Noon at Tiffany's (37 page)

Louis rested his cane against the section entitled
Spring.
Every eye in the room was glued to the point where the tip touched the glass. “The yellow you’ve chosen for this part of the window is too bright.”

“You
chose this particular glass yourself, Mr. Tiffany,” she said in a neutral tone, hoping the women were remembering to breathe. Anyone who fainted now would be left where she fell until after he was finished.

He leaned forward scrutinizing the rest of the window’s sections. At last he stood back. “The only segment I am fully satisfied with is
Winter
. However, seeing as it’s too late now to change things, it will have to do.”

She almost laughed.
Winter
was the only section she disliked. On more than one occasion, she’d tried persuading him to change his initial pattern, but he’d held fast. She knew he’d meant it to represent snowcapped mountains and pine boughs, but no matter how much she squinted, to her eyes, it still resembled a large white crab claw at the end of a stick.

He moved on to the
River of Life
window, his cane now threatening the ribbon of blue that represented the river. “This blue isn’t right, damn it! There’s no balance between this blue here …” his stick came up for the strike, “and this blue here!”

With a cry, she seized the cane before it could connect with the glass. “No! Not this time. I won’t let you!”

For a brief moment, there ensued an inelegant tug of war, her strength matching his. “You aren’t thinking!” Her voice went high and shrill. “This is the blue we agreed balances the other colors.”

He threw his full weight against her. “I said … it … isn’t … right!”

Wrenching the cane out of her hands, he stumbled backward, the stick making an arch and coming down squarely on her birthday lamp. Through
the yelling and cries of dismay, she heard the unmistakable sound of splintering glass, and then a terrible shriek, like that of a badly injured horse.

She looked wildly about, trying to locate the source of the hideous shrieks, when Joseph touched her arm and pointed to where Tiffany was doubled over, both hands tightly cupped over his right eye. Screaming, he threw his head back and forth, stumbling about the room as if possessed.

In the ambulance, he gripped her hand and begged her not to leave him. Until the moment he was wheeled through the surgery doors, he refused to let go of her.

An hour later, the doctor found her waiting in the hall. In the grave manner common to surgeons, he handed her a small envelope containing the fragment of jade milk glass removed from Louis Tiffany’s eye.

“Is this Clara Driscoll?” The voice on the other end of the line was faint, as if the speaker was a long distance from the mouthpiece.

Turning so she wouldn’t have to look at Mr. Mitchell’s reproachful frown, she pressed the receiver anxiously to her ear. She couldn’t imagine what call could be so important that Mr. Mitchell would personally summon her to his office and allow her to speak on his private telephone. “Yes, this is Mrs. Driscoll. Who’s calling, please?”

“Don’t you know me? This is Miss Dorothy Tiffany. I’m Papa’s youngest girl, except I’m eight now, so I’m not so young anymore.”

“Of course, I remember you,” Clara laughed. “How are you, dear?”

“Fine, but Papa told me to call you and tell you to come to Lenox Hill right away, because he wants to talk to you about business. He said to bring your drawing pad and colored pencils and …” The small voice hesitated and then resumed, “… and he said to bring some colored pencils for me, too.”

An hour later, a parlor maid, dressed in black poplin, crisp white collar and a pert lace cap, opened the door to the Tiffany mansion. Clara announced herself and reluctantly allowed the maid to collect her coat. A
frileuse
by nature, she would have preferred keeping it on, but did not want to appear unsophisticated. She was about to inquire as to the state of Mr. Tiffany’s health, when Dorothy popped out from behind the maid’s skirts and grinned.

The girl pulled her toward the grand staircase at a run. “I’ll announce Mrs. Driscoll to Papa,” Dorothy called back to the maid. “Please tell cook to make a pot of hot cocoa and send it, along with two cups, to the sewing room.”

On the landing, Clara brought out a package and handed it to her. “Your colored pencils.”

Dorothy examined the contents and looked up at Clara smiling. “Would you like to see my artwork? We could go to the sewing room, and I’ll show you.”

“I would love to see what you’ve done, but your papa won’t like it if I’m late.”

The corners of Dorothy’s mouth turned down. “Papa hates for us to be late, too. He punishes us for one second lateness.” She pinched her fingers together to demonstrate the tiniest sliver of time and glanced up from under a wrinkled brow. “He has a temper, you know.”

“I certainly do,” Clara said, “which is why we’d better hurry.”

Dorothy whisked her through the reception hall and library, then into a grand room with an open fire under an ornate mantle. Everywhere Clara looked, her eyes fell on large Favrile vases filled with roses of every color.

A flutter of movement drew her attention to an enormous four-poster bed at the far end of the room. Looking small and wizened between mountains of fine linen sheets, Louis Tiffany lay still, his head swathed in a turban of bandages.

“Clara, my dear, come here and sit by me.” He patted the bed.

Disconcerted by the lack of chairs, she gingerly lowered herself to the corner of the bed nearest his feet.

Dorothy crawled onto the bed and ducked under Clara’s arm. “Papa, can Mrs. Driscoll come upstairs to the sewing room and see my artwork?”

“Not now.” He did not take his eyes off Clara. “Mrs. Driscoll and I have work to discuss, and we’re not to be disturbed. You may wait quietly in the hall for her to come out.”

Dorothy tugged at Clara’s sleeve. “Promise you won’t leave without letting me show you my pictures?”

She gave Dorothy’s hand a squeeze. “I promise. I want to see your entire collection.”

Louis propped himself up against the dozen or so pillows that lined the head of the bed. “Now, tell me about everything going on at the
company. You’re the only one I can trust to tell me the truth. I haven’t stopped worrying. Of all the times for me to be away, I can’t think of a worst time than this.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Tiffany, I don’t think it’s healthy for you to have your work so much on your mind. You’ve sustained a serious injury. You should try and rest. Perhaps your older children could read to you?”

