by Echo Heron
Mindful of his cane, she obeyed.
Louis forced a smile. “You shall see them in due time, when the company is ready for them. Now if you would be so kind.” He made a stiff sweeping gesture toward the hall.
Mustering as much dignity as she could, she strode out of his office. The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the hall windows.
She stood motionless, then crouched down to run her fingers over the spoiled wood. Disappointment and frustration gathered in her throat like stones. When the tears came, she rose and walked away without a backward glance.
With the exception of the violence Louis Tiffany had inflicted on his office door, Clara left out nothing when relating the details of their meeting to Josie.
By turns, Josie received the news with dismay, disgust, and finally, indignation. “What a wretched man! He’s no better than a thief.”
“It’s done and forgotten,” Clara sighed. “I’ll consider myself lucky if I still have a position by tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes,” Josie cried, a tinge of hysteria to her voice, “a position in which you slave long after everyone else has gone home, a job that uses up every last drop of your energy and time and pays so little you can’t even afford a new hat!” The pillow she threw across the room missed the wall and sailed out the open window.
Clara grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t! The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what the doctor said! If this means I have to go home to Tallmadge, I’ll die. I’m not like Kate. It’s all well and good for her to be cooped up on the farm with nothing to do but fret with Mama over what color the wallpaper print should be or how many jars of peaches to put up. If it’s Emily they want me to emulate, they should give up now. The way she always has her nose in some boring math book, she barely knows what day it is.
“I hate Tallmadge! I hate the way Mama hovers over me day and night, telling me what to wear, what to eat, when to sleep. My only worth is in fashion design. It’s essential I live in New York.”
Better than anyone, Clara understood how her sister felt. “All right, Jo. I’ll try to find a way to keep you here. Mr. Mitchell’s father is an editor at Hearth and Home. Perhaps Mr. Belknap could speak to him about looking at your portfolio. But, for now, we’ll continue on as we are for as long as we can. After that, we’ll just take it one catastrophe at a time.”
Lenox Hill
September 30, 1889
I keep thinking of one of the proverbs stenciled on the gable beams of this House—‘Good folks are scarce, take care of me’—and I am like a marble rolling between wrath and regret. I’ve written two notes of apology to the lady and discarded both. I can’t seem to think straight around her.
Today, in the graceful line of her neck where the pulse is visible, I saw a mark of the palest tan. I wanted to touch that warm flesh more than I have ever wanted to touch any woman in my life.
I read these words and think I must be losing my mind. She is only a hired artisan. I must keep my attention on business and the money. L.C.T.
~ 7 ~
October 2, 1889
Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse
THE MORNING BROUGHT with it perfect autumn weather, which added to Josie’s euphoria over putting her plan into motion. The moment Clara left for work, she was on her feet and tiptoeing the length of the halls, listening for anyone who might still be milling around. The usual sounds of the servants clearing away the breakfast things were a good indication most of the boarders had gone for the day.
She paused in front of Julia Alling’s room and set her ear against the door. While she liked the young woman in general, Miss Alling’s tendency toward long-winded gossip was off-putting. Should she suspect there was a covert scheme in the works, she would spoil everything by telling anyone who would listen all about it.
Settling in with a copy of the Times, Josie went through the advertisements. The majority of situations for women called for wet nurses, cooks, maids, washerwomen or factory workers. She considered an ad for governess, but the employer required that the applicant speak fluent French. She was about to give up, when her eye fell on an ad misplaced on the Public Notices page.
WANTED: Refined woman of good breeding. Must be well-spoken, possess tact, and have a good memory for detail. A neat and legible hand preferred.
Call at side entrance of Chatham House, #11 E 66th St. no later than 5 p.m. on October 2nd.
Josie’s mood lifted at once. It would be easy finding her way to the Broadway trolley, and the conductor could direct her to Chatham House from there. If she started at once, she’d be back before anyone knew she was gone. She pinned her hat into place and folded the three remaining dollars of her Tiffany earnings into her purse. It was more than she’d need, but in Manhattan, you never knew when there would be an extra expense.
