Noon at Tiffany's (29 page)

One of Miss Owens’s boarders, Mr. Bainbridge, is a stage manager. He asked me to read for one of the roles. I was all nerves, but my love for theatricals came to my aid. Mr. Bainbridge was quite impressed with my memory for lines. When I told him I harbored a secret desire to be on the stage, he replied that he hoped I would continue to resist the temptation.

Love, Clara

P.S. Kate: I sympathize with you about hats. Milliners must all possess wicked natures. How provoking that purchasing headwear should cause such anguish of spirit.

June 13, 1898

C
LARA FOUND MR. TIFFANY
in Mr. Mitchell’s office contemplating her most recent lamp. Above a base of intricately detailed copper that mimicked a twisting grapevine hung a dome of purple and red glass grapes inset with opalescent pieces meant to soften the overall effect.

“Mr. Mitchell might be delayed,” Louis said, “There was a problem with one of the furnaces at the Corona factory. It blew up several thousand dollars worth of vases last night. I sent him to assess the—”

A rumpled Pringle Mitchell dragged himself across the threshold, his summer frockcoat slung over his shoulder. He dropped into a chair mopping his face and neck. “It’s only the middle of June, and it’s already hotter than blazes. There’s got to be a half-dozen horses dead in the streets between here and the station.”

“It’s too hot, Pringle. Let’s get on with the discussion about placing the lamps in the showroom.”

“I still don’t like that grape lamp,” Mitchell grumbled. “It’s too large. You need to make it smaller and of calmer colors … white and green perhaps.”

Suffering beneath three layers of heavy skirts, Clara groaned. Just the thought of having to undo what took her and the other women weeks of hard work to accomplish made her tired.

“I wouldn’t think of having it changed,” Louis said. “It’s perfect as it stands.”

“Then I’ll repeat what I’ve said all along,” Mitchell said. “These things will never sell except as novelty items. We should leave them to the street peddlers.”

Annoyed, Clara stamped her foot. “They will sell, and not only that, they’ll sell for top price.”

“They most certainly will not!” Mitchell countered. “All the time and money you’ve spent over these gewgaws has been a waste. We’ll never earn it back.”

Resisting the temptation to argue, she began again. “I tell you what, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll wager my week’s salary that this lamp will sell within seven days. Not only that, but with Mr. Tiffany’s permission, I’ll add the poppy table lamp into the bargain. Both lamps must sell within a week, or you can keep my wages.”

Mitchell’s face lit up with a flash of genuine glee. “I accept your wager, and because I am so sure these glass follies of yours won’t sell, I’ll sweeten the stakes for you. If they both sell within the week, I’ll personally double your next paycheck. We can place them in the showroom today, if you like.”

“Well then,” Clara said, rising from her chair. “I say we adjourn to the showroom. What say you, Mr. Tiffany?”

Louis glanced from Mitchell to Clara. “Have you two taken leave of your wits? Surely you don’t mean to put them in the showroom
now
?”

“What better time than the present?” Clara said. “Mr. Mitchell? Are you with me, or have you already decided to back down?”

Pringle Mitchell donned his coat. Together they looked at Louis.

Laughing in spite of himself, Louis picked up his cane. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

To make sure the lamps received the benefit of full light, Clara chose a display table near the showroom window. When she was satisfied the lamps were displayed to their best advantage, she and the men retreated to a side room where they could judge the customers’ initial reactions.

No sooner had they settled in than a handsome matron in mourning dress and with the bearing of an empress entered the showroom. At her side was a striking woman of perhaps twenty, her shining black hair tucked under a hat of pink rosebuds and white feathers. A tasteful rope of pearls hung low across her bosom. Neither woman appeared to have been affected by the killing heat.

With a sharp intake of breath, Louis turned away, pretending to inspect a vase. “Good God, it’s Mrs. and Miss Goelet!”

Clara had no idea who the Goelets were, but it didn’t take much to conclude the women were from money, and a great deal of it at that. “Who are they?”

“Widow of Ogden Goelet,” Louis whispered. “Vast real estate
investments. Founded the Metropolitan Opera. Next to the Astors and the Morgans, they’re among the stars of New York society.” He shoved her toward the showroom. “Go! Don’t let them out of your sight until you’ve sold them something.”

When she stepped into the showroom, the women were turned away, examining a gilded mirror. Using a childhood trick Kate taught her, she stared hard at the backs of their heads, willing them to turn their attention to the lamps.

Searching the room for the force that summoned them, the women were all at once gliding toward the lamps. Clara heard their intake of breath and then Miss Goelet’s urgent exclamation.

“Oh Mother, look here!”

Their excited murmurs drew her and Mr. Mitchell across the room like puppets on invisible strings.

The young woman was touching the poppy lamp. “… so unusual, we
must
have them, Mother. I want this one for my writing desk and the grape will go perfectly in the first floor library.”

Clara inched closer, Mr. Mitchell on her heels. Mrs. Goelet beckoned her with a bejeweled finger. “You there, excuse me.”

“Yes, Madam, how may I help you?” Amused that she had suddenly adopted a slight British accent, Clara bowed in imitation of the Tiffany showroom salesclerks.

“These lamps are not priced,” said Mrs. Goelet.

“I apologize, Madam, but that’s because they were placed in the showroom only moments ago. You are the first to view these magnificent works of art.”

Mr. Mitchell nudged her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his highly arched eyebrow making her think perhaps Mr. Bainbridge was correct in discouraging her longings to be an actress.

The young woman smiled, revealing even, white teeth that perfectly matched her pearls. “Do you know the price?”

