Noon at Tiffany's (33 page)

“If Annie Londonderry can go around the world on a bicycle,” Clara called cheerily over her shoulder, “I figure I can do a piddling 70 miles without much complaint.”

They passed the aqueduct through which the city water flowed and six miles later began the long climb up Mount Saint Vincent. Clara’s eyes were in constant motion, taking in the Hudson and the perpendicular blue hills beyond. At the summit, the world spread out below her like a map. The blue rivers and the sound were dotted with boats and little towns, pink and white among the great general green. A breeze came off the river,
filling her nostrils with the scents of the Hudson Valley countryside.

Pulling off her hat, she let her hair fall around her shoulders, hairpins dropping to the ground like metal rain. In the thicket of sweet grass, the warmth of the sun embraced her, as she marveled at the world. She closed her eyes and lay back. When she opened them again, Edward was sprawled beside her, watching her curiously.

“What were you thinking right then?” he asked.

“I’m not thinking at all. Experiencing with my senses would be more like it.”

She rolled over onto her stomach. “I see the way the afternoon sun slants through the trees and then across the goldenrod in yellow bands. Just when you asked, I was smelling the sweet grass and envisioning the wild carrot in a design.” She sat up and slipped off a boot. The sight of her large toe sticking through a hole in her stocking set them off laughing. She got to her hands and knees to search for the fallen hairpins.

The thought of what she must look like to him—a disheveled woman without shoes, holes in her stockings, hair blowing in every direction—brought home the discovery that it wasn’t easy being a companion to the immaculate Mr. Booth, whose hat and bicycle suit were luminous with cleanliness. Unlike her, he wore his clothes with ease, appearing elegant without seeming contrived.

“I am afraid, Mr. Booth, you are witnessing me in my untamed animal state. I hope I haven’t frightened you.”

“On the contrary, I enjoy your spirit a great deal. Are your sisters as lively?”

“Not quite,” Clara laughed, thinking of how mortified Emily would be to see her in her present state. “Emily and Kate are much less barbarian than I. What about your siblings?”

“I have quite a few brothers,” he said, smiling. “And I don’t believe they would find you barbaric either. William works in the city as an editor at Macmillan Publishers. He’s just married Mary Brewster, one of the nurses who founded the Henry Street Settlement House. Cecil is an inventor in London. He’s recently finished a machine that sucks dirt from floors and carpets. He calls the contraption a ‘Puffing Billy,’ but my brother Seymour, who is Cecil’s technical advisor, thinks it should be called a ‘vacuum cleaner.’ Fredrick, the youngest, is still at university.”

“So you are a family of scholars?”

“Not all of us. My interests lie in nature and the outdoors. I prefer exploring places in person, rather than reading about them. I mostly read about flora and fauna and the occasional instruction manual.”

When she said nothing, he added, “I might not be as well-read as my brothers, Mrs. Driscoll, but I do know every foot of every road from Sag Harbor to Schenectady. If you ever get away from Tiffany’s long enough, I’ll show you places that are beautiful beyond description.”

“I’d like that,” she said pinning her hair into place. She turned and studied him for a moment. “I’m glad you’ve become part of our circle, Mr. Booth.”

“I’m not sure Mr. Waldo would agree with you on that account,” he laughed.

“Pay no mind to George, he’ll warm to you eventually. It’s just that he’s so vain at times he can’t get out of his own way. The only reason he’s so full of nettles right now is because the attention isn’t fully on him. Give him time.”

She got to her feet. “I’m so famished, I could eat a goat, fur and all.”

“Well then, I suppose I’d best take you to Madame Coutant, the finest cook in all of New York. She owns an inn three miles from here.”

“Point the way,” she said, pulling her wheel onto the path. “Just make sure it’s downhill.”

Never in her life had food tasted so good. After savory soup, clams roasted in the shell, green beans with hot peppers, and chopped steak with onions, they ate their dessert on the veranda. Cozy in the cushioned wicker chair, she fell into a stuporous doze, in the manner of an anaconda after feasting.

Mr. Booth coughed politely. “You’ll have to postpone that nap, if we’re to catch the 9:20 train out of Bronxville into Grand Central.”

They had mounted their bikes and were about to start off, when Clara gave him a grateful smile. “I’m glad I came out with you.”

“Me too, except next time I’d really enjoy seeing you eat a goat, fur and all.”

Noon at Tiffany’s

November 8, 1898

Darlings,

I left work at 9 pm. last night and went with my Irving Place family to see the returns. It was a wonderful conglomeration of human noise and excitement. Miss Nye (our newest boarder, a kindergarten teacher who is pretty and reasonably interesting) and I elbowed our way through the crowds, shouting with the best of them, as it became more and more evident that Teddy Roosevelt was our new governor.

We wiggled ourselves back to 23
^rd
Street for the fireworks in Madison Square. The smoke transformed the trees, fountain and buildings into a misty and illuminated vision out of a fairy tale. From the Fifth Avenue Hotel steps, with the searchlight in Madison Square Tower flashing in all directions, we could just about see forever.

Love, Clara

Henry stepped into her office and closed the door behind him. “Are you free to accompany me to the opera tomorrow? It’s opening night.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I can’t possibly take the time. I’m hoping to get this jewelry box done before then, and I still have the two tea screens to work out. Can’t George attend?”

“My dear woman, haven’t you figured out by now that half the pleasure in listening to fine music is being with someone who appreciates it?”

“I’d love to, but …” She waved a hand over the half-finished lamps on her worktable. “As you can see, it isn’t possible.”

He plopped himself down in the chair next to hers. “We sold the first butterfly lamp today.”

“Good, because I’ve made eight more in slightly different ways.”

A worried expression crossed Henry’s face.

“Are you afraid they won’t sell?” she asked.