She paused. There were dangers to venturing out alone; the papers were full of accounts of women who were murdered in unspeakable ways. She shook off the thought—surely in the light of day she wouldn’t have to worry about such things.
By the time she boarded the Broadway Trolley, the weather had turned uncomfortably warm. Seeking a cooling breeze, Josie stuck her head out the window and immediately her hat sailed over the tracks and out of sight.
She made unsuccessful efforts to extricate herself from the grasp of several gentlemen, who made it their business to restrain her from jumping out. The moment the trolley stopped, she left the car and ran in the direction of where she had last seen her hat.
At the corner of Leonard Street and Broadway, the reek of urine, mixed with the decaying flesh of a horse carcass left in the street to rot made her sick. She pressed her handkerchief over her nose and mouth and quickly moved on.
In front of her, a street hawker with pans and a pile of old clothes clattered over the uneven cobblestones, shouting out his wares in a shrill voice that stabbed her ears. She was about to ask him for directions, when she caught a glimpse of her hat in the soiled hands of a street urchin. Dodging people and costermonger carts, she caught the child by the shoulder. “Excuse me, but that’s my hat. Give it to me at once.”
The girl whirled about and regarded her with such fear that Josie took a step back. She raised a hand to reassure the girl that she meant no harm, but the child ran. Josie dashed after her, doing her best to catch up, despite the effort it took to breathe. They turned a corner and then another. The waif looked over her shoulder to gauge the distance between them, tripped over a discarded crate and went sprawling. Stunned by her fall, she sobbed where she lay.
Josie wrenched the hat out of her hand and hastily pinned it onto her head. “Why did you run away?” she asked, surveying the child more closely. Under the clothes that were scarcely more than rags tied together, the girl was pitifully thin. Josie knelt and gently wiped away the girl’s tears. With a few months of proper food, baths and clean clothes, she could see that the child might prove to be quite pretty.
The youngster scrambled to her feet. “I ain’t got no hat. Yer a rich lady; you got plenty. You gunta call the coppers to throw me in the Tombs?”
“Of course not. What’s your name?”
“Pearl.”
“Have you eaten today?”
Pearl shook her head.
Josie took a toffee from her pocket and held it out. “Are you hungry?”
Nodding shyly, Pearl snatched the sweet and popped it into her mouth, still wrapped. Before Josie could protest, she’d chewed through the paper and swallowed it.
“We always hungry,” Pearl said matter-of-factly. “We don’t get nothin’ to eat ’cept what we steal off carts. Sometimes me and my brothers sneak uptown and find good eats in them fancy hotel garbages. Once we got us a hunk a ham and some old butter, but the rats got us so bad, Mam say we can’t go there no more.”
The image of children fighting rats for food made Josie shudder. “Don’t you have any food at home?”
“Sometimes Mam take me with her to the butcher for scrap
soup bones when we got money, which ain’t hardly ever. That’s when we gotta beg or go to the garbages.”
Josie took a dollar from her pocket and placed it securely in the girl’s hand.
Pearl stared at the bill in disbelief before closing her fist around it. “What I got to do fer this?”
“You have to promise to bring it straight to your mother and tell her that it must be spent on food and nothing else. Do you give me your solemn promise?”
Pearl nodded once, and took off running. At the end of the block, she turned, waved, and vanished from view.
Josie looked around at the drab streets crowded with ramshackle buildings. Nothing was familiar, and there were no cabs in sight, only rickety wagons laden with rags and half-rotten vegetables. She walked in the direction she thought might be Broadway, only to find herself twenty minutes later back where she’d started. Despite the oppressive heat, a chill swept through her when she realized there were no other women to be seen, and several of the men who passed by had leered and made lewd gestures.
