Noon at Tiffany's (61 page)

July 8, 1909

Stillwell’s Decorating Company

Clara couldn’t help but note the marked difference between the offices of Victor Stillwell and those of Louis Tiffany. While Mr. Tiffany’s office was elegant in it’s open simplicity, Stillwell’s was stiff and formal, paneled in mahogany and glass-fronted bookcases. Depressing dark velvet curtains shut out all light and air.

Victor Stillwell shook her hand with great formality.

It was a struggle for her not to smile; the gleaming dome of his head fringed by wiry gray hair sticking out at every angle reminded her of a clown.

“Please sit.” He pointed to one of the leather chairs.

He resettled his spectacles and peered down at her, a slight frown forming between his brows. “I must say, Mrs. Driscoll, I was surprised to receive your letter of inquiry about a position here. You’ve been with Mr. Tiffany for many years.”

“And I assume you would like to know why I’m considering leaving his employ?” she said, glad he’d given her a place to begin.

“I admit to being curious, yes.”

She wished the man would sit down. He was making her nervous the way he shifted back and forth on his feet. “I want my name placed on my designs, and I want a better salary.”

There,
she thought,
I’ve said it.

“What salary are you hoping for?”

“I want forty dollars a week for the first six months,” she said boldly. “If you’re satisfied with my work, and I’m happy working here, I’d like to
be raised to fifty dollars a week. Any salary increases after that would be based on my yearly review.”

He said nothing. If he was shocked by her demands, he concealed it well, for there was no change in his expression.

Encouraged, she plunged ahead. “I work much better and more efficiently when my hours are my own and I’m not required to clock in. I’ll need a bookkeeper and at least twenty cutters and selectors to start, all of whom I want to choose myself. In the names of efficiency and comfort, I’d also like the freedom to rearrange the workshop as I see fit.

“Most importantly,” she shot him a meaningful look, “I insist my mark or my signature be on each piece I design.”

He remained silent for several minutes, absent-mindedly rubbing his hands. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I agree to all your of your demands. However, before we sign any such agreements, I have one request, though you might find it peculiar considering that I am already familiar with your work.”

She waited, promising herself she would walk away if he backed down on any of the things she’d asked for.

“I want you to design a piece—one of your lamps—to exhibit to my board. The piece should be your best effort, a tour de force, if you will. Take as long as you like, and when it’s complete, I’ll present it to the board along with your terms. If they approve, you can begin work immediately.”

A tour de force? The freedom to create whatever she liked without restraints or criticisms? It was a dream come true.

“I’ll make sure you have full access to our workshop,” he went on. “Mr. Weber, our glass department manager, will get you whatever you need, even if I have to order it from Tiffany’s Corona factory. Mr. Lifton in our metal shop will assist you with the metal work.

“If you will return tomorrow, I’ll arrange to have Mr. Weber show you where things are and introduce you to Mr. Lifton. Lifton will supply you with keys so that you can come and go when you please.”

She rose, a smile hovering about her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Stillwell.”

“Thank
you,
Mrs. Driscoll.” He ushered her to the door. “I hope this is the beginning of a prosperous arrangement for us both.”

August 10, 1909

Dearest Alice and Emily,

The enormity of the Mexico curtain is astounding. It promises to be over 25 tons by the time it’s finished. I’m not sure how Mr. Tiffany aims to get it to Mexico City, but I have no doubt he will manage.

Alice: No, the design idea for the Stillwell ‘pièce de résistance’ did not come in a dream, but from Edward, who one day presented me with the living prototype. Joe Briggs has been my secret partner and guardian angel in this endeavor. I needed several large pieces of Favrile in an unusual color, which he special ordered and I paid for, no questions asked.

Edward accompanies me to Stillwell’s each evening and reads to me as I work. It’s a luxury that makes the job go faster.

I may have mentioned in the last robin that I sent one of my hand-painted scarves to Dorothy Tiffany as a gift. I received her thank you card, saying that her sister Comfort and two of her friends raved about them and insisted on each having one for themselves. She enclosed $15 and asked that I send them to her for distribution. I was pleased, though I thought they’d paid too much, and sent matching, hand-painted silk fans along to make it a fair deal.

Tonight I shall add the final touches to my ‘masterpiece’ and send it to Mr. Lifton for finishing. Keep your collective fingers crossed.

Here is my dear Edward, come to fetch me to my work. Tonight he’s reading E.M. Forester’s
A Room With a View.

Love, Clara

Edward’s voice lulled her into a state of mind in which she was nothing more than the flow of creativity going from the muse through her soul to her eyes and hands.

He closed the book and rubbed his eyes. “Clara?”

“Hmm?” She cut a cerulean glass petal.

“How much longer should I wait?”

“I’ll be done with this last petal in a few minutes. We can go after I put away my tools.”

He shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant. I want to know how
long you intend on waiting before we can be married.”

She looked over the tops of her prisms, the tranquility she’d felt only moments before having vanished. It was the question she’d dreaded; the question that woke her out of a dead sleep and threw her into a panic. She lifted one shoulder in a graceful gesture. “I don’t know.”

“We agreed on a year.”

“I know, but I thought—”

“That’s only a few days from now.”

“I know, but if I’m given this position do you know what that will mean?”

“Another twenty years making another wealthy man even wealthier, while you grow old in a small room at Irving Place?”

“No. It means that I’ll finally have my name recognized. My income will make it possible to afford anything I could wish for. Just think, I’ll be able to buy a house at Pt. Pleasant within a year.”

“Then what will you want? An automobile? A suite of your own at the San Remo? Twenty hats and thirty pairs of shoes?”

