Noon at Tiffany's (62 page)

He took her by the elbow and led her to the door. “Why don’t you come up to my office? You’ll need to sign several agreements—nothing important, but it helps to get the formalities out of the way.”

Clara pulled her arm out of his grip. “I’m not going anywhere or signing anything until I’ve had a chance to go over my lamp. It’s not done any other way—at least not by me.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to see it.” Mr. Stillwell lay hold of her arm again. This time his grip was not so gentle as he pulled her toward the door. “You mustn’t worry, Mrs. Driscoll, I’ll—”

She threw his hand off and spun around. “I
will
see it, Mr. Stillwell, and I’ll see it now!”

Before he could stop her, she marched back into Lifton’s office and unwound the sheet from the lamp. The instant it fell away, Victor Stillwell
drew in a sharp breath, his hand going to his chest. Jumping John gave a low whistle. Even she couldn’t suppress a cry of delight.

Thin gold blades of prairie grass in various hues, intersected and entwined into a delicate lace that stretched up and disappeared under a cornflower of rich iridescent blue. Hundreds of glass petals, their lancet tips layered one over the other, ascended from the irregular rim toward a central top cluster of curving purple stamen each tipped by a deep yellow pollen bead

Carefully, she lifted the lamp, searching the underside. Both her name and mark had been buffed out and replaced with Victor Stillwell’s signature and his company’s mark.

Her eyes narrowed. “Where are my signature and mark?”

“You need to be reasonable about this, Mrs. Driscoll. I thought it best to keep the name Stillwell on our things so as not to confuse the customers who depend on the Stillwell signature as an assurance of quality.”

“This lamp is not yours,” she said, hardly able to breathe around her fury. “If I’m not mistaken, besides being in blatant disregard of our agreement, your signature on my work constitutes fraud!”

Mr. Stillwell gave a nervous laugh. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Driscoll. I see no need for hysteria. The Stillwell name is synonymous with quality. If the customers see a name they don’t recognize, the piece won’t sell. Now, perhaps after, let’s say, another ten of this caliber design, we might begin engraving your mark on a select few …”

She stopped listening, suddenly aware that the lamp was growing heavier in her trembling hands. Without hesitation, she crossed the room, gazed one last time at the lamp and dropped it out the window.

The explosion of metal and glass was enough to drown out Victor Stillwell’s outraged scream.

She snatched her design sketches from Mr. Lifton’s desk and tucked them into her leather case.

“Have you gone mad?” Mr. Stillwell shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I am neither crazy, nor am I an imbecile, Mr. Stillwell,” she said, calmly pulling on her gloves. “The lamp was mine. I would rather see it smashed in an alley than to see someone else’s name on my work—someone who will gain all the profit and take the glory besides. I warned you the day
we met that I’d had quite enough of that. I’m sorry you didn’t take heed.”

Halfway to the door she paused. “As I am in the habit of keeping track of materials and labor, I know to the penny what I owe Stillwell’s. I’ll send you a bank check.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake, Mr. Stillwell. Hopefully, you will learn from it. I bid you good-day gentlemen.”

Eyes bright with admiration, Jumping John opened the door with a flourish and bowed as she passed.

“Hello? Hello? Is that you, Miss Owens?” Clara pushed the earpiece against the flesh of her ear. “No, no—nothing’s wrong. Is Mr. Booth still there, or has he already gone on to Dudley’s?

“Oh? When did he say he would come back for his bicycle? Wonderful. Would you please give him a message? All right, I’ll wait.”

While she waited for Miss Owens to find her glasses and something to write with, Clara glanced around her workroom, looking for any of her personal belongings she may have missed. The Tiffany Girls were gathering outside her office, looking at her through the glass. She waved and smiled as the phone crackled to life.

“Yes, Miss Owens, I’m still here. Please tell Mr. Booth to meet me at the bench in Gramercy Park at five p.m. If I’m not already there, tell him to wait. Tell him … tell him the carousel is slowing down.”

They gathered around her, nervously glancing at the crates holding her personal effects.

“I’m one of the luckiest women in this city to have had the chance to work with you,” Clara began in a tremulous voice. “I’m so thankful to you. We’ve created thousands of beautiful things together, and that alone binds us for the rest of our lives.”

She swallowed and waited for the lump in her throat to ease. “I’m leaving Tiffany’s and I’m going to miss you more than I—” Her voice broke.

