Noon at Tiffany's (41 page)

Love, Mama

Tiffany’s

February 12, 1902

Dearest Family,

I didn’t write about Mr. Waldo, because I wanted to be sure of my details, which I have only now had from George.

Dr. Dickenson, a family friend of the Waldos, was in San Francisco and ran into Edwin on the street quite by chance. When pressed to explain himself, Edwin gave the following story: In brief, he claims to have come to consciousness down on the Mississippi, below the point to which the detectives had traced him in early September 1897, having no recollection of events after November of 1896. This seems incredible, for we were with him before Election Day and after, and there was no chain of thought that was fractured or forgotten.

When he came to himself he claimed he could only do the simplest manual labor and felt in this condition he might better be dead to his family and friends. He worked where he could, and finally enlisted in the Army, going to Manila (under an assumed name), and was transported to California. He gained in health and then took a job in a copper mine in Northern California, where he is now employed pleasantly and profitably, although he claims to be intent on joining the ministry.

How much of this is true, we will probably never know. In his present condition, no one would have a right to confine him in an asylum—unfortunately. This has all told on George, who feels the responsibility and disgrace to his core. I’m grateful that the newspapers referred to me only as a ‘former fiancé’ and did not drag our good family name through the mud.

My feeling in this matter is wholly of sympathy for George. Anything more than that ended for me years ago. My personal feeling could not be anything but that of deepest gratitude that I escaped. Rest assured, I shall never again entangle myself in such folly. I’m quite settled on that score, Mama, so you must place your hopes for grandchildren solely on Kate, as Emily seems to be married to her studies and I to my work at Tiffany’s.

I’ve negotiated my salary with Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Platt to $5.80 per day, or, $35 per week. The best thing is that I’m no longer restricted to hours, but to a definite result, so that I can go and come as I please. Mr. Tiffany
continues to expect the unusual and dramatic from me without any reference to cost. It’s perhaps just as well that Mr. Mitchell is no longer with us.

As with the Paris Exposition debacle, Mr. Tiffany has been working us day and night on the pieces for the International Exhibition in Turin, Italy, which is based on ‘Art in Useful Things.’ My wisteria and pond lily lamps are to be entered in the competition. The pond lily lamp is fast becoming Tiffany’s biggest seller. If this success keeps up, I may have to buy larger hats for my swollen head—won’t the evil milliners love
that
?

Presently, I’m working on the butterfly candle shade and milkweed powder box in silver. If truth be told, nearly every Tiffany piece you see around is something I’ve designed.

I’m sending a hot water bottle and some abdominal support bandages to help relieve Kate’s discomfort. I’m also sending a hand-colored photo of Mr. Briggs and me hard at work in my studio.

Henry has finally quit Tiffany’s for good and is now fully occupied by his venture with Joseph Taft in opening the Taft and Belknap Gallery. I’m green with envy.

On a happy note, we have all agreed to rent a cabin in Point Pleasant for the whole season—a bargain at $75.

Love, Clara

P.S. I have decided to rent out my bathing costume for $1.00 per use.

T
O BREAK UP
the monotony of her work, Mr. Booth instituted a monthly ritual of escorting Clara to places she’d never been. That a foreigner knew the city better than she put her off at first, but she soon found herself eagerly looking forward to the adventures.

It was a beautiful moonlit night, perfect, Edward said, for taking their wheels over to the St. Nicholas artificial indoor skating rink on Sixty-sixth Street, where they could watch the graceful young men of St. Nicholas and Brooklyn Skating Clubs battle it out for control of the puck.

The moment the agile heroes of the ice were gone, hundreds of spectators poured onto the ice like so much smooth-flowing lava. Organ music filled the air, as pretty girls in bicycle costumes and handsome men in thick sweaters skated effortlessly over the ice.

“Are you ready?” Edward touched her shoulder.

“Can’t we stay a while longer?” Clara pleaded, not taking her eyes off the skaters. “It’s fascinating the way they make all this elegant fluidity seem effortless. I want to see how they do it.”

“I intend that you shall see exactly how they do it, Mrs. Driscoll. I didn’t mean that we should leave, I’m asking if you’re ready to go out on the ice.” She turned to find a pair of black skates dangling from his fingers.

“I had to rent a men’s size for you, but I dare say it’s better to be embarrassed and comfortable, than socially correct and have your toes broken.”

“I don’t know how to skate.” She looked from him to the skaters. “I could never do that.”

“You can, and you will,” Edward said, leading her to a bench. “I’ll teach you to skate in the same manner as I’ve taught hundreds of others. There’s nothing to it; if you can walk, you can skate.”

She let him lace up her skates, listening to his detailed instructions on keeping her balance and controlling her ankles. Seconds later he led her out to the middle of the rink, where she at once began floundering in a ridiculous manner, while a procession of lithe youths and maidens swept around her like fairies floating on air.

“Don’t look at your feet!” Edward barked, struggling to keep them both upright. “Don’t stick your stomach out like that! Lean forward and look graceful! For God’s sake, can’t you see how these other people do it?”

Her mouth puckered with annoyance. “Don’t you yell at me! Is this how you teach people to skate? By bullying them? I do see how the others do it, but if I manage to stay in an upright position, it’s a cause for celebration, not criticism!”

His arm around her waist, Edward pushed her forward. “Stop wobbling! Pick up your foot and push yourself forward with your other foot. Take it slow and easy. No hurry. Just glide like a swan, smooth and …”

She was suddenly moving forward much faster than she wanted. All around her the skaters were like demons, whizzing by at alarming rates of speed. She looked down and lost her balance, pulling Edward almost off his skates. For a few seconds, they did a mad dance with tottering legs and arms flung haphazardly about.

