”

Josie’s skirts swished as she vanished into the dark of the hallway at a run.

“Out of time,” Mr. Driscoll panted. “Forgive me.”

She stroked the side of his face. “You’ve done nothing to forgive. You are—”

His fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “I failed you both. Forgive—”

Clara eased her arm from his grip and pushed what was left of his hair back from his forehead. His face distorted in a grimace of pain, as his eyes rolled back into his head.

She glanced nervously toward the door, desperately wanting the doctor to appear. “You mustn’t tax yourself, Francis. Dr. Hydecker said—”

His eyes bored into hers. “Let me go!” He struck out with his fists, kicking at the bedclothes. “I’ve got to … got to …”

She fought to gain control of his hands, watching in horror as the sickly gray of his skin took on a mottled purple hue. She captured one hand as his body arched, went rigid, and began to jerk. Bloody foam oozed from between his clenched teeth and down his chin.

She threw herself on top of him to stop the bucking motions of his body. He was still thrashing when his bladder released, soaking the front of her dress.

Dr. Hydecker hurried into the room, a napkin still tucked into his collar, his suspenders hanging loose at his sides. Undoing the clasps of his medical bag, he removed a glass syringe and vial.

“Help him!” Clara gasped. “For God’s sake, do something!”

Quickly filling the syringe, he pushed her away from the bed and injected his seizing patient. Within seconds, the seizure lost its grip, leaving Driscoll’s body limp.

Clara approached the bed and peered into her husband’s face. His eyes were glazed. “Francis? I forgive you for whatever it is you believe you’ve done. I …”

Francis sat up with a jerk and sucked in a breath with the force of a drowning man breaking through the water’s surface. For several seconds he stared at her, then fell back onto the bed, air escaping his lungs in an eerie moan as his eyes shifted toward the ceiling, fixed in an unseeing stare.

She waited for his next breath. When it didn’t come, Dr. Hydecker pressed his stethoscope to Francis’s chest and listened, at the same time feeling for a pulse. A moment later he straightened. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Driscoll, but your husband has—”

“No!” She shook her head, not wanting to hear the word. She brought Mr. Driscoll’s hand to her lips, the cool, clammy feel of his skin proof of what she did not want to believe.

Dr. Hydecker let out a breath that spoke of his frustration at failing to keep death at bay. He dismantled the glass syringe and wrapped the pieces in a cloth soaked in disinfectant. The smell turned her stomach.

“How could this happen?” she whispered.

“He wouldn’t let me help him,” he said more to himself than to her. “For the last two years he has refused every medication I prescribed and ignored all my advice. There was nothing I could do.”

From one of the other rooms came the sound of Josie weeping. Clara knew she should go to her, but could not make herself leave Mr. Driscoll. Her mind refused to focus on the enormity of what had taken place. She stepped back and heard the crunch of glass under her shoe. Dropping to her knees she began picking up the shards, unaware of the glass stabbing into her flesh.

The doctor pulled her to her feet and examined the cuts to her hands and fingers. When he had finished cleaning her wounds with antiseptic, he called for Alice to take her to her room and put her to bed. Once she was bathed and in her nightgown, Clara refused to get into bed. “It isn’t right that I should be in here, while Mr. Driscoll is in there alone,” she argued, slipping into her wrapper. “I need to see to the arrangements.”

“Dr. Hydecker and I will wait for the undertaker,” Alice said. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to be making arrangements. You should rest now and tomorrow—”

“You don’t understand!” Clara pulled away. “I’m his wife; I should be with him.”

She reached the door just as Dr. Hydecker returned with a glass of water into which he had stirred a packet of sleeping powder. “Drink this. I’ve given your sister the same draught. Hopefully, you’ll both sleep through the night.”

“I don’t want sleep! If I don’t make myself useful, I’ll lose my mind.”

“You’re in no condition to be of use to anyone, Mrs. Driscoll.” He put the drink in her hand. “You’ve had a grave shock and need to conserve your strength. You’ll need it in the days to come.”

He turned to Alice. “I’ll call on Mrs. Driscoll and her sister first thing in the morning. If you have further need of me tonight, don’t hesitate to knock on my door. Should I be out attending another patient, my wife is a trained nurse and will be able to care for Mrs. Driscoll and her sister until
my return. For now, we should leave Mrs. Driscoll to her rest and retire to the parlor.”

As soon as they were gone, Clara set aside the potion. She refused to take the easy way through her grief. Instead, she would take firm hold of the sorrow and pull it into herself, letting it whip and roil until it was done with her. Opening the door a crack, she peered into the parlor, where Alice and the doctor sat talking with their backs to her. Noiselessly, she tiptoed into Francis’s room.