“What yer lookin’ fer, girlie?”
Josie spun around.
The gravel voice belonged to a rickety old man sitting on the steps of a building that looked to be in ruins. His clothes were in no better condition than the buildings surrounding him, and his shoes were little more than strips of leather held onto his feet with twine.
“Excuse me, sir. Could you direct me to the Broadway trolley line? I need to get to Chatham House on East Sixty-sixth Street.”
The old man opened his mouth, revealing a dark cavern full of blackened stumps that were once teeth. The sound that came out of him was more like a squeaky door than laughter. Thinking he might be drunk or afflicted with softening of the brain, she turned to leave.
“Hold on there,” he said, getting his breath. “Yer a ways from the line. We got a Chatham Street, but yer don’t wanna be goin’ down there. You git yerself kilt yer go any farther down that way.”
“Killed?” Her mouth went dry. “Why would anyone want to murder me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Upon hearing this, he let out another long, dry cackle that ended in a violent fit of coughing. “That’s rich,” he wheezed, dust rising off his trousers as he slapped his knees. “That’s a good story fer the boys.”
Her fear gave way to annoyance. “If you can’t direct me to Broadway, can you at least tell me where I am?”
He pulled back in surprise. “Why, yer in Five Points, lady. The devils what live down this way just as soon cut yer throat if they think yer got somethin’ worth killin’ yer fer.”
Five Points! Her chest tightened. Miss Alling once told her that each morning the police went into Five Points with carts to remove the bodies of people murdered the day before. George called it a “hornet’s nest of evil unfortunates.”
The old man was watching her. “Ya better git on wit ya quick, girlie, ’fore they takes notice of ya.” He stretched out a bony finger and pointed. “Take yerself down this here street. Don’t stop an’ don’t turn nowhere. Broadway’s down to the end.”
Thanking him, Josie picked up her skirts and hurried in the direction he pointed. His squeaky cackle followed her until she broke into a run to get clear of the sound. She slowed only when the pain in her chest became too much to bear.
The first drops of rain fell in heavy splatters. Not wanting to ruin her dress, she ducked into an alleyway where the eaves of the buildings were so close together as to form a protective covering. She leaned against one of the buildings to catch her breath, mindful of the rats that scurried around her, careful not to let them crawl onto her skirts. She had her eye on a particularly aggressive rodent, when a slight change in the light captured her attention. Silhouetted against the light of the alleyway entrance, two boys watched her with predatory interest.
The taller one wore a cheap cap that shaded his face, but not enough to hide his grin. Next to him, a bone-thin youth stood with his head cocked and his thumbs hooked into the edges of his pockets. His eyes were small and ringed with the dark shadows that often branded consumptives.
“Well, well, what have we got here?” The tall boy sauntered toward her, light on his feet. “Looks like we trapped us a fancy lady. What’s yer name?”
Mute with fear, Josie stepped back.
The boy’s lips slid into a cocky grin that transformed into a sneer. “I’ll lay ya odds this here fine lady gots herself a fat purse under them fancy skirts.”
She jumped back at the same instant he leapt at her. He landed so near, she could see the rings of dirt that collared his neck. Screaming for help, she ran further into the alley, hiding in the deepest shadow of the buildings. Somewhere a window banged open—or closed, she couldn’t be sure. Again she screamed, praying her cries wouldn’t be mistaken for a complaining horse or the screech of a cat.
“Gimme yer purse.” He raised a menacing hand, advancing in long strides. “Give it quick, or I’ll give ya somethin’ to be scared about.”
“I lost it,” she lied. “Don’t you think I would have taken a cab if I had money?”
While they mulled over the logic of her explanation, she darted around them, but the older boy was quicker than she anticipated. He pulled her into the crook of his arm and squeezed her neck.
“Yer lyin’! Now gimme yer purse or git hurt.”
She twisted out of his grip and fled, shrieking as she ran. He grabbed for her, missed, and stumbled. She made it as far as the street when the other boy caught the ribbon trim of her sleeve.
