Noon at Tiffany's (21 page)

Her practical nature persevered. She could hear both her mother and Mr. Driscoll telling her that patience is a necessary virtue in business. She only had to be patient and wait for the time when he could not refuse.

“Credit where credit is due, Mr. Tiffany. My mother is fond of saying that about both our good and our bad deeds. It’s an arrangement that will do for the present, however be advised that I’ll bring the matter to your attention in one year.”

“Fine, but for now we must begin work. You have much to accomplish in a short time.”

She adjusted her hat so that it shaded her eyes. “Tomorrow at eight?”

He looked at his watch, as if calculating the number of hours until
they could meet and nodded. “After I show you around the new workshop, we can discuss the work.”

“In regard to Mr. Mitchell,” she said. “I won’t tolerate his constantly looking over my shoulder.”

Louis opened the door that still bore the scar from his cane. “Leave Pringle to me,” he sighed. “I’ll find some way to placate him.”

Together they stepped into the hall, where he bowed and kissed her hand.

It was all she could do to keep herself from laughing until after she’d turned the corner.

Noon at Tiffany’s

March 17, 1892

Dear Mama et al,

It’s the strangest thing to be back at my old work desk. Daniel Bracey, Frank and many of my flock (now known amongst the city’s artisans as “The Tiffany Girls”) were here to welcome me. Even Mr. Mitchell made a special trip downstairs to greet me, although I don’t think he did so of his own volition.

The San Remo manager refused our request to rent one of the servants’ rooms. He did, however, offer us jobs at $4 a week. When I begged off, he insisted on three months’ rent, paid in advance, “Seeing how youse is a widow now and not as reliable as the mister was.” He employed the smug, condescending attitude that well-off and dishonest people often take when dealing with those they consider beneath them. It was precisely that smirk that flung me into action. I gave notice on the spot, and bid adieu to him and his ever-present cloud of cigar smoke.

We have found an affordable boardinghouse at 1135 Madison Avenue, just down the street from Central Park, where the trees are presently budding in that clear, fresh green, so dainty in their newness. Josie will have the convenience of a trolley close by to take her to the Art Students’ League.

Our youngest lamb is coming out of mourning. I know this, because I found the new
Harper’s
tucked inside her sketchbook. She has also taken an apprenticeship with a Mrs. Greenwald who owns a dress shop close by. I have never seen her so happy. If that isn’t enough to convince you, just yesterday she gave the Italian vegetable and fruit vendor our only
umbrella, so the rain wouldn’t spoil his wares. I’m happy to report he returned it at the end of the day, along with four turnips.

Mama, do not worry over how we shall manage. May I remind you that my sisters and I were raised by a capable woman who taught us how to fend for ourselves?

Emily, do not speak ill of Mr. Driscoll again. His neglect in making arrangements for us wasn’t intentional. The sooner this matter is forgotten, the better. It’s only when we look behind ourselves that we have a tendency to trip.

I’m more resolute than ever about succeeding in the world, which brings me to your question about why I’ve agreed to undertake this staggering and monumental task at Tiffany’s. In answer, I can only tell you that until I reach my goal, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Much love,

Clara P. Driscoll, Manager

Tiffany Women’s Glass Cutting Department

“Twenty dollars a week? Have you lost your mind?” Pringle Mitchell looked up from the employee hire form in disbelief.

Louis leaned back. “Mrs. Driscoll works harder than anyone in the company. In turn, the women work harder to please her.”

“But twenty dollars, Louis! The men will—”

“The men will what? Strike? They’ve been threatening to do that for months. They know I’m under the gun to finish the exhibition chapel, so they think that if they refuse to resume work on the mosaics and windows, I’ll give in to the demands of the Lead Glaziers and Glass Cutters Union for higher salaries and reduced working hours.”

Louis examined the ash on his cigar. “Which is precisely why I’ve hired Mrs. Driscoll. She provides us with a workforce that will out-produce the men and do a much better job. Her department will pinch-hit until the men come to their senses.”

“But even so, paying her this much will only create resentments among the men.”

