Noon at Tiffany's (40 page)

October 16, 1900

Lost in concentration, Joseph Briggs was setting mosaic tiles when Clara arrived. He flinched at the sound of the door closing behind her.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, unpinning her hat in front of the mirror. “You must have been up late reading
Frankenstein
again; that sort of book always makes me jumpy. The first time I read it, I couldn’t sleep for days. I—” Catching sight of his reflection she whirled around. One side of his face was covered in dark bruises, his eye swollen closed. The lump on the side of his head was so large as to make his hair stick straight out. “Joseph! What happened?”

“Mrs. Briggs.” He could barely move his lips, the bottom one being split. “She got into a snit.”

“This looks more like a war than a snit. What possible cause could she have had to do this to you?”

“I was late coming home from work. One of the children was sick. She thought I was shirking my duties. She thought I’d been …” He waved a hand, “It doesn’t matter.”

“What about your eye? Have you been to a doctor?”

When he didn’t answer, she sighed. “This is your vision; it’s essential to your work. You have to see an oculist immediately.”

She wrote something on the back of her calling card. “Take a cab to this address, and see Dr. Anderson. Don’t come back until you’ve been treated. If he tells you to rest your eyes, then you must. I’ll manage without you.”

Joseph shook his head, “We’re too busy. Mr. Tiffany has already been in once this morning looking for you, and he didn’t seem happy.”

“Mr. Tiffany is rarely happy unless he’s torturing me. Go see Dr. Anderson.” She handed him his hat and pushed him toward the door. “When you return, we’ll decide what to do.”

Hours later, she was preoccupied with putting the finishing touches to a mosaic mantle clock, when Tiffany entered and placed a flat box and a large envelope on her desk without comment. She searched his face for some indication of what might be in them, got none, and opened the box first. On a bed of red velvet, two bronze medals lay side by side. Depicted on the face of each was the winged figure of Victory, holding a palm branch and laurel wreath and carrying the winner on her back. Circling the image was inscribed, ‘Exposition Universelle Internationale 1900.’ Underneath was her name in raised letters.

The envelope held the two official diplomas from the Jury of Awards: one for the work she’d done for Charles Tiffany, and one for the dragonfly lamp.

“I prefer you not display these,” Tiffany said flatly. “Take them to your boardinghouse. Better yet, send them to your mother.”

“But what about the rest of my department? It would mean so much to them to have these in the workroom. They deserve to see these and be proud of what they’ve done.”

“No. It will only cause trouble and resentments—mostly aimed at you.”

“That’s an absurd assumption. The Tiffany Girls aren’t …” She meant to say her women weren’t a petty, spiteful bunch like the men, but thought better of it. “My girls are a fair-minded and decent lot. They don’t harbor jealousies or resentments.”

“You are far too sentimental about your workers. Take care not to place too much confidence in them, lest you invite dishonesty and bring heartache to yourself.”

“It’s my confidence in them that insures their loyalty,” she said defiantly. “I wouldn’t think of treating them in any other way.”

“I don’t give a fig for their loyalty,” he snarled. “These things are not to be shown about anywhere in this building! Do you understand?”

She wheeled on him, eyes burning. “You mean unlike your medals? The ones on display in the showroom?”

He jabbed a finger at her, his eyes narrowed. “You go too far. I don’t
like disrespect in a woman, and I find it particularly unbecoming in you!”

When he was gone, she sat for a spell, watching the women as they arrived for work in their usual clusters of two and three. Listening to their laughter and good-natured teasing, she realized how much she’d grown to love them. Her respect for them and how hard they worked at times meant more to her than the work itself.

Rebellion seeped into every part of her. With resolve, she pulled her jacket from the rack and went in search of the nearest street vendor.

Gramercy Park

The Tiffany Girls, Mr. Briggs, Mr. Bracey and Frank sat under the chestnut trees enjoying their catered lunch of coffee, hot buttered corn, baked potatoes and sausage.

Their pleasure at being treated to a hot meal away from the workroom was well worth the price she’d paid the vendor. When the last morsel was consumed, she brought out the medals and diplomas and passed them around.

“We should hang the diplomas over the door of the workroom,” Miss Hawthorne suggested. “We can build the frames, and picture glass costs nothing.”

Miss Griffin raised her hand. “While we’re at it, we can make a glass display case for the medals and put it on the cup shelf by the door so it’s the first thing a person sees when they come in.”

“These fine awards won’t be sharin’ no shelf with anythin’ else,” Mr. Bracey said. “Ya can be sure I’ll be buildin’ them medals their own pedestal.”

There were murmurs of approval.

Steeling herself, Clara held up a hand. “More than anything, I wish we could do those things in celebration of our work. Unfortunately, the Tiffany Powers That Be have requested we not make a show of our awards. In fact, they’ve made it an order. I was told not to show these even to you, but as we’re not on Tiffany property, I doubt there’s much they can do about it.”

A profound silence fell over the women; the only sounds to be heard were the birds and the rustle of fallen leaves in the wind.
Miss Griffin broke the silence, “What earthly reason could they possibly have to deny us this small pleasure?”

Their chorus of unhappy protests made her heart ache. At a loss, she sank onto the bench. “If it’s any comfort, I’m sure Mr. Nash, Miss Gouvy and the men’s department are all being given the same edict.”