With a strength that didn’t seem possible for such a thin body, he yanked her off her feet. Her face smashed into the sidewalk sending a blinding flash of pain through her head. Before she could rise, the first boy was on her, slapping her hard across the mouth. She fell back onto the pavement retching. When she tried to rise, he kicked at her legs until she collapsed.
Closing her eyes so she would not have to witness her own murder, she hoped they’d be quick about it.
Rough hands ripped open the bodice of her dress. Other hands searched her pockets. While they spoke in what sounded like a foreign language, someone lifted her skirts and began unlacing her boots. Her hair was being yanked about, when there came the shrill sound of a whistle followed by a confusion of running footsteps and shouts. The invading hands disappeared.
She lay still until she was sure they were gone. With numb hands, she covered herself with what was left of her bodice and dragged herself to her feet. Rainwater soaked through her torn stockings, and for a brief instant she forgot about the heavy ache in her chest as she tried to make sense of why they had taken her shoes.
Her hand went to her neck, and then to her head. Her grandmother’s locket, along with her hat and gold hatpin were gone. She moaned long and loud, until it became a cry of pure despair. When she lifted her head, to her amazement, the old man who had given her directions was on the other side of the street, shouting and waving at someone in the distance. She stumbled toward him smiling, glad for the sight of someone familiar.
She was only a few feet away when a bolt of pain ripped through her, chest to spine. Falling onto the cold mud of the street, she tried for one last breath before allowing the darkness to take her.
The women looked up from their work, delighted to see Mr. Belknap making his way toward Miss Wolcott’s worktable. A furtive tug of sleeves traveled from one woman to the next. There was talk that Miss Wolcott and Mr. Belknap were stepping out, and although there was some skepticism, they built on anything that involved romance, especially when it was between one of their own and one of the higher-ups.
As if on cue, each girl held up the glass she was cutting, feigning a sudden deep interest in its translucency. Clara glanced up, momentarily baffled by the sight of twenty-one women peering at her through pieces of colored glass.
Mr. Belknap greeted her with his customary courteous manner, though the slight pinch around his eyes betrayed the fact that he was there on a grim errand.
She
squared her shoulders. “I’m disappointed Mr. Tiffany has chosen not to come himself,” Clara said in a low voice, “but as you’ve been sent to do his dirty work for him, please dismiss me and get it over with. I’ll vacate my post as soon as I’ve packed my personal belongings.”
“Dismiss you? I’ve not come to dismiss you.” He turned his back to the girls, who were now openly gaping at them, and spoke in a whisper. “Clara, I need to speak with you privately. It’s urgent.”
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled her into her private workroom and firmly closed the door behind them. From his somber expression, she surmised he had come to tell her something that would change her life. A quiet sadness settled inside her, preparing her for the news he was about to give.
“Please get your coat and hat. I’m here to accompany you to Chambers Street Hospital. I have a private cab waiting outside. I’ll explain what little I know on the way.”
The floor seemed to spin out from under her. “It’s Josie,” she whispered. “Is she dead?”
“No, but she’s been in some sort of an accident.” Henry lowered her to a chair and began chaffing her hands.
“An accident? But why would they bring her from Brooklyn to a hospital in Manhattan?”
“Didn’t Josie come with you into the city this morning?”
“Of course not. She would never …” She shook her head. “There must be some mistake. Perhaps it isn’t Josie at all. Who told you this?”
“A messenger boy was sent from the hospital. I assumed Josie, or someone who knows her, told them where you worked.” He helped her to her feet. “We need to go. There’s no time to waste.”
An irrational urge to scream welled up inside her, and for a moment, she thought she might come unhinged enough to give in to the impulse. Instead she removed her apron and carefully folded it. Fighting down the dread, she took her jacket and hat from the closet, and without pausing to put them on, walked through the workroom.
