Noon at Tiffany's (24 page)

The pause that followed was so lengthy, she panicked, afraid the door would fly open at any moment. She was about to flee, when Louis’s voice boomed through the door.

“What is it you want, Arthur? Another partnership? I’ll have my attorneys draw up papers today if that’s what you want.”

“Oh yes, of course you will.” The note of sarcasm in Nash’s rising voice could not be missed. “May I inquire whether they’ll be the same solicitors who helped your father hornswoggle John LaFarge out of his opalescent glass formula?”

“Now hold on, Arthur,” Henry said with the voice of reason. “We need to go at this with equanimity.”

“Of course,” Mr. Nash agreed, “you’re quite right, Belknap. Therefore it is with equanimity that I say if you wish to continue having quality
Favrile and all the other types of glass I invent, keep Dr. McIlhiney out of my workshop.”

From the note of finality in Arthur Nash’s voice, it was clear the meeting was at an end. In her panic to get away, Clara tripped over her skirts and fell against the door. Making a quick recovery, she knocked just as Dr. McIlhiney stormed out, followed by Arthur Nash.

“Happy New Year’s Eve, Mrs. Driscoll,” Mr. Nash said. “How lovely to see you.”

Returning his greeting, she nodded at Henry and stepped inside the office.

“Close the door please,” Louis said, his voice still carrying a fringe of agitation. “How may I help you, Clara?”

She winced. He’d started calling her by her Christian name when they were alone. She hadn’t been able to get used to it. It felt too familiar—almost a violation of her person.

“I believe you’ve met my friend, George Waldo, the freelance illustrator who teaches at the Art Students’ League? His brother, Edwin Waldo, has taken a position as manager on a coffee plantation in Mexico and has asked that I accompany him as his wife.”

Louis exhaled and covered his face with his hands.

“I’ll be leaving at the end of April, after the Easter rush.” She dipped her head to try and make out his expression from between his fingers. “I thought it only fair to give you plenty of advance notice.”

He took his hands away, his fingers having left impressions where they’d pressed into his flesh. “Why are you doing this to me? Why now?”

“I’m not doing anything
to
you, I’m simply leaving to—”

He brought his fist down hard. “This is nonsense! I thought you’d gotten that marriage lunacy out of your system. You’re an artist, not a domestic slave. Marriage is a foolish occupation for young girls, not someone of your talents. Didn’t you learn your lesson last time? Your first and only responsibility should be to Tiffany’s. I won’t have you wasting your life on some man who in the end will only make your life miserable. I …”

He paused in his tirade, seemed to think better of it, and changed tack. “Have you seriously considered what living in Mexico would mean? Life in those filthy places presents all manner of dangers to your person, treacherous snakes and deadly insects, for instance. No one escapes being struck down by malaria, and if Mexico is the same as it was when I visited there last,
there won’t be a qualified doctor within a hundred miles to help you.

“It’s a lawless land; there are savages who roam about looking for people to rob … and worse. They have no fear of consequences, because there are none.”

It was true that she hadn’t fully considered any of the perils he named, but she was certain he was exaggerating. If the plantation was as prosperous as Edwin assured her it was, physicians and supplies wouldn’t be far away, and surely there had to be some law and order.

“I appreciate your concerns, but I possess a hardy constitution; and, having been raised on a farm, it will take more than a few snakes and insects to scare me off. As far as bandits, I’m sure we’ll have adequate protection.”

Louis pushed a hand roughly through his hair—a sign he was working himself into a fit of temper. The unease she felt whenever she found herself on the other end of his displeasure rose up, threatening to undermine her resolve. She shifted on her feet.

He went to her. “After years of cajoling and threatening, I finally obtain permission from the board to give you carte blanche for the lamp designs. My god, I’ve practically put myself into ruin organizing a foundry and metal shop at the Corona factory, just so you can do as you please.” He spoke almost kindly, his expression a little sad. “Do you know what that means, Clara? You can design whatever you want—lamps, deluxe pieces—every idea you’ve ever had will be produced without interference.”

He took her hand. “Please, don’t leave me now. We’re on the brink of greatness.”

It took her a few seconds to fully grasp what he was saying, though she wasn’t sure whether or not it was a ploy to get her to stay. “I knew nothing of this. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“Because the foundry won’t be operational for a another month. I wanted to surprise you with the board’s approval and the finished foundry at the same time.”

She searched his face and saw that he was telling the truth. The disappointment that comes from lost opportunity welled up inside her, giving rise to fury.

“Once again, Mr. Tiffany, you come to the rescue too late. You should have told me sooner. But then again, you seem to believe that I should
never have any kind of life outside of this building and working for you.”

Holding onto her last shred of composure, she went to the door. “At least in marriage, whatever art I create will be known as mine.”

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Louis shouted after her.

She stopped, but did not turn around.

“You seem to have overlooked the fact that without me you would no doubt still be in Cleveland designing chairs and tables for farmers. No one would have given you the chances I have.”

Eyes narrowed, she swung around to face him. “Perhaps, but it’s much more likely I would have gone to J. and R. Lamb, and if they hadn’t taken me, Stillwell’s would have.
Those
men would have given me the honor of allowing my mark to go on the pieces I design.

“I’ll finish the windows I’ve started and show Miss Griffin how to go about things. Agnes Northrop can handle the rest.” A shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “As for the lamps and the deluxe individual pieces, I think the great Louis C. Tiffany should design those—if he can.”

“Clara, listen to me, please.” Louis ran after her, catching her by the arm. “Don’t do this. I’m begging you. Don’t go.”

Before she knew what he was doing, he pressed his mouth to her palm and kissed it with all the heat of a lover.