Louis shrugged. “Initially there might be some hard feelings, but ultimately they’ll get used to it. They don’t really believe women are capable of replacing them.”

“I’m warning you, Louis, the men will make her life miserable.”

“Are you worried that they might make her more miserable than you do?” Louis tapped Mitchell’s desk and leaned in. “Hear me now, Mitchell, you will lay aside whatever resentments and hostility you’re harboring for Mrs. Driscoll. I can’t afford to lose her again, nor do I intend to even if I have to give her the moon and the stars. Do I make myself clear?”

Mitchell nodded, though his natural pigheadedness forced him to try for the last word. “Very clear, but I still think you’re making a mistake.”

“Mrs. Driscoll will prove you wrong.” Louis paused, “However, I am curious—why do you harbor such a violent dislike for this woman?”

“She has an unnatural attitude of superiority,” Mitchell retorted. “Her type endangers the very fabric of our society. Her belief that she’s our equal is offensive. She’ll corrupt the younger girls with her insolence, you wait and see.”

“I daresay your attitudes about women are a little outdated. I doubt Mrs. Driscoll poses any great danger to Tiffany’s, or anyone else, for that matter. Just make sure to keep her salary to yourself. If any of the men ask what she earns, lie. I’ve got enough on my plate without having tempers stoked.”

Louis thought for a moment. “Change the employee hire form to thirteen dollars a week, but make sure her pay envelope contains the extra seven dollars in cash. I don’t want any record of that extra money, and I don’t want anyone finding out by accident.”

“Where’s this extra cash to come from? Surely you can’t expect me to take that much out of the company cash box every week without someone noticing.”

“Take it from my personal account.”

“Now I’m certain you’ve lost your mind. Either that or—” Mitchell stared. “My God, Louis, are you having a dalliance with this woman?”

Louis looked down at his cigar and slowly, deliberately, knocked the ash off onto the desk. Without warning, he grabbed Mitchell by the lapels, jerking him out of his chair. “If I were a less civilized gentleman, Mitchell, I‘d bash your damned teeth down your throat.” Louis shoved him back into his chair. “You had best be sure to keep that filthy-minded fabrication to yourself, or I promise you’ll regret the day you were born.”

Shaken, Mitchell smoothed out his jacket. “I meant no disrespect, but surely you must see how it might appear to the men if you continue
to indulge her. I know how these men think, Louis. The majority of them are unrefined. They bitterly resent women in positions that rival their own. I tell you that if you continue to favor Mrs. Driscoll’s department, there will be trouble. Perhaps not this month, or maybe not for years, but the jealousies are there, and we’ll have to deal with them when they’ve grown into something ugly.”

Louis donned his Panama hat. “Nonsense. Sometimes I think you’d see doom in a garden full of roses, Mitchell. Stop worrying about the mundane jealousies that are common to every workplace and try to understand that the monetary benefit to Tiffany’s resulting from Mrs. Driscoll’s employment will make the extra three hundred and sixty-four dollars a year seem like the best investment since the Dutch purchased Manhattan for twenty-four dollars and a few beads.”

Lenox Hill

April 4, 1892

Going against all the rules, the widow Driscoll has thrown herself into her work with utter determination. I can’t help but admire her. I’ve been informed that Driscoll left her with nothing but a few hundred! I’m sorry for her sake, but the circumstances work so well to my purpose, I’m convinced it must be divine providence.

Tiffany’s Byzantine Chapel is now guaranteed to win enough awards to put Father’s exhibition to shame. Of this I am certain. L.C.T.

1135 Madison Ave.

April 21, 1892

Dear Ones,

You can tell from the beautiful script that Alice is writing this while I rest my poor eyes. The work on the Columbian Exposition installment has everyone involved twelve to fourteen hours a day. The mosaics are beautiful, but the work strains my eyes and challenges my every faculty.

I give my best to each demand Mr. Tiffany makes of me, with the hope that in the future my creative efforts will earn recognition from the public at
large. I want to feel that I have truly earned every penny of my generous salary.

Our new flat has been transformed into a cheerful nest. Alice and the Waldo brothers have freshened up the paint and contributed a few of their own watercolors for our walls. The ceiling in our room is much more interesting than the ceilings at the San Remo. This one has character in the artful way the cracks find their way through the whitewash. The variety of patterns gives my imagination plenty to play with during the long nights I’m unable to sleep.

8 p.m.

I meant to finish this letter with all my petty concerns over the price of shoe repairs and dentists, but now these seem such meaningless complaints, when compared to Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany’s misery this day. Henry Belknap came by to inform me that Mr. Tiffany’s three-year-old daughter, Annie, died this afternoon of diphtheria, following a bout of scarlet fever. Apparently, Mr. Tiffany is out of his mind with grief. He has locked himself in his studio and will allow no one near him, save for the family dog.

I cannot help but think of Mr. Driscoll, and how different the death of a child is compared to the death of a battle-weary lion. With the ending of a child’s life, we each experience a little death of hope.

The best I can do is to take command of the chapel and seek excellence in our work. In the morning, I’ll return to the workshop and do what I can. It being Sunday, I’m looking forward to working without interference. It’s the least I can do for Mr. Tiffany.

Much love to all, Clara

P.S. Dear Family,

My apprenticeship at Mrs. Greenwald’s dress shop has taken an unexpected and happy turn. As it so happens, one of her society ladies saw my spring gown and cape design and insisted that Mrs. Greenwald make it for her. Mrs. Greenwald was so pleased she gave me five dollars! I can attest to the fact it is a wonderful thing to earn money while doing something that brings one joy. If I never achieve another success in my life, I shall die happy.

Your loving daughter and sister,

Josephine Minor Wolcott

April 17, 1896

Dearest Mama, Rev. Cutler, Clara, Kate and Emily,

The thought of being separated from you grieves me sorely, but do not despair. I derive great happiness from knowing that I will soon be free of this flawed body.

Use the money I’ve earned at Mrs. Greenwald’s to help with expenses. You will find these funds, presently totaling $63, in an envelope taped to the back of George Waldo’s portrait. Please, never forget that I love you.

Josie

I
T SEEMED TO
Clara that days, instead of hours, had passed since they had boarded the westbound train to escort Josie home. She entered the private railcar where her mother and sisters were holding vigil. “The conductor has just informed me that we’ll arrive in Tallmadge at seven twenty-two in the morning. Uncle Walter and Reverend Cutler will meet us with the wagons.”

Her mother slowly raised her head. The shine of tears had transformed her ashen face into an alabaster mask. It was, Clara thought, the anguished expression any mother might wear when burying her youngest child.

By far the loveliest of the Wolcott daughters, Kate sat at the head of Josie’s casket. Serene in her sorrow, she moved her fingers steadily, working an ivory tatting shuttle, weaving white thread into lace. In contrast, Emily sat at the foot of the casket, glaring. With her dark brows and thin line of a mouth that rarely smiled, she was, as Alice was fond of saying, the burr in the Wolcott family shoe.

Emily tapped Clara’s arm, “Whatever was wrong with George Waldo at the memorial service this morning? From the way he blubbered on forever like an old woman, you’d think he was related to her.”

Clara let out a slow breath and sat next to her mother. Other than as a lesson in patience for the rest of the family, she’d never been able to determine the reasons behind Emily’s prickly nature. “George is a sensitive man, Emily. You shouldn’t begrudge him his expression of grief. He and Josie were very close. Her death is especially hard for him.”

“As if it isn’t hard on us?” Emily sniffed. “Why couldn’t you have made him sit down or—”

“Josie was so full of joy,” Fannie said, putting her hand out, as if to touch Josie through the casket.

Falling silent, they turned to their mother.

“I cannot think of her and shadow together,” Fannie continued. “Hers is the one death I shall never feel reconciled to. The only thing that helps to soften this crushing blow is to think of what it would have been like for her had she lived. It’s hard to part with my child of the light, but then I realize it would be harder still to watch her perish by inches in suffering.”