Noon at Tiffany's (32 page)

September 7, 1898

C
LARA GLANCED UP
from her work and was rendered momentarily mute. Her newest girl stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. Barely fifteen, the child wore a brown brocade dress sporting puffs of pink silk at the shoulders and hem. Her pink hat, adorned with ostrich feathers, was set at a rakish angle on her small, neat head.

The girl curtsied, causing Clara to bite her tongue so as not to guffaw outright. “A man stopped me as I was coming in, ma’am, and he told me—”

“That was Mr. Bracey,” Clara said. Daniel must have thought the girl had mistaken the building for a fancy hotel.

“No ma’am.” She curtsied again. “He said his name was Mr. Mitchell. He told me to tell you that Mr. Tiffany wants to see you right away.”

As the girl began backing away, Clara held up a finger. “Before you go, if I may make a few suggestions?”

“Yes, ma’am?” Another curtsy.

Clara removed her apron and smoothed down her skirts. “First, no one in this department calls me ‘ma’am.’ The title ages me, and I already feel much older than my actual age. Please call me Mrs. Driscoll, or even Clara, it’s shorter.”

The girl curtsied.

“Secondly, you must not curtsy. It’s bad for the knees, and, though I would like to think so at times, I am
not
the Queen.

And last, while your gown is quite lovely, you mustn’t wear your good dresses to work, because by the end of the day they will be ruined beyond repair.” She handed over her apron and a smock. “Wear these today, and tomorrow wear an everyday skirt and waist, the more worn, the better.”

The girl began to curtsy, remembered herself and backed out of the room.

“Well, what do you think?” Louis asked, watching her closely.

Clara dared not touch the lustrous yellow sheet of glass through which multicolored glass filaments had been threaded.

“It’s …wonderful,” she breathed. “Did Mr. Nash make this?”

“He
supplied the formula,” Tiffany replied tartly. “
I
supplied the materials, the factory, the manpower, and the money to make it a reality. It’s costly to make—about ten dollars a pound. This is the only sheet of its kind in existence. I want you to utilize it to best advantage in a design of your making. Just make sure you’re both selector and cutter—it’s too rare to entrust to anyone else.”

He wandered over to his orchids, pinched off a dead leaf and let it fall to the carpet. “The primrose lamp sold the first day, so I’ll want three more of them, along with another three of the cherry blossom lamp. We’ve had quite a few requests for more of the lotus leaf design, too. In fact, I’ll have Mr. Mitchell make a list of the designs that have sold well and have you repeat them.”

He glanced at her. “It’s already September. If you’re to get all this done before the holiday rush, you’ll need to step up production. I want everything done and in the showrooms no later than November first.”

An uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach worked its way into her temples. It would be humanly impossible to make that many lamps in such a short time. What further worried her was the way Tiffany wouldn’t look at her. She knew him—he had more to demand of her, and it was something she wasn’t going to like.

“About my idea for small novelty items,” he began, “I’ve decided they might prove lucrative if we can make enough.”

She started to point out that the novelty items were her idea, but thought better of it. It wasn’t worth the risk of inciting his anger; with Mr. Tiffany, she knew to choose her battles carefully.

“I was thinking we could introduce these things slowly,” he continued, “perhaps two styles of ink trays, several types of small boxes and three or four different tea screens. After the first of the year, I want you to start working on making fancy clocks.”

He left his orchids and faced her. “As always, your designs for these items should reflect my belief that art can be found even in everyday things.”

She tapped her notebook with her pencil. “While I’m busy doing all that, who will work on the windows and mosaics?”

He seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “You and your girls. You know as well as I do that the mosaics and windows can’t be ignored, even for a day. I have customers who expect their things to be finished on time—which brings me to my next bit of news.”

He paused while she braced herself.

“I’m putting Alice Gouvy in charge of the women’s department at the Corona factory designing Favrile vases and glassware. I’m—”

Fury, born of bitter disappointment, lifted her to her feet before he could finish. “You must not do that, Mr. Tiffany! Alice is the one artist I trust implicitly. If you take her from me, there’s no way we could possibly complete all these things by the time you want them.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Tiffany said gruffly. “I’m assigning Joseph Briggs as your new assistant. He’ll be completely under your direction. Being one of Queen Victoria’s subjects, he doesn’t seem to mind following a woman’s orders as much as our men do. He’s the finest mosaicist in England, and I daresay in America as well. He’ll be most beneficial as a liaison among your department, the men’s department, and the foundry. However, as Mr. Briggs won’t be able to start work until January, I’m letting you keep Miss Gouvy until then.”

The misery over losing Alice settled in her chest, making it difficult to talk. She wanted to cry almost as much as she wanted to walk away. “I’ll need to hire more women,” she said finally. “Even then, it’s going to mean working ten or twelve hours each day, including Saturdays. The women aren’t going to like that. They already work more hours than they’re paid for.”

Louis struck a condescending pose. It was one of his attitudes she hated most. “If they don’t want to work, they can leave my employ. Hire on as many extra girls as you need, but make sure everything is done to my standards of quality.”

“Please, Mr. Tiffany, try to see reason. Even with the extra women working twelve hours a day, we can’t complete all this work in so short a time.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, we cannot. You ask too much. I can’t do this.”

“You can.” He stared across the desk. “You can, because, my dear Clara, you’re the only one who
could.
You are by far the best artisan in the field. The men’s department could never do what you and the Tiffany Girls accomplish.”

She was unable to respond, until, in a flash of brilliance, she grasped the opportunity, opened her sketchbook and placed it on his desk. “If you truly believe what you’ve just said, then you should have no objection to this.”

Louis adjusted his pince-nez and studied her drawing of a circle in which a delicate vine twined in and around stylized letters. He looked up, his expression blank. “What is it?”