She wrenched her hand away and cradled it against her chest as if she’d been burned. “I’ve given my notice,” she said. “We have nothing more to discuss.”

Clara checked her watch. Alice and Henry were both late. She was sure Henry said they were to meet at the Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street corner of the Croton Egyptian Reservoir. Shivering, she decided rather than end up with frostbitten toes while she waited, she’d take a quick turn around the rim of the fortress-like structure for a bird’s-eye view of the city. Just as she finished one circuit and was about to begin another, she saw both of them hurrying toward her.

Without so much as a hello, Henry grabbed their hands and sprinted toward Fifth Avenue. “Come on, I’ve hired a private cab to take us to the Empire Hotel. I’m treating us to dinner.”

“What are we celebrating?” Alice inquired, after the cab was under way.

“I’ve given Tiffany notice that I’ll be taking a leave of absence for six months starting in May,” Henry said. “Mother has arranged a trip to the Italian Riviera then and insists George and I accompany her. I’m sure she’d settled for just George, but she’s too afraid of the gossip it would generate.”

“Perhaps we should have coordinated our timing,” Clara said. “I also gave him notice for the end of April. He’ll undoubtedly think we’ve conspired against him.”

“Or that we’re eloping,” Henry added.

They looked at one another and laughed.

“How did Mr. Tiffany receive the news of your engagement
this
time?” Alice asked.

“As you would expect,” Clara shrugged. “He listed all the things that could, and probably would, kill me while living in Mexico. He made it sound more like a safari to an unknown continent than the land just south of California.”

“While we’re on the subject of lost continents, Alice,” Henry said, trying to appear serious, “what exactly is all that business on your hat?”

“All what business?” Alice’s hand shot up to her hat—a complex affair of pinecones, pheasant feathers and what appeared to be a battalion of miniature snowmen standing at attention around the rim.

Clara squinted at the ersatz snowmen. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to achieve there. It looks like you’ve gotten into some dust balls.”

Alice regarded them sourly. “Obviously, neither of you knows the first thing about millinery fashion.” She fixed Clara with a stern look. “What in the blazes has come over you? For as long as I’ve known you, which is to say all my life, you’ve steadfastly claimed to anyone who would listen that your life is devoted to art. Suddenly you can hardly wait to give up your work and go off to some jungle to teach English to children. You hate teaching, and I’m not so sure you’re all that fond of children either.”

Hurt, Clara looked out the cab window. “My life will always be about creating art. As my dearest friend, you should know that. The simple truth is that I’m tired of working day to day to make Mr. Tiffany wealthy. From now on I’ll let Agnes Northrop do that, considering how she’s so fond of saying that she wants to work for him until her dying day.

“I’m no longer happy being just another cog in the Tiffany Company wheel. I long to wake up each morning happy to be alive and eager to work
for
myself.
More than that, at the end of the day I want to be able to claim that whatever I’ve done is mine. Most of all, I want a new life, and I don’t care if it
does
include malaria and snakes.”

“It’s not so much the malaria or the snakes that worry me,” Alice said, her voice losing some of its it’s severity. “You have to admit this business of Mr. Waldo asking you to marry him in order that he might drag you off to some primitive, unknown land is frightening to those of us who care for you.”

The blood rushed to Clara’s face. “I’m quite aware that none of you like Edwin, but it’s only because you haven’t taken the time to know him.”

“That isn’t true!” Alice protested. “We’ve all made the effort to know this man.”

“I have to agree with Alice,” Henry said. “It’s Edwin who is unreceptive to being known. He’s guarded to the point that one has to wonder what he’s hiding. He’s polite about it, but he disregards people, except for you and George.”

“I’ll be blunt,” Alice said. “Edwin is handsome, a talented artist and well educated, but if he has more positive attributes than that, he hides them from us.”

“He rarely keeps his engagements with you,” Henry said, picking up where Alice left off, “and if the man is actually taken ill as often as he says he is, he should be in a sanatorium. He never laughs, and his moods have little range beyond various levels of pique. To tell the truth, were he not George’s brother and so close to your heart, I would have no association with him.”

She opened her mouth to argue when Alice leaned forward and grasped both her hands. “Nothing I can see in his demeanor suggests that Edwin Waldo is a man basking in the glow of love. Help us understand what drives you to a man who is so unworthy of you.”

Lost for an answer, Clara closed her eyes. His good works for the Settlement had initially drawn her, but after she’d had a chance to observe him at his occupation, she soon realized that his generosity and kindness were not so much for the benefit of those he served as for securing glory for himself.

His artistic skill had initially impressed her, until she took a closer look at the things he created and realized his artwork lacked the essential passion that makes art come alive. As the months wore on, it became clear to anyone paying attention that he had no real interest in art at all.

She could not deny that he had the appearance of a scholar, but she soon perceived this façade was, in fact, created by a certain amount of cleverness rather than possession of any real intellect. His eloquence when explaining his theories kept her interest, though more and more he’d begun to sound like someone reciting from memory rather than one who believed in the substance of his words. As of late he seemed less interested in conversing with her, which made her think he’d either run out of things to say, or couldn’t keep up with her.

She couldn’t even claim lustful desire as a reason for marrying him. He was, as Alice pointed out, a handsome man, but she didn’t feel any different on the occasions he’d kissed her, than from the instances she’d kissed the chimney sweep for good luck.

Once she’d peeled away the layers of pretense, she recognized the core truth—Edwin was simply her bridge from the endless drudgery of Tiffany’s to an adventurous and exciting new life. That he had no fear of venturing into the unknown aroused her far more than any physical passion.