Noon at Tiffany's

by Echo Heron

Josephine remained locked in their room, even taking all her meals there. On one occasion, I did try to speak to her through the door in case she was in need of something, but received no answer. Thinking I might find her dead on the floor, I attempted to enter and found the door locked! Being the conscientious woman I am, I attempted to peer through the keyhole, but my view was blocked by something draped over the doorknob.

  The following day everyone was instructed by an irate Clara that under no circumstances was Josephine to be disturbed, and if we wished to communicate with her, we should stick to writing letters.

  I thought the situation rather peculiar, and there were speculations that Josephine might be suffering from some deadly disease, like typhoid or scarlet fever, that could very well infect us all. With my rooms being directly down the hall from theirs, you can imagine my concern. Just as I was about to insist on knowing what was afoot in the name of safety, the Misses Wolcott appeared at the dinner table one evening as if nothing had happened. Everyone was so astonished, nary a word was said about the peculiar affair.

  Please, if you hear of anything there in Tallmadge that might shed some light on this mystery, do let me know.

  Your loving niece, Miss Julia Alling

  Tiffany’s

  October 31, 1889

  Dearest Mama and sisters Kate and Emily,

  Josie is fully recovered from her spell with the grippe and is occupied with designing a winter wardrobe for the hoity-toity ladies she reads about.

  George’s most recent series of fits left him ill for days. The doctor, one of the best in the city, believes it may be a brain virus or epilepsy. It’s disconcerting to see him so wan and still, when he’s normally as busy as a hummingbird.

  Work is relentless, and the strain on my eyes is almost beyond endurance. When I’m able to get free of Tiffany’s, I’ll see about being fitted for new spectacles.

  Mama, I’m happy that Reverend Cutler has finally declared his love for you. We’ve all been waiting for this momentous occasion. Considering you’ve known each other for twenty years, I wouldn’t call his declaration frivolous. I just hope he doesn’t take quite so long to ask for your hand.

  I’m meeting with Mr. Tiffany now on an important matter and must not be late.

  I love you all, Clara

  Lenox Hill

  October 31, 1989

  This morning, Clara gave notice of her betrothal to Mr. Driscoll. I doubt I shall ever find someone with her talent. I’m shattered, as there is no doubt her departure will mean financial loss for the company. My offers of increased salary and a higher position failed to persuade her to stay. To make matters worse, three of the department’s best girls have given notice as well, saying they do not wish to work under anyone else. To have that type of loyalty from my own board would make me a happy man.

  Miss Northrop will have to fill her position, and while she is a fine artisan, she does not posses that which marks Clara’s work as extraordinary.

  Just the idea of her absence leaves a hole in my life. Until today I didn’t know how much I depended on seeing her each morning. As Father says, I make my own follies. L.C.T.

  ~ 9 ~

  November 4, 1889

  Dearest Clara,

  Your three letters came all together, and they are stunners. You may be sure I would go farther than New York to walk you down the aisle on Thanksgiving Day.

  Certainly Mr. Driscoll is a marvel of generosity. I didn’t think there were any such men left in the world. As your betrothed, it is natural that Mr. Driscoll should look out for you, and in this instance the game is worth the candle; but that he should take up our poor Josie, stranded and penniless in that Babel city, and set her on her feet, shows a divine soul.

  You must not fret. This man knows that you are independent, proud-spirited and quite willing to work to support yourself and the rest. If you hadn’t given to others till all was gone, you would have something for yourself. But now you should allow Mr. Driscoll to take over your cares. I think it’s more embