by Echo Heron
Besides our regular work, Mr. Tiffany has charged me with creating a fairy garden window for Mrs. Tiffany’s sewing room. I was ordered to Lenox Hill to take measurements. To my great disappointment, instead of being given a grand tour, I was escorted directly to a cramped little room in the attic via the servants’ stairs.
It was such a plain room, containing only a rickety table and chairs, a torn rag rug, and an upright Steinway. It’s apparently used for school and piano lessons as well as sewing. My every spare moment goes into this window. There are so many flowers—each petal and leaf requires precise color selections and cutting until my eyes feel certain to fall out. Mrs. Tiffany isn’t at all uppity. I wish she had more influence over her husband.
To top off the week, one of my best selectors—a poor little fool of a girl—announces she is to be married tomorrow and must leave. She is seventeen. Her husband is barely eighteen and makes $10 a week. She was earning $5.50 here and was to be raised in two months to $7. How are these girls gullible enough to believe marriage will provide them with a better life? I wanted to slap her. Instead, I handed over her last week’s pay and wished her well.
If that wasn’t enough to test my patience, Miss Agnes Northrop, one of Tiffany’s longest-tenured floral designers, has found it necessary to nit-pick my designs. She’s a bit in love with Mr. Tiffany, so I often feel we have a quisling in our camp.
As a final painful blow, Alice moved out of Miss Todd’s and in with her aunt, who lives north of Central Park and is currently suffering from rheumatism. It does save her money, but I miss having her comforting presence at Miss Todd’s.
I must leave off here. Mr. Tiffany has arrived and is shouting at the top of his lungs.
Love, Clara
P.S. We can use whatever produce, dried herbs and cheese you care to ship. In exchange, Miss Todd will give us a reduced rate on our board. Whatever you send will be appreciated by all, since it will be of better quality and cheaper than anything that can be purchased in the city. Don’t bother about the shipping cost—Miss Todd will gladly pay the $1 fee.
P.P.S. Yes, by all means attend the Harvest Fair with Reverend Cutler, Mama. If there is gossip, what of it? Pay no heed. You and the Reverend are pillars of the community.
September 4, 1889
ENGROSSED IN CHOOSING the right shade of glass for Jesus’ halo in the Last Supper window, Clara had little else on her mind except color, hue and light. It was the part of making the windows she loved best, for it was when they came alive.
As the clock inched past the closing hour, Daniel Bracey was anxious to lock up and get over to McSorley’s for the one libation Mrs. Bracey allowed him each week. He noisily moved chairs and easels about the room, and finally resorted to clearing his throat with theatrical volume.
“You needn’t stay on my account, Mr. Bracey,” she said, holding a piece of yellow glass to the light. “Mr. Tiffany wants this window done by Thursday, so I may as well make good use of the light while I still have it.”
Mr. Bracey frowned. “An’ who might be escortin’ ya home, Miss? ’Tain’t proper fer a lady to be alone out on the streets after dark.”
The man removed his cap and pushed a shock of auburn hair out of his eyes. “An’ with all that business with Jack Ripper over there in London? It gives me the shivers. If anythin’ happened to ya, Miss …” Mr. Bracey made the sign of the cross, “Jesus, Mary, ’n’ Joseph an’ all the martyred saints, Mr. Tiffany would skin me alive an’ throw what were left to the dogs.”
She knew he meant well, but just for once she wished he would leave without a fuss. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Bracey, but you needn’t worry. Mr. Driscoll will be here at six to escort me to my boardinghouse.”
“Ah, well, that’s all right then. Have ya got yer keys?”
“Yes, Mr. Bracey,” she sighed. “Rest assured my keys are on my person at all times, even when I sleep.”
“If ya please, Miss, give me regards to Miss Josephine. God willin’ she’ll be right as angels afore long.” He removed his cap and a shaft of sun fell across the upper portion of his face. For an instant she was distracted by his eyes, which were exactly the shade of green she needed for her secret project.
“I’ll make sure to tell her. Have a good night.” She returned her attention to the halo, hoping his leave-taking was drawing to a close. She was itching to get to the bins of scrap glass. There were bound to be a few pieces of green left over from the “Sermon on the Mount” window.
She slipped off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, listening to the bill and coo of pigeons on the ledge outside the open window and the rough-voiced cab drivers shouting to their horses. The moment she heard the rumble of the basement delivery door that heralded Mr. Bracey’s departure from the building, she rushed to her private workroom and slid the wooden fruit crate out from under her desk. Pulling off the top, she feasted her eyes on her prize creation.
Not only unique, it served a practical purpose as well. It was just the sort of thing to generate the talk Mr. Tiffany was seeking for his showroom. She didn’t like thinking about her work in terms of profits, but the piece did bring with it the possibility of extra income.
From the basket of discarded shards, she chose a sliver of green and commenced to work.
Francis Driscoll paused over his letter and stared out the drawing room window. After a moment he resumed writing.
I imagine you, dearest Mary, in a sunny orchard, harvesting apples to give to the poor. I miss you with all my heart and hope that someday we shall be reunited. Perhaps then—
Without so much as a nod, Josie entered the drawing room and settled near the fireplace. Despite the warm glow of afternoon light, the normally cheerful girl looked drawn, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
In an instant he crossed the room and took her hands in his. “Your hands are cold as ice. Are you ill, my dear?”