“I assure you my children would not spare me the time.” His smile faded, and in his voice she heard bitterness laced with sorrow. He reached out and found her hand. “You
are
a sight for sore eyes … or eye, as the case may be. I feel stronger just seeing you.”

Their close proximity, the dim lighting and the fact she was in his bedroom, on his bed, made her squirm. She quailed at the thought that one of his older children or, God forbid, Mrs. Tiffany, might enter at any moment, but for the life of her, could not think of a tactful way to disengage her hand and rise from the bed without giving offense.

“Everyone sends his regards,” she said. “Daniel and Mrs. Bracey are having masses said for your quick recovery, and the girls insist on daily reports as to how your eye is healing. You can rest assured we’re holding strong in your absence. All the pieces are coming to completion beautifully.”

“What about the Paris window?” he asked, “I’ve not dared ask anyone else. Is it… did I… ?”

“You harmed nothing but your eye. The glass splinter came from a lamp that was perfectly restored by the time I returned from the hospital.”

“Tell me the truth—do you think I have a chance at winning the exposition?”

Until that moment she hadn’t been sure, but now she knew without doubt they would capture the show. “Definitely. The windows are exquisite, and there’s nothing in the world to compare with the lamps and Favrile glassware.”

With a sigh of relief he fell back into his pillow, and immediately sat up again. “I want to see them.”

“See what?”

“The windows. I want to see them.”

“You will, as soon as you’re healed and feeling up to it.”

“No,” he said stubbornly, “I want to see them now, within the hour.”

Her shoulders tightened, rising toward her ears. “You’re unwell, Mr. Tiffany. You shouldn’t get out of bed; you might do permanent damage to your eye, and then what would become of us?”

He reached behind the massive headboard and gave the bell pull a tug. “I’ll have Belknap send them up; I’ll be able to view them in the main reception room at my leisure.”

She wondered if his eye surgery might have affected his mind. The task of moving the windows from the workshop to Lenox Hill was monumental. To move them when the streets were covered with snow and ice was insane.

Stooped with arthritis, a graying man in valet attire slowly shuffled his way across the room. He stared into the middle distance, seemingly not noticing her at all.

“Simpkins, ring up Mr. Belknap, and tell him I want my two exposition windows brought to the house immediately. Tell him at least six men are to accompany each window, and it will be his neck should there be any accidents.”

Simpkins made a noise of assent and was halfway to the door, when Louis called him back. Without losing momentum, the valet pivoted on his heel and shuffled back to the bed.

“Since you’re here, Simpkins, perhaps you could bring me another of my medicinal brandies. I’ll need a bracer for this event.”

The wrinkled corners of Simpkins’s mouth twitched. The voice that came out was dusty and ancient like the man himself. “Sorry sir, but you have already taken your morning brandy. The doctor has specified only one serving of spirits before lunch and one before dinner.”

“Hang it, Simpkins! I’ll have my dinner brandy early.”

Simpkins was unmoved. “I am sorry sir, but Mrs. Tiffany has the brandy and all other spirits under lock and key.”

Louis pursed his lips. “All right, never mind. Just go call Mr. Belknap.”

Simpkins bowed again and slipped as noiselessly from the room as he’d entered. No sooner did the door close, than Louis, dressed only in a loose nightshirt, shot out of bed and made a beeline for the bookcase. Reaching behind the books, he brought out a crystal decanter with an inch
or two of brandy at the bottom. He dumped the contents of his water glass into a vase and returned to bed with his prize.

Pouring out a healthy measure, he drank it down in two swallows, poured another and handed it to her, his disposition greatly improved.

“Won’t you join me? Brandy is an excellent restorative, you know.”

“No, thank you.” She pushed the glass back into his hand. “I’ll be working on the dragonfly lamp this afternoon, and I wouldn’t want to drop anything.”

Fixing her with a look she did not know how to interpret, Louis drank off the rest of his bracer and poured another, before tossing the empty decanter off the side of the bed. “Do you think my employees like me, Clara?”

“Of course they do, although some of the younger girls find you frightening at times.”

“And what about you?”

She felt the blood rush to her face. “My loyalties are with Tiffany’s.”

“It isn’t your loyalty I’m questioning.” He swirled his brandy around the glass. “I want to know if you have feelings for me.”

Slowly, she rose to her feet. Pretending to admire a bouquet of yellow roses, she stalled for time, while thinking of an answer that was both prudent and neutral. “You are my employer, Mr. Tiffany,” she said finally. “I like everyone at Tiffany’s in the general sense. I’m even fond of Monsieur Rigaud, our workroom cat.”

He caught her hand and held it, his fingers closing around hers for one brief moment, before letting go. “Do you have any idea how much I care for you, Clara?”

She moved further away, out of his reach. “It means a great deal to me that you admire my work, Mr. Tiffany. I—”

“You know very well that isn’t what I’m saying. There are times when I’m near you that I can hardly keep from touching you. I have dreams about—”

She whirled around, her skirts almost knocking over a delicate vase. “You must not say these things, Mr. Tiffany, I don’t want to hear them.” She stooped to pick up her sketchpad and backed toward the door. “You’re my employer, and that’s all. It’s not right that you should feel that way.”

“Clara, please allow me to tell you how I—.”

“I’m sorry,” she rushed on, “I’m afraid I’ve tired you. We’ll go over my new designs when you return to work.” She yanked open the door and was free.
The moment she stepped into the hall, Dorothy latched onto her wrist and took off at a run.