“Edward, if you could just wait until—”

“Wait is all I’ve done for ten years, Clara. When I was sure you’d finally reached the end of your tether with Tiffany, you surprised me yet again with this Stillwell venture, and now you want me to wait even longer.”

“But I might not even be hired for the position,” she said, desperate to convince him.

“That isn’t the point! You’ve again placed me second in line for your attentions. I want you to love me as I love you. Each night I come here and watch you work yourself into exhaustion, all so that you can have the opportunity to work yourself to exhaustion forevermore. This is an inarguably magnificent piece, but I doubt you are even capable of designing anything less than perfection.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, dearest, but I can’t spend another year or another twenty years watching you kill yourself. I don’t want to share you with Victor Stillwell, who, like Louis Tiffany, will undoubtedly get the lion’s portion of you.

“Working yourself into rack and ruin isn’t what life’s about. We need to enjoy life while we’re here.”

“We do that now, don’t we?” she whispered. “Can’t we just go on as we always have?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to go on being boardinghouse cronies with the woman I love. We’ll be happier as husband and wife, with you in your own enterprises earning your own money and making a name for yourself.

“Forget about Tiffany and Stillwell—they’re your past. Let me be part of your future.” He bent his head and caught her eyes. “Please, Clara.”

She saw the love in his eyes, and shifted her gaze back to the nearly completed lamp. She was wretched, not wanting to make a choice, and not wanting to lose him. “I beg you not to give up on me, Edward. I’m so close to having what I’ve wanted all my life. Give me one more year and then I’ll—”

His withdrawal from their intimacy was like a curtain falling between them.

Shaking his head, he picked up his coat. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll change lodgings at the end of next week. I’ll room with Dudley until I find something else.”

“You can’t mean this.”

“I’m afraid I do, dearest. There comes a time when
someone
has to get off the carousel and get on with life. I’m going back to Irving Place. I’ll return at ten to escort you home.”

Stunned, Clara watched him go, wanting to run after him and beg him not to leave her. If she hurried she could catch him before he got to his bicycle. She took a step in the direction of the door, when a piece of iridescent blue caught her eye. She squinted and tilted her head. The piece was a fraction too low—it would have to be reset if perfect balance were to be achieved.

She looked after Edward once again, and then, without thinking, took up her grozing pliers and bent to her work.

August 17, 1909

Clara hurried down Fifth Avenue toward Stillwell’s in a confusion of excitement and misery. The sight of Edward’s belongs loaded onto a wagon made her want to weep.

His wooden trunk, his books, the oak desk he’d made with his own
hands. All his things that she’d found comforting within the confines of his neat and orderly room, looked forlorn, like orphans ripped from their natural home.

She wanted to go to him and tell him she loved him and that she was the happiest when she was with him. She wanted to say she would marry him tomorrow.

But she didn’t.

Mr. Lifton had sent her a note saying her lamp base was finished and fitted to her shade, and that she was to meet with Mr. Stillwell at the end of the week. Too excited to wait, she’d decided to go in early to examine every inch of the piece for flaws.

She let herself into the metal shop and headed straight for Mr. Lifton’s office, cheerfully greeting each man she passed by name. Many of them returned the greeting, but averted their eyes. Immediately, she sensed an undercurrent of alarm.

The youngest of the metal workers, an excitable man the others called Jumping John, ran ahead of her into Mr. Lifton’s office and slammed the door shut behind him.

She quickened her step, entering the office at the same instant Mr. Lifton closed the closet door. Both men’s expressions were like that of schoolboys caught at stealing apples from the town grocer.

“Ah, Mrs. Driscoll,” said Mr. Lifton, “we didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“I know,” she said, removing her gloves. “I came early to check over the finished piece to make sure it’s perfect for the showing tomorrow.”

Mr. Lifton composed his features into an expression of suitable solemnity and shook his head. “It isn’t here. It’s … it’s …”

Ignoring him, she opened the closet and brought out the lamp that was wrapped in a velvet drape. She set it carefully on his desk. “Is this my lamp?”

The color came to his face. “Yes, but Mr. Stillwell has given strict orders that I’m not to release it to anyone—not even you, ma’am.”

She pushed down the urge to scream and sat calmly in the chair next to the shrouded lamp. “In that case, Mr. Lifton, I suggest you send this young man to fetch Mr. Stillwell, because I’m not leaving here without seeing my lamp.”

“Mr. Stillwell isn’t here,” Mr. Lifton said in a way that told her he wasn’t used to lying and didn’t like it much.

She leveled her gaze. “Either bring Mr. Stillwell to me at once, or I’ll cause such a ruckus, you’ll wish you had.”

A quick nod from Lifton sent Jumping John running.

Mr. Lifton rubbed the back of his neck with his handkerchief. “This is going to get me in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Driscoll.”

“Not as much trouble as I would have caused had you not sent for the man,” she assured him.

They waited, Mr. Lifton standing in front of the lamp, arms crossed over his chest, while she tried to stare through the sheet. When she tired of that pointless exercise, she walked to the window and pried it open. There wasn’t much air to be had, the way the neighboring buildings crowded up close. The narrow alley below didn’t seem to have any exit or entrance. At least, she thought, Tiffany’s had a view of the street.

Victor Stillwell barged in, his face scarlet. “What’s going on here?”

“Mrs. Driscoll came early so she could preview the lamp for mistakes,” Mr. Lifton said, perspiration beading his face. “I’ve explained to her that no one is to see the piece, but she insists on looking it over for flaws.”

Mr. Stillwell’s smile was so forced as to look like a grimace of pain. “You mustn’t worry about that, Mrs. Driscoll. I’ve not seen the lamp yet myself, but I’m sure it’s perfect in every way. When you come back tomorrow as planned, you will see the lamp as it’s being presented to the board.”