“No,” she replied, barely above a whisper. “I’ve received a letter from my mother insisting that I return home.”
Uneasiness gripped him. “Has someone in your family fallen ill?”
She picked at an invisible snag in the weave of her skirt. “No, it’s only that my mother fears I place too much of a burden on Clara. Since the doctor forbade me to continue on at Tiffany’s, she’s had to carry my share of the expenses. She’s barely able to afford our rent, let alone my tuition at the Art League.”
“Why have you and Clara never mentioned your financial worries? Didn’t you consider that I might be able to offer assistance or advice?”
“Our mother taught us not to bother people outside the family with our troubles. But to be honest, Mr. Driscoll, you seem more like my family than some of my actual relations.”
Touched by the girl’s unaffected openness, he slipped an arm around her thin shoulders. “Surely there must be something I can do to ease your troubles?”
“I was thinking …” She looked away, suddenly shy. “… that as a man of business, you must know a great many people. Perhaps you might inquire whether any of them have need of a governess or a lady’s companion?
“It’s gentle work, and I am amiable. My embroidery and sewing are above reproach, I read well, and I have a neat hand. I could pour tea for guests, and see to it that the lady of the house took her medicine at the correct times. I might even be able to manage the household, if it didn’t require physical labor.”
The buoyancy that was her nature returned. “When I’ve earned enough, I could take up my art lessons again without being a burden.” She touched his arm, a sudden anxiety overtaking her. “Mr. Driscoll, I don’t think it would be wise to mention this to Clara. She feels we trespass upon your time and goodwill far too often as it is.”
Driscoll kissed both her hands. “I won’t betray your trust. I shall put my mind to finding a solution to your predicament. You needn’t worry another moment.”
“Are you certain? I’d feel terrible if this were in any way an imposition.”
“Not
at all. In the meantime, go upstairs and pin on your loveliest hat. We’ll go to Tiffany’s together to fetch your sister. The exercise will do you good.”
He watched her climb the stairs, hardly able to suppress the urge to shout for joy. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Dictates of society being what they were, offering financial assistance to the Wolcotts would require that he first ask for Clara’s hand in marriage. The prospect sent his heart racing.
He went to the cabinet where Miss Todd kept the sherry for medical emergencies and poured himself a good measure. Once married, he might help Clara establish a small shop-studio of her own, one in which she and Josephine could produce all manner of artistic froufrou. With their artistic talents and his business acumen, such an enterprise might even prove profitable.
His spirits soared at the thought of playing the role of benefactor. The effects of the sherry having worked on him, he was sure his life was about to take on new meaning.
She knew she should put the piece away, but could not—at least not while the sun was still shining. Holding the glass to the light, Clara admired the reflected patterns of red and yellow dancing across the walls.
“What do you have there, Miss Wolcott?”
Startled, she instinctively thrust the piece inside the crate and threw her apron over the top. In the doorway stood the last two people in the world she wanted to see. Had it been Mr. Tiffany alone, she would not have felt such foreboding, but the sight of Mr. Mitchell made her stomach cramp with fear.
“I asked you a question, Miss Wolcott.” Mitchell pushed past Louis. “I expect an answer. What are you hiding there?”
Before she could respond, he tossed aside her apron and grabbed at the fragile glass. At the sight of his clumsy hands mauling her work, Clara pushed him aside and plucked the shade out of the crate. She held the glass lampshade to the last of the day’s light. Immediately a kaleidoscope of color lit up every corner of the room. A shaft of red fell across Louis Tiffany’s face.
“Mr. Tiffany!” Her voice was urgent. “If you would please direct your attention here.”
Tiffany stepped closer, his eyes focused on the vision of vibrant red poppies nestled like rubies among intricately veined leaves of liquid green, all on a background of deep yellow.
“It’s a design I’ve been working on for some time. I wanted to wait until it was completed before showing it to you. I was hoping to …”
Tiffany was no longer listening. He set aside his walking stick and took the shade gently from her hands. Examining it closely, he seemed mesmerized by the colors and the fluid curve of the piece.
Design sketches and odd bits of cartoons scattered under her fingers as she rifled through the confusion of papers in her desk. She found her drawing for the lamp base and held it out to him. “I thought the base should be of copper or brass.”
Pulling a pencil from her hair, she pointed at the four finely detailed poppy leaves that made up the feet of the base, their delicate stems weaving together in an exquisite and harmonious pattern that twisted up the length of the metal arm. “Inlaid here in these narrow panels between the stems will be mosaic tiles in colors complementary to the glass.”
“Hideous!” Mitchell blurted. “It is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. No one would be foolish enough to buy such unappealing frippery. The production costs alone would put us out of business.”
She whirled on him. “It is not hideous! Truth be told, it’s the most original and interesting thing in the place! If you don’t believe me, Mr. Mitchell, display this lamp in the showroom, and we’ll just see how well it sells.”
Tiffany took the shade to Clara’s desk and sat down.