At once, Lillian and Marion Palmié took her hands. Miss Ring and
Miss Griffin stepped up to embrace her, and then Joseph, Frank, and Miss Northrop. And so it went in gentle waves, until every one of them had had a chance to touch her and say good-bye.

Daniel Bracey was last to shake her hand. “God bless ya, Miss. Me an’ the Missus will be sayin’ a prayer for ya each mornin’.” He lowered his head. “What in the name of God are we gonna do without ya?”

“You will continue making exquisitely beautiful things,” she said finally. “It’s who you are.”

The metallic clatter of the lift doors put her in mind of being locked into a dungeon. The car lurched once, twice, and began its ascent. She slipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, already feeling her time at Tiffany’s was long ago.

It was pure vanity, of course, but she felt a twinge of regret to think that, outside of her family, the Tiffany Girls and a half dozen Europeans, no one would ever know it was she who designed the hundreds of pieces that made Louis Tiffany’s reputation.

The lift bumped to a stop. She brought her fist down on the lever and yanked the door open hard enough to make it bounce. Wiping away tears, she swore under her breath. “Damn you, Mr. Tiffany! Damn you straight to Hell.”

“What did you say?” Louis Tiffany looked up from his work.

“I said I’m leaving my position. Mr. Briggs and Miss Northrop are prepared to take over my duties. The Tiffany Girls know what is expected of them and are quite capable of carrying on. The Mexico curtain is on schedule, the new autumn lamps are in the works, and the bookkeeping is up to date. All in all, my leaving shouldn’t interfere with the production schedule one bit.”

Louis frowned, and then started to laugh. “Very amusing Clara, but I’m busy now, so what’s the real purpose of your visit?”

“I don’t mean to be amusing,” she said bluntly. “I’m leaving your employ. I’ve already packed my personal things and made the announcement to my department. I’ll come in next week to review things
once more with Mr. Briggs and Miss Northrop, and to tender my formal resignation to Mr. Thomas.”

All signs of joviality faded from his expression. “Don’t be absurd. You can’t leave—you have the Mexico curtain to finish.”

“Mr. Briggs has taken charge of that.”

“You’re just tired,” he said, real concern creeping into his voice. A small muscle under the pale skin near his eye twitched. “Take some time away. Perhaps you should tour Europe again, or visit the Near East? Morocco and the Nile are exciting in autumn. I’ll pay for your tickets. You could invite your sister or Miss Gouvy to accompany you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tiffany, but I am leaving—today.”

“No!” Panicked, he came around the desk. “You can’t just up and leave without my permission. You haven’t discussed this with me.”

“I’m discussing it with you now. I’ve made up my mind to go out on my own.”

“You can’t do that! I won’t allow it.” A bead of sweat rolled off his forehead and disappeared in the thatch of his beard. “What about everything you’ve worked for?”

“Everything I’ve worked for,” she repeated in a flat voice, “has been stolen by you. Besides building your reputation and fortune, what, exactly, is the ‘everything’ I’ve worked for?”

“For God’s sake, why are you doing this?” he cried, coming toward her, his hands stretched toward her.

She swung around, and this time there was fierceness in her voice. “Because I want my life back. Just once I want to own what is mine.”

The sharp slap of his hand against the surface of the table had no effect on her. “After all I’ve done for you? No! You will
not
walk out on me!”

“After all you’ve done for
me?
I was under the impression that it was my designs that made your company successful.
My
lamps!
My
windows!
My
mosaics!

“Or perhaps you’re referring to the position of manager you so kindly bestowed upon me? I’ll admit I was flattered, that is until I realized that my being a manager meant taking on four times the amount of work that was required of your other managers.”

“You took the money easily enough,” he said, quieter now. “No other woman receives the salary you earn.”

“Thirty-five dollars a week! Forty-five cents an hour to ruin my eyes, forty-five cents an hour to produce thousands of original works of art, each of which you sell for an amount equal to half my yearly salary? Forty-five cents and years of my life so that your name could be etched into my work.”

Pulling open his office door, she pointed to the deep groove that now resembled an old scar. When she spoke again, her voice was low and even, the fire gone. “Do you remember the day you did this with your cane? It was the day you told me that my designs were not mine.
That’s
the day I should have gone elsewhere. I should have known then that you would continue to rob me of what was rightfully mine.”

She stepped into the hall, the pure joy of freedom filling her until there was nothing else. Turning her back on him, she simply walked away.

“How dare you!” he thundered after her. “Come back here this instant. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I do,” she called back. “I’ve finally come to my senses.”