“Don’t you see?” She leaned forward and traced the ornate C. and the W. “It’s my mark, the one I’d like engraved on each of my designs.”

“No!”

“I thought since the lamps were such a success—”

“No.” Louis shook his head. “It’s too early to tell how long that success will last.”

“But if we—”

“I said no, I mean no. I’ll reconsider when I’m assured the lamps and novelties will continue to sell after the initial enthusiasm has died down.”

“But you promised!”

He slapped his desk. “Enough! We have more important things to deal with than your mark. You need to step lively. Make sure your girls enter into the spirit of things.”

He strode to the door with purpose, picking up his cane on the way. “I’m taking the stairs down to speak to the men about preparing for the onslaught of work that you’ll be bringing them.” He gave her one of his imperious smiles. “However, in the interest of saving time, I suggest
you
take the lift.”

Tiffany’s

September 13, 1898

Dearest Family,

I have only ten minutes in which to eat my dinner—a buttered roll and hot coffee, which was all the vendor had left after the noon rush. The spills and smears of food may be unsightly, but they do prove that I am receiving nourishment.

These are troubled times into which your robin flew this morning. Do you remember my tall Swedish girl, Miss Wilhemson, who left to be married? Yesterday morning, the newspaper criers were shouting from every corner, and, thinking it was another Tammany Hall murder, I went down to get a paper. Instead it was an illustrated account of how Miss Wilhemson had been found dead in an alley, an empty bottle of carbolic acid by her side. My recommendation letter was in her pocket, along with a letter from her fiancé saying he never intended to marry her. I immediately went to the tenement house where her family lives. They were in a terrible state, both terrified and hysterical. They had no idea what to do, so it fell to me to send for the undertaker. Every penny of their life savings went for a pine box and a small stone marker.

Everyone in my department has been deeply affected. The girls can hardly keep their minds on their work. Thursday, I am taking them all to the funeral. It is the least we can do.

I’m at my wit’s end over the burden being heaped on me at Tiffany’s. I must refuse all invitations to go anywhere or do anything. I give my callers a book to read and go on working. Mr. Tiffany seems particularly inspired to have
all
my designs made, and so this makes for a lively time for tired old Clara. Added to this is more thumb-screwing from Mr. Mitchell, who insists I take on the bookkeeping for my department. (Emily, if I am not here when you visit at Christmas, you’ll find me in the nearest sanatorium for the insane).

I’m designing from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., and then spending the rest of my evening getting up a new system of books for estimates of costs and what is charged me for labor and expenses. Mr. Booth is quite efficient at these things and is willing to help. I shall come out all right, but the amount of detail is appalling, and it’s something I know nothing about.

I must stop here, as I have to run (literally) to Stern’s for fabric with which to make over the worn hems of my work skirts. Mr. Mitchell’s observation that I have been dressing rather low these last weeks made an impression.

Love, Clara

P.S. Kate: Your first days in Cleveland’s art salons as portrait maker remind me so much of my first days at Tiffany’s. Remember, flattery pays well; second chins and wrinkles do not.

October 16, 1898

44 Irving Place

“You can’t possibly be serious about going into Tiffany’s today.” Alice put down her tea. “It’s Sunday. You have to rest sometime, Clara. You haven’t eaten or slept properly in weeks.” She looked from Dudley to George to Henry. “Can’t one of you please talk sense into her?”

They watched Clara fumble with her hatpin, her face pinched with fatigue.

“It’s a lost cause,” Dudley said. “I detect that stubborn determination in her eyes. It’s a stronger force than any or all of us could fight.”

George elbowed Henry in the ribs. “You’re one of the Tiffany Powers—do something. Convince her to go with us to Prospect Park instead of that slave mill. I can’t stand the idea of her missing a scrumptious picnic lunch.”

“I’ve tried,” Henry sighed. “I’ve even asked Mr. Tiffany to let her take a few days away, but he’s driving himself as hard as she is herself. He’s probably at his desk this very moment, slaving over lists of new things for her to work on.”

“Just keep talking amongst yourselves as though I’m not here,” Clara said, pulling on her gloves. “But I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t go on about what a glorious day you’re going to have until after I’ve gone. I’m already about as low-spirited as a snake, and so tired that I barely had the energy to lift a fork to my mouth.”

Edward Booth appeared in the doorway looking both jaunty and
elegant in his bicycle breeches. “Hello there. I say, is anyone up for a ride to the country? Clara? Alice? How about you, George? Dudley? It’s a lovely day. I don’t think we’ll get many more like it before the snow flies. What say? Anyone willing to have a go?”

“Sorry,” Alice said, “I’ve already thrown my lot in with these gentlemen. Perhaps next week?”

“I’m just a penniless artist,” Dudley said. “I can’t afford the price of a streetcar, let alone a wheel.”

“I’d like to go with you some other time,” Henry said, “but I don’t think we have that much ambition today.”

George raised his chin to show contempt for the idea. “Really, Mr. Booth, I doubt anyone here would be even remotely interested in wasting the day getting sweaty and dirty. As far as I’m concerned, the country is a place best visited while looking out the window of a train dining car.”

“I’d love to go.”

They turned in unison to stare at Clara.

Alice frowned. “But only a minute ago you said you couldn’t even lift a fork, you were so tired.”

“You didn’t offer a bicycle ride into the country, now, did you?” She removed her hat and brushed a wave of dark hair from her eyes. “If you can wait five minutes, Mr. Booth, I’ll change into my bicycle suit and hat.”

“I was thinking of riding along the Hudson River past Yonkers,” Edward called after her retreating figure. “It should be about a 70-mile trip, and some of the going will be fairly strenuous. Do you think you’re up to it?”