“Out of the question!” retorted Mitchell. “However, since we’ve caught you red-handed, might I inquire what business you have wasting company time and materials on this useless enterprise?”
“I beg your pardon!” she snapped, her voice high and loud. She promptly lowered it—sounding like a fishwife would get her nowhere. “I created this piece on my own time. As for the materials, every inch of the shade has come from scraps I recovered from the dustbins or scrap glass that I purchased with my own money.”
Unrelenting in his attack, Mitchell shook his head. “That makes no difference whatsoever. You did not have my permission to engage in this this waste of company resources. You simply took it upon yourself to—”
“This is ingenious, Miss Wolcott,” Tiffany said quietly, turning the lampshade so that the glass sparkled. “I applaud you.”
“Louis!” Mitchell pushed her aside. “The cost of producing this design would exceed any profit we might realize from its sale, if indeed it sold at all.”
Tiffany held up a hand. “I’ve said nothing about putting it into production.” He returned his attention to the shade. “How did you come by this design?”
Cautiously she crossed in front of Mitchell. “Last winter being what it was with so much snow, Josephine talked incessantly about how much she longed for the bright colors of the other seasons. That became the seed of an idea that took root and blossomed when I saw how our landscape windows come alive when the light shines through them.
“I thought, why not a stained glass lampshade sporting colorful designs from nature? What could be more cheerful than all those colors on a dreary winter day?”
Tiffany nodded. “And the shape?”
“It seemed to match the natural lines of the flowers.” She leaned over him, running her fingers down the curve of the shade. “You can see here how I used copper wire to mimic the fine veins of the leaves. It worked …”
She was at once acutely aware of him, the side of his face so close to hers she could smell the faint scent of apples on his breath. Tiffany caught her fingers under his. With the lightest of pressure, he caressed her hand, and then released it.
The event was so subtle and unexpected that, for an instant, she doubted it had actually happened. She resumed her thought, her words slow and halting. “It worked quite well as you can see. I wasn’t sure at first how I would make the detail stand out, but—”
“Louis, please!” Mitchell broke in. “I don’t understand how you could possibly entertain this preposterous notion for one moment. This thing would never sell to our class of clientele. It’s more fitting as a carnival novelty item.
“Surely you don’t mean to indulge the fanciful artistic whims of a woman who hasn’t the first idea about designing for the higher classes of society, who, if I might be so bold as to remind you, are the cornerstone of our business.”
With great care Tiffany placed the shade on the desk and fixed Mitchell with a cold stare, his jaw clenching spasmodically.
Clara held her breath, incredulous that Mr. Mitchell seemed oblivious to the change in Mr. Tiffany’s eyes. Anyone who knew him even a little would know enough to heed their chilly warning.
“Honestly, Louis,” Mitchell resumed, “your artistic judgment seems to be flagging. Perhaps we should ask your father’s opinion in this matter, before we go off on any frivolous tangents.”
Tiffany jabbed a finger in his direction. “Be quiet! When I want an evaluation of a design, I’ll ask an artist, not a business manager.” He threw back his shoulders. “Simply because you’re related to my sister by marriage doesn’t entitle or qualify you to critique the work produced by my artists—that’s my business; money and accounting are yours.
“This piece is neither hideous nor preposterous, and if you possessed one iota of artistic refinement, you’d know that. It is, as Miss Wolcott has so shrewdly pointed out, the most innovative thing in the factory.”
He turned to her. “I’m taking you off the Last Supper window effective immediately. You shouldn’t be working on the mundane when you could be designing pieces like this. I’ll notify the men in the glass and metal department to provide you with whatever you need in the way of supplies.” He paused then added, “Within reason.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tiffany. I promise I’ll—”
“Yes, of course. I’ll design as many as you like. I’ll—”
Tiffany stopped her with a look. “Miss Wolcott, understand that I’m granting you permission to complete this one sample. I’m not issuing any guarantees that we’ll put it into production. The lamp must earn the approval of all members of the management before we can consider such a thing. It will be scrutinized from every standpoint, artistic and …” he nodded to the still fuming Mr. Mitchell, “commercial.”
He hooked the end of his cane over his arm and removed his pince-nez. “You may carry on with what you were about. Good afternoon.”
Before she could reply, they were gone; Louis Tiffany in a blaze of unassailable importance, and Pringle Mitchell in an evil temper. She plunked herself down on the windowsill, scarcely believing her luck. Of course, Mr. Mitchell would increase his efforts to sabotage her work, but for now she couldn’t have planned a more successful introduction of her lamp design.
She leaned over the sill, breathing in the chill air of the early evening. Her eye was caught by a streak of orange above the setting sun. Taking out her notebook she began sketching ideas for lampshades as quickly as they popped into her head. She was working on her third rendering of a large goldfish entwined in pond lilies when a soft knock signaled the arrival of Mr. Driscoll.
Lenox Hill
September 26, 1889
Dined with H.O. Havemeyer at the club. My visit to Emile Galle’s glass factory this summer impressed him, for he has commissioned me to decorate his home. He is a slippery bastard. I’ll need to take care lest he tries to cheat me out of the fortune I stand to make from the job. Father would never let me live it down.
