Noon at Tiffany's (60 page)

Extending his hand, Louis grabbed one out of the air.

Joseph and Mr. Bracey gave the revelers no rest. From the moment a song ended until the next began, there was barely enough time to catch one’s breath. They danced every reel, jig and hornpipe until Clara was sure the floor would give way.

Arms linked, she and Frank were in the middle of an energetic spin, when the music came to an abrupt end. Sheer enthusiasm carried them on dancing for a moment longer until they realized the room had gone silent. Confused, they looked to Daniel and Joseph.

Tin whistle still at his lips, Joseph stared at the workroom doors.

Clara turned to see Louis Tiffany stagger toward them, blind to everyone but her. His shirt was open and soaked through, his tie and jacket were missing altogether. The crowd parted, giving him a wide berth.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Tiffany. How are you this—?” Her breath caught at the sight of the invoice clutched in his hand.

“Thought you could lead me down the garden path, didn’t you?” Louis bellowed, his tongue thick with drink.

Behind her, she could hear Miss Griffin praying under her breath.

Tiffany crumpled the invoice and threw it at her. It glanced off her shoulder. Frank stepped toward him, fists clenched. She pulled the boy away and shook her head, signing that he should stay calm.

“They are invoices, Mr. Tiffany, nothing more. What possible harm could come from my name being on them?”

“Nobody’s name but mine goes on anything that comes out of thith factory!” He squinted one eye. “Did Logan do thith?”

“No! I told him you gave your permission. He didn’t want to do it, but I assured him it would be all right.”

“You
assured him? You deliberately went against my orders? You think you own those designs? You don’t! I own every design, every pound of glath! Your name goes on nothing!”

Several of the women began backing away.

“You think people would buy anything with
your
name on it? Why, you’re nothing!” He swung around, leering at the crowd. “Without me, she’d be in the gutter without a dime.”

He poked her shoulder. “You’re nothing!” When she didn’t flinch, he brought the flat of his hand against her shoulder and shoved. “You aren’t worth my—”

Before she could stop him, Frank launched himself, pinning Louis to the floor. Screams went up from the women, as Mr. Bracey and Joseph pulled the boy off their cowering employer.

While Joseph restrained Frank, Mr. Bracey took Louis by the arm and hauled him roughly toward the door. There was a scuffle, with Louis escaping long enough to stagger back toward her, fist raised.

“You think you can undermine me?” he screamed. “Jutht try it, and I’ll crush you. I’ll make sure you won’t be able to find work anywhere in the world! You’ll be on the thtreet. I’ll … I’ll …”

She didn’t get to hear the rest of what he was going to do, because Mr. Bracey had picked Louis up, shouldered him, and carried him out.

The last they saw of Mr. Tiffany was his feet frantically milling the air.

Lenox Hill

December 31, 1908

I’ve won my suit against the rabble of Oyster Bay. A permanent injunction is now in place restraining them from destroying my dock and jetty. It should be cause for celebration, but I feel nothing but bitterness.

Clara. I can’t stand seeing her now. To see her in the breathing, living flesh and know she is the one woman on earth I want but can’t have. L.C.T.

44 Irving Place

December 31, 1908

Dearest Alice,

Mr. Tiffany has made himself scarce, and no one talks about what happened. Mr. Thomas insists I send him a note of apology, but I refuse, as I don’t believe I’ve done anything wrong.

Christmas night Edward and Mr. Yorke put on a humorous skit about the three wise men getting lost in the desert on their way to the birth of Christ. I suppose it could be considered sacrilegious, but we laughed until we were sore.

Around midnight, Edward insisted we all run out to see the Christmas tree in Madison Square. A snowball fight broke out, with Miss Owens the clear winner. The old girl has a surprisingly strong pitching arm. She got me in the back of the head—twice.

I must leave room for Emily to add her two cents to this meager robin. Until next year, I remain faithfully yours.

Love, Clara

Alice:

You did not miss much this holiday season. The weather has been beastly, and the prices of everything higher than usual.

Keep it under your elaborate hat, but I strongly suspect there is a plot afoot. Clara and Edward are like two oysters closed up tight around pearls of information. No one can get it out of them for love nor money—not that any of us have enough of either. Try to find out what the secret is, and when you do, tell me, and I will tell everyone else. My one clue to this mystery is that Edward gave Clara a dozen linen handkerchiefs embroidered with a D that looked suspiciously like a B.

I leave for Baltimore tomorrow. Hopefully we will see you at Easter.

Emily

January 4, 1909

L
OUIS TOSSED A
colored sketch onto Clara’s worktable. “President Diaz of Mexico has requested a fire curtain for the National Theater in Mexico City.” He walked around her studio, looking at sketches and randomly touching half-finished molds. “I hired a young muralist by the name of Harry Stoner to paint this view of Popocatépetl and Ixtaccihuatl mountains as they appear from the President’s palace.”