“I told you,” he growled, “never look down at your feet! My God, you look slender, and you walk and ride with a certain amount of grace,
so that I supposed you’d be light on your feet, but I swear Clara, you must weigh five hundred pounds!”

She twisted away from the arm steadying her, shouting above the music, “You are quite unfair, Mr. Booth! You brought me here to humiliate me, and I won’t have it!”

Picking up her feet, she skated against the circling crowd, successfully weaving around the other skaters, only faintly cognizant of a sensation that was akin to flying downhill on her bicycle. As she reached the railing and was about to step off the ice, she was staggered by the sudden realization that she’d skated a quarter of the way around the rink without losing her balance.

Over her shoulder she saw Edward standing in the middle of the circling crowd applauding, his approving grin directed at her.

Clara flicked the snow off her gloves. “You seem to have undertaken my physical training, Mr. Booth. First, the bicycle, and now, skating. All my various sides will be developed by the time you’re done with me.” She stooped to pry her feet out of her boots.

“We’ll have you training in fisticuffs next,” Edward teased. “That might come in particularly handy when dealing with the characters at Tiffany’s. When you’ve finished with that, we’ll look into diving and kite flying.”

Someone flung open the foyer door, knocking her off her feet. She would have gone headfirst into the wall, had Edward not caught her.

She brushed herself off. “For goodness sakes, watch how you come into a place! You could have killed—”

The man removed his hat, and the reproach died on her tongue. It was the most amazing face she’d ever seen. His jaw, straight nose and strikingly sensuous mouth were so artistically without flaw that she was tempted to touch him to make sure he was real.

“I do apologize,” he said. “It was thoughtless of me to have charged in like that.” He helped her to her feet with an elegant movement. He was lean, and taller than she by several inches. “I hope I haven’t caused any permanent damage.”

She shook her head, staring at him, the power of speech having abandoned her.

Puzzled, he looked to Edward who, in turn, looked at Clara.

When she still didn’t respond, he extended his hand. “I’m Philip Loring Allen. I’ve just moved in.”

Introducing himself, Edward shook the offered hand. Both men turned to her. Vaguely aware something was expected of her, she looked to Edward for assistance.

“This is Mrs. Clara Driscoll,” Edward said, giving her a quizzical glance. “We’ve just come from the skating rink where she’s in training.”

Mr. Allen shook her hand looking faintly amused. “Are you thinking of joining up with the hockey leagues, Mrs. Driscoll?”

Collecting her wits, she gave him her brightest smile. “Not unless the rules change to include playing the game on all fours,” she replied. “I believe what Mr. Booth euphemistically calls my training is another way of saying that he pushes me around the rink, rather like a perambulator or an invalid’s chair.”

She couldn’t recall which man suggested they sit in the parlor and share a pot of tea, but she was glad for it. As Mr. Allen spoke of his journey from the University of Wisconsin to New York, he impressed her as a marvelous speaker who knew how to phrase things to make everything seem new and interesting. He was obviously well-read, for he knew a fair amount about every subject they touched on.

Edward brought in a second pot of tea and refilled their cups. “Mr. Allen, you must tell us all about the position that so completely occupies your time that none of us has met you before this.”

“I’m a journalist and a writer,” Philip replied. “I started at the
Evening Post
as a reporter, and then went on to be exchange editor and Washington correspondent. I mostly do political writing, but I also write stories with a social conscience for
Scribner’s.”

He moved forward in his chair, the light of the flames falling softly on his face as he turned toward her. She caught the scent of his shaving soap—bay rum—and breathed it in as deeply as she could without being obvious. When she dared to look directly into his eyes, a wave of heat began in her thighs and traveled up her body into her throat, where it gained a voice in the form of a quiet moan. Whatever emotion he’d touched in her was not one with which she was familiar.

“I understand you’re an artist, Mrs. Driscoll?”

Pulling herself up straight she coughed, willing herself to say
something that would demonstrate that she was a sensible woman and not some young ninny taken in by his good looks. “I’m an artist of sorts,” she said, blushing furiously. “I design things.”

“Clara’s modesty only extends as far as first introductions,” Edward said good-naturedly. “Don’t let her fool you, Mr. Allen; her designs are what keep Louis Tiffany’s company alive. Her work has won awards at the Paris Exposition, and I’m sure she’ll take the upcoming Turin exhibition, as well.”

“I admit that I already knew about your triumphs in Paris,” Philip said. “I wanted to find out if
you
did.”

She drew back to see if he was teasing. “How could you possibly have known that? I don’t believe my name was ever mentioned in the newspapers.”

For an instant, Mr. Allen seemed unsure of himself. He looked briefly at his long fingers twined together in his lap. “I’m a journalist, Mrs. Driscoll. It’s my business to know what goes on in the world. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear about your work. I greatly admire those whose talents are in the visual arts.”

He listened with rapt attention as she spoke of patterns and cartoons, molds and cames, and how the glass was selected and cut. When she finished, she looked up to find him staring. She thought of her rough, too-large hands and her inelegant clothes and burned with embarrassment.

Edward looked at his pocket watch, yawned and rose from the settee. “Isn’t anyone else tired? It’s nearly midnight.”

Disbelieving, Clara glanced at the mantle clock; it felt like only minutes since they’d met in the foyer. “I’d like to spend the rest of the night in conversation,” she said rising. “Unfortunately, Mr. Tiffany expects me at seven tomorrow morning to go over the final entries for his Turin exhibit.”

“I don’t think you’ll need worry about being on time.” Mr. Allen shrugged into his overcoat. “Mr. Charles Tiffany is in a bad way and not expected to live out the weekend.”

She stared at him. “Are you sure? Mr. Tiffany gave no indication that his father was ill.”