“Of course. The grapevine table lamp is …” she could feel Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Mitchell tense, “… three hundred and fifty dollars, and the poppy desk lamp is three hundred.”

Behind her, Mr. Mitchell let out a faint gasp. Clara took a quick glance over Mrs. Goelet’s shoulder at Mr. Tiffany, who was standing stock still, his mouth fallen open.

Mrs. Goelet appeared doubtful.

Clara stepped in front of Mr. Mitchell, blocking him completely from Mrs. Goelet’s view. “I am sure you will agree, Madam, that these two unique and extraordinarily beautiful pieces are well worth the price. They are works of art, worthy of placement in any fine European gallery.”

“She’s right, Mother,” Miss Goelet said.” They are unusual, and so perfectly suited to our décor.”

Mrs. Goelet sighed. “You’re the one with the eye for art, my dear, and there is no denying they are beautiful.”

She took a gilt-edged card from her purse and handed it to Clara. “Have them crated and delivered today to this address. Make sure they are accompanied by trusted men who can place them for us.”

Appearing as if by magic, Louis swooped down, plucked the card out of Clara’s fingers and bowed.

Mrs. Goelet offered him her hand. “Ah, Mr. Tiffany, I see you have added yet another stunning jewel to your collection of masterpieces.”

“Mother is much too modest with her praise, Mr. Tiffany,” Miss Goelet said. “These lamps are exquisite, and such a clever idea. Who is the artist behind these magnificent pieces?”

Clara felt her heart pounding in her throat. It was the moment she had waited for all her life. From this time forward her name would be linked with creations of beauty. She dried her hand against her skirt in anticipation of the women’s praise and extended it, a bashful smile on her lips.

Louis moved in front of her. “They are the first of a new line I’m designing,” he said without any hesitation. “There are soon to be many more, all made with Tiffany glass in unique motifs from nature.”

Stinging disappointment and humiliation left her mute. She buried her hand in her skirt pocket and bit her lip to keep herself from saying something, or screaming, or worse yet, breaking down in tears.

Mr. Mitchell stepped closer and gave her a swift, commiserating pat on the shoulder. The small gesture helped eased her anguish. By the time she could breathe normally, she’d numbed herself to the pain of Mr. Tiffany’s betrayal with reassurances that it was only her first triumph—there would be more.

Certainly Mr. Tiffany couldn’t take credit for
all
of her work.

On the walk back to Mr. Mitchell’s office, Mr. Tiffany had not stopped talking. Any attempt on Clara’s part to voice her thoughts about the sale of the lamps was thwarted.

Louis rubbed his hands together after the fashion of a man who has just discovered a gold mine. “I want you to direct all your energy into designing lamps. Have your girls start making copies of the two we’ve just sold. I’ll have Mr. Mitchell include them in our next catalog. Show me the sketches you brought of the new models.”

When they reached Mr. Mitchell’s office, Clara rummaged through the pile of designs until she found the ones she liked best and placed them before Louis. “This wisteria motif is more complicated, but if you like it well enough, I could begin working on it at once. The base would be a bronze imitation of a wisteria trunk with roots fanning out on the bottom. You can see here …” she pointed with the end of her pencil “… the branching laterals support the pendulous clusters of purple and blue flowers against a background of opalescent glass. I’ve replaced the usual straight bottom rim with irregular shapes like clusters of hanging flowers.”

She chose another design. “This is my evening primrose and butterfly lamp. The shade is made up of clouds of yellow butterflies, each butterfly set in a network of gold wire in graceful waving lines—like the lines of smoke.”

Louis studied both sketches. “Where did these ideas come from?”

“We have a wisteria arbor at home, and next to our farm is a field of primroses. As a child, I’d sit all day in that field and make believe I was in Heaven. I have so many ideas crowding my head they wake me in the middle of the night. I have to keep my sketchbook next to my bed.”

Louis pulled the pencil out of her hand began sketching haphazardly over her design. His erratic pencil strokes grew more spasmodic with his increasing frustration until the lines made no sense. “Never mind. Work out whatever ideas you want. I suspect Mrs. Goelet and her daughter will be our best advertisers. Miss Goelet has already gained a reputation as a discerning collector. This sale is going to set off an explosion of interest.”

He studied the wisteria design again. “I don’t want you wasting your time making molds. Have the men in the plaster room make the casts
from your drawings and instructions. I want you to keep your mind on the designs and the color selections.”

She brought out several more drawings, one a watercolor showing a dome of gold petals. “This is the laburnum library lamp, and this one here is my lotus design. I thought having hanging lotus blossoms inside an outer shade was a unique idea. Also, I haven’t sketched it out yet, but I have an idea about using a moth motif for a desk lamp. I’m just waiting until they invade my clothes again to make studies.”

“Moths?” Louis slipped down into a chair, his fingers tented under his chin. “I’m having a hard time envisioning moths as a lamp, although the idea is intriguing.”

Mr. Mitchell entered his office, hands held up in surrender. “Don’t start crowing over your victory, Mrs. Driscoll. I want to go on record as saying that watching you hoodwink the Goelets into purchasing the lamps for those preposterous prices was almost worth losing the wager.”

He threw himself into a chair opposite Louis. “Those women must have been addled by the heat.”

She laughed in spite of herself and glanced around his gloomy office. “I noticed you don’t have a shade for your gas globe, Mr. Mitchell. I was thinking that if you had one of my shades, you might come to appreciate them more. Besides giving your eyes a rest, it would be an A-one advertisement for the lamps. Tell me which flowers you like, and I’ll design a motif just for you.”