Joseph, his bandages replaced by a distinguished black patch, rose from the bench and removed his hat. “Instead of grieving over closeted medals and such like, we should instead dwell on the fact that fifty million people saw and appreciated the things we made. A panel of the most astute judges thought our work worthy of worldwide recognition.

“There can be no doubt that we’ve accomplished something extraordinary. Let Tiffany and his toadies hide our medals—no one can take away our pride of accomplishment.”

Cheering, the women crowded around to shake his hand, inadvertently forming a canopy of feathered hats over his head.

Noon at Tiffany’s

October 25, 1900

Dear Fellow Robinites,

Forgive me for not keeping our robin looking round and stuffed. We are once more up to our necks in the holiday rush. I manage to hold on to my sanity by taking my bicycle out whenever the chance arises.

In an interesting twist of events, Henry introduced me to Mr. Tiffany’s competitor, Richard Lamb of R. & J. Lamb Studios. We were invited to his studios and shown everything they had. I could see right away that their things lacked quality and imagination, so perhaps he intends to make me an offer. If he does, I may take it, though I don’t like their shop nearly as well as ours.

I have received the two bronze medals from the Paris Exposition. Miss Owens looked properly impressed when she saw the diplomas and asked if I would frame them for the wall. I told her that I was going to keep them under my bed, and when people called who didn’t think much of me, I’d bring them out and show them around.

Many of the others won medals as well: Miss Northrop (1 silver), Arthur
Nash (3 silver); but best of all, our own sweet Alice won a bronze under Louis Tiffany’s banner, and a silver under the senior Mr. Tiffany’s banner.

I’m having my old black coat cleaned and pressed, and my nearly ragged black skirt and flyaway jacket are to be made over one last weary time by Alice. These will all go toward making a decent suit. My straw hat will look new after a few drops of oxalic acid for the rain spots and a new black ribbon. I found a wing feather in the park and will add that for a touch of whimsy. God knows I need whimsy.

These days, it’s a choice between new clothes or finding less expensive lodgings and eating less. If I could earn more money, I would begin plans for my own business. Mr. Tiffany must intuit this, which would explain his reluctance to raise my salary.

I went to Vantine’s to buy material for the cat costume I’m making for the Tiffany costume ball. We couldn’t get waited on, so went to Wanamaker’s instead. I made an all-black velveteen suit that covers me from my ankles to under my chin. For my headpiece, I’ve sewn together a cat head with green-jeweled eyes, a red sealing wax tongue and two whiskery ears. The tail is long and black, and I shall switch it back and forth when bothered. This arduous project has taught me that I cannot do ANY outside work as long as my work at Tiffany’s is so taxing.

Now that Mr. Mitchell is departed, Mr. John Cheney Platt (Treasurer) and Mr. Bond Thomas (General Manager) are having more of a presence around Tiffany’s. Mr. Platt likes me and my designs especially well—a lucky thing for me.

Sunday, Henry and I took a train to Yonkers, biked to the Palisades, and then ferried over to Tarrytown through Sleepy Hollow and up the river to Mr. Rockefeller’s home at Pocantico Hills. The man who has charge of the place, Mr. Hawks, knows Henry, so showed us all around the place.

When I returned home, I found that Mr. Booth had filled my room with vases of bittersweet, and on my desk he’d left a beautiful hornet’s nest. Hopefully there was no underlying meaning to his gifts.

September 29
^th

I danced holes through my cat feet slippers at the Tiffany ball. Mr. Platt came out of his box and had three dances with me, but I most enjoyed
dancing with the boy who dusts the lamps in the stockroom. There were no signs of apron and dusters or servility about him. Slim and young and agile as a monkey, he spun around the floor like a piece of thistledown, conversing meanwhile with the grace and ease (though not the grammar or punctuation) of an ambassador.

Sorry for the delay in sending this off, but I wanted to include details of the ball.

Love, Clara

Lenox Hill

November 18, 1900

Most men my age are settled and content with their lot by now—I am neither. It is an evil flaw that despite all that I have, I cannot find lasting satisfaction in any of it. Even when I am in my garden, some force within me bars tranquility. Then again, perhaps Stanford White is correct when he says there will be plenty of rest once we are dead, so one might as well live to the hilt now.

Louise and I have made a pact: I am to give up drink and in exchange I may reclaim my conjugal rights. She believes this is a fair trade. On my part, it seems a harsh bargain.

Father is not well. As always, I am split between the fear of losing him and the desire to be free of his hold over me.

With Laurelton Hotel burned to the ground, I have finally crushed all opposition and purchased 580 acres of land on Cold Spring Harbor. The plans for my masterpiece are nearly complete. It shall be a synthesis nonpareil of fine, decorative and industrial arts—a showplace and my legacy. L.C.T.

February 5, 1902

Dearest Ones,

You can imagine how surprised Rev. Cutler and I were to read in the daily news how Edwin Waldo, supposed dead these last four and a half years, was found alive and well in San Francisco. Only for the sake of his poor mother am I glad of this news. We are curious to know details and are surprised that there was no mention in your last letter, considering that the story has been printed in every newspaper in the country.

Kate is home from Academy so that we might try and cure her of these troublesome stomach pains. The doctor is to see her on Tuesday. She is weak and quite changed in appearance, but with our care, our prayers, and wholesome food she will soon be well. Rev. Cutler and I took her to see Sir Henry Irving and Ellen Terry perform in “The Merchant of Venice,” to occupy her mind. It did her good.