She studied the watercolor, her eyes drawn to a lush foreground of bougainvillea, aralia and giant cacti, and then to the two snow-capped volcanoes. The last rays of the setting sun gilded the icy summits below a vast expansive of sky, a dozen shades of blue changing to deep purple as night approaches.

“I want you and Mr. Briggs to translate it into a mosaic fire curtain approximately thirty-six feet in height and forty-eight feet wide. I’ve already got a special crew of workmen reproducing the colors in Favrile tesserae. I want it started no later than April first.”

She put down the sketch and regarded him calmly. “No matter when we start, a work of this magnitude will require two years to complete and twice the staff we have now, if we’re to keep up with the regular work.”

“I don’t care what you have to do. This is an important commission.”

She rubbed her temples, imagining the countless hours of close work and the endless criticisms. “They’re all important commissions, Mr. Tiffany. Hiring more people means violating the Union contract.”

“Have Briggs hire them under his department. Hire as many as you need. The ploy has worked before, and it will work again. However, understand that you are to be in charge of this undertaking, directing all the mosaic work.”

“And I suppose when it’s finished, it will
all
be attributed to Louis Tiffany and
his
personal efforts.” The words were out of her mouth and hanging in the air between them before she even knew she’d said them. She stared at him, her anger and resentment clinging to her like dust.

Louis turned away. “Actually, Mrs. Driscoll, I intend on having yours, Briggs’ and Stoner’s names on the curtain. Does that suit your unbounded drive for glory?”

She shrugged, not really believing him. “It would be a nice gesture, albeit a little late.” She waited for his retort.

Instead, Louis threw back his head and laughed.

May 23, 1909

44 Irving Place

Favrile vase still in hand, Clara opened her door, startled to find Joseph Briggs standing in the hall nervously inching his hands around the brim of his hat.

“I want you to know that I’ve never been one to eavesdrop,” he said, drawing her into a chair and seating himself on the ottoman opposite her.

She nodded. “All right.”

“I generally don’t approve of people who sneak about listening at keyholes, but I did overhear something that concerns us and our departments.”

She glanced over at Edward’s latest bouquet of daffodils sitting on her washstand and hoped Joseph wouldn’t draw out his story for too long. “May I ask how you came to commit this act of spying?”

“I went to Mr. Tiffany’s office with the order sheets for the next batch of tesserae. I was about to knock when I heard him and Schmidt talking about us, so I… well, I listened.”

“Perfectly understandable,” she nodded. “I admit to having done that myself once or twice. What did you hear?”

“Mostly a lot of grousing from Mr. Schmidt about our departments’ expenses for the Mexico curtain. Tiffany jumped in and said he didn’t care about the expense, because we weren’t being paid for all the extra hours.” Joseph paused, watching carefully for her reaction.

“All true,” she said, her smile fading. “Go on.”

“Schmidt asked how he managed to convince you to do that, and Tiffany said it was because he’d told you that he was going to put our names on the curtain.”

The muscles in her jaw jumped. “And?”

“He started ranting, saying that Tiffany was insane to do such a thing, because it was such an important commission and the only name on the curtain should be Louis C. Tiffany and not a bunch of unknown hired workers.”

Joseph hesitated, biting his lip. “Tiffany said he never had any intention of using our names, but it was the only way to assure that we’d give it our best—as if we didn’t always do our best. After that, there was a discussion about how they were going to get around Mr. Stoner, because Stoner and Tiffany signed some sort of legal agreement saying that Stoner would get credit for the original rendering.

“I didn’t get to hear much more because Mr. Thomas came up in the lift, and I had to leave off.”

She sat quite still, the vase unregarded in her lap. Instead of despair or anger, she was suffused with a sense of freedom born of the notion that she no longer cared whether she pleased Louis Tiffany or not. She’d given him more than enough.

“Well, Joseph,” she said getting to her feet, “it’s just as Jeremiah said: a leopard can’t change its spots. The only thing we can do is to continue doing the best we can, until we can’t stand to do it anymore.”

She placed the daffodils in the vase.
“We
know who did the work and that needs to be good enough for now.”

Mr. Platt signed Clara’s proposed budget for the coming month and handed it back to her. “You have done a marvelous job on all counts, Mrs. Driscoll. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

“Coming from you, Mr. Platt I take that as a compliment.” She
started for the door and stopped. “Mr. Platt, who would you say our main competitors are here in the city?”

“Stillwell’s Decorating, without a doubt.”

“Are they very successful?”

Mr. Platt chuckled, folding his hands over his paunch. “Extremely, although their selection of glass isn’t nearly what ours is. But they do a brisk business—enough so that we have to keep an eye on them.”

She didn’t bother to hide her smile.