In death, he did not look like the man he’d been in life. She didn’t know this placid face. The face of the Francis Driscoll she knew had never been this still, not even when he slept.

Not knowing what else to do, she removed his nightshirt and bathed him, scrubbing away all trace of blood and soil. When she was finished, she took up her sketchpad and pens and began drawing; searching for the man she’d known. In each line, curve and crosshatch, she remembered him—his kindness, his quick smile and the voice that could mesmerize a roomful of people. She recalled his sincerity when he vowed to love her for the remainder of his life.

By the time she finished the portrait of her dead husband, she’d found her grief.

Hotel San Remo

February 23, 1892

Dear Family,

You need not come. The worst is over, and the most important things done. I can manage the rest alone. Henry Belknap, George and his brother, Edwin, have been my towers of strength, doing all manner of things to make life easier for us in our time of grieving. Alice, my guardian angel, has not left my side. Now, if only I could sleep. Kate, please send a box of dried chamomile and a jug of Mrs. Price’s best honey. They may help.

Josie maintains a good attitude, although I think this is a show for my benefit. Emily, please send her some of your humorous drawings of our relatives. They are the only things that might bring a genuine smile to her lips.

Everything has happened so fast. It’s the oddest thing, but I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and the last few days will all have been a bad dream.

Love, Clara

March 1, 1892

27 Park Place, Manhattan

Inside the dimly lit office of John C. Dugro, Esq., Clara debated whether or not there were windows behind the books, stacked floor to ceiling against the walls. She decided there were, and turned her attention to the aged Mr. Dugro.

Magnifying glass held in one tremulous hand, the attorney examined the parchment that was Francis Driscoll’s last will and testament. The cramped and dusty room was so quiet she could hear his beard scrape over the starched collar of his shirt.

To her left, Mr. Hulse leaned on his walking stick and studied the stacks of books with interest, craning his head every so often in an attempt to read the titles. The three gentlemen to her right were, as near as she could make out, legal representatives of a church in New Jersey.

For what seemed an interminably long time, no one spoke or made any sound other than the sighs and clearing of throats one usually hears at such solemn occasions. She began to doubt the wisdom of having come alone to the reading, though there wasn’t anyone suitable to accompany her. Alice was indisposed, due to a bad bout of the grippe; George wouldn’t have been able to sit still for five minutes, let alone two hours; and Josie—well, Josie was still hiding inside her cocoon of grief.

Her own mourning had followed a less traditional course. She’d made endless sketches of Mr. Driscoll, until there were no more places to put them. Once she’d finished with that, she set to putting things in order, scrubbing the suite top to bottom, and then scrubbing it again until exhaustion forced her to her bed, where, for three days, she slept like someone in a coma. When she awoke, she was ready to break free of the imprisonment of mourning and get on with the business of making her way.

Josie implored her to mourn in the way of other widows, but she could
not bring herself to be so false. Death was a fact of life. She’d made the conscious choice to deal with it practically, planning for their future survival and not moldering in some darkened room, squandering precious time.

Her thoughts returned to the subject of Mr. Driscoll’s will. He’d never discussed his financial arrangements for her, though he often assured her that she would never have cause to worry. Regardless, she was determined to have a studio and gallery shop of her own.

Mr. Dugro cleared his throat. “I will now commence with the reading of the last will and testament of Mr. Francis S. Driscoll. Unless any of you have an objection to my doing so, I won’t bore you with the legal preambles and minutiae, but will go directly to the bequests.” He solemnly looked at each of them, in turn. Assured of their consent, he held his magnifying glass over the document and began to read.

“I, Francis S. Driscoll, residing at Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse, 32 Oxford Street, Brooklyn, New York, being sick of body, but sound of mind and memory, and considering the certainty of death and the uncertainty of time thereof, and being desirous of setting my worldly affairs in order, do hereby make and publish this document as my last will and testament on this twenty-seventh day of November, eighteen eighty-nine.”

The blood drained from her face as she pushed unsteadily to her feet.

Mr. Dugro looked at her over the tops of his spectacles. “Mrs. Driscoll? Is something wrong?”

“With all due respect, sir, this can’t be the correct document. We were married November twenty-eighth of that year, one day after he made this will. There must be a more recent will, or surely Mr. Driscoll made a codicil to this one.”

Mr. Dugro didn’t change his expression or the imperturbable lawyerly drone of his voice. “Unless Mr. Driscoll hired another solicitor to draw up a new will, I am afraid this is the only one he left behind.” He pursed his lips and added, “Mr. Driscoll did make several appointments with me in the last six months, saying that he wanted to draw up a new will, though I regret to say he never kept any of them, nor did he discuss with me what revisions he wanted to make.”