“They’ll sell, but I’ll have to price them at $400 each if we’re to make anything on them. It becomes a question of whether people want to pay that much for an oil lamp.”

“So, have the men change them over to electric. It won’t affect the designs.”

“What I’m saying, Clara, is that we have to think about the costs.”

She sat back. “My God, Henry, you sound like Mr. Mitchell.”

“Tiffany is nervous,” he said. “He’s down in the showroom every day, hiding out behind the statuary, listening to customers’ comments and coaching the salesclerks. He wants every piece sold or it’s my neck—and yours. You need to think of Louis in terms of King Henry the Eighth.”

She arched her back and stretched her arms over her head. “We’ve already sold the majority of the lamps and deluxe pieces, and my mosaic ink trays sold out the first day. You know as well as I that people will pay anything for what they like.”

Her eyes went to the wild-carrot jewelry box sample. “Mr. Tiffany isn’t the only one watching the sales, you know. If everything goes well, I’ll want an increase in salary and the right to put my mark on my designs.”

“Don’t get your hopes too high on
that
account,” Henry said. “I think you’d have a better chance at flying.” He drummed his fingers on her desk and resorted to staring out the window.

“What’s on your mind, Henry? You didn’t come down here just to tell me you’re worried about lamp sales. Out with it.”

He shifted his gaze back to her. “I managed to arrange a consultation for George with Dr. Hughlings Jackson, the world’s foremost expert on epilepsy. At the end of the exam, he gave us all the whys and wherefores of epilepsy, leaving us little wiser than when we arrived. Yesterday, he scheduled a private meeting, in which he told me George’s case was hopeless.

“He said the seizures will come more frequently, each one leaving George weaker. The longer it goes on, the more erratic George’s behavior will become. At some point, he’ll have a prolonged seizure that will strain his heart, and he’ll die.

“I haven’t told George; I see nothing to be gained from that.”

“How long before this might happen?”

Henry tucked his hands tight in his armpits. “It could be months or decades. It’s a hideous thing. There’s no effective medicine, diet or treatment—nothing.”

“Perhaps this isn’t such bad news,” she said finally.

“How can you say such a thing?”

“Look at it from the viewpoint that George isn’t a man to restrict himself. He can barely sleep longer than four hours at a time, because he hates being cooped up in bed, and honestly, can you imagine our George
on a restrictive diet?”

They smiled at the thought.

“Weaning George off his beloved sweets and hearty meals,” she said, “would be tantamount to death by torture.”

Henry groaned. “But surely we have to do something?”

“We will do something, “she said. “We’ll love and care for him as we always have, and then deal with what is to come when it gets here.”

44 Irving Place

November 24, 1898

Dearest Family,

I refused all invitations to dinner and spent my Thanksgiving being a woman instead of a businessman. So far, I’ve mended my shirtwaists and stockings and treated my hair. This evening all of us ‘holiday orphans’ went to Miss Nye’s room for cake and tea and took turns reading “Cyrano de Bergerac,” the new play that has excited so much comment here and abroad.

Last week, Miss Nye confided that she wishes to go out with Mr. Booth, but didn’t want to ask him herself. I thought he might like that, so I brought it about last Saturday evening. I was to act as chaperone while they attended an Italian puppet show, but then Mr. Booth sent word he couldn’t leave his work. He has shown no interest in renewing his offer, which is a shame, for they are well suited to one another.

George is here talking to the back of my head so that I can’t concentrate. I’ll finish this when I’m caught up at Tiffany’s.

I love you all, Clara

P.S. Mama: Alice and I had a good laugh over your comment that when we’re on our bicycles we must represent ‘grace of motion.’ We each looked at the other to see if we could discover it. What we found instead were the many scrapes and bruises that—

She threw down her pen and glared at George, who was pacing about
the room wringing his hands. “What are you on about now?”

Full of drama, he flung himself onto the couch. “Haven’t you been listening? I said that every time I visit, I find Mr. Booth hanging around like a piece of furniture. We never go out sketching anymore, because Mr. Booth doesn’t sketch. No one ever has time to model for me, because everyone is bicycling with Mr. Booth, or out to dinner with him, or calling on
his
friends.”

“George, you exaggerate. You know that isn’t true.”

“Yes it is!” he stamped his foot. “We don’t have our private salons like we used to, and even when we are all together no one pays the slightest attention to me. Like right now, I can tell you’d rather be writing your round robin or with Booth or that Miss Nye creature. You hang on their every word like they’re the prophets of the Bible!”

“Stop!” Clara shouted. “I can’t stand anymore of this senseless whining. You’re such a dreary companion when you get into these fits of hating people. The only reason you don’t like Mr. Booth is because he isn’t exactly like yourself. What’s worse is you denounce him to anyone who is foolish enough to listen, saying he’s dull-witted and not worthy of our company, simply because he’s unable to distinguish Early from Late Greek art!

“No one else feels these things about him.” She poked him in the chest. “This is the sort of thing that makes people unhappy with you. And now you’re going after Miss Nye, whose only crime seems to be that she doesn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“A lamppost has more animation than that woman,” George sniffed.

“You are so exasperating! This is the same egregious behavior you displayed toward Miss Hicks last year.”

“That Hicks creature deserved it. She’s dirty and queer.”

“How dare you say that about one of the sweetest, cleanest young women in the entire house! What could possibly make you say such a damning thing?”

“Have you forgotten about the tea she gave in September? She purposely gave me a sandwich with a hair in it. In the name of genteel manners, I was obliged to swallow the disgusting thing.” He shuddered. “It made me sick for days. It’s a wonder I didn’t die.”

“Miss Hicks did no such thing! It was an unintentional oversight, for which you condemned the poor woman with the same rabid veracity one might use against a murderer of children. Really, George, you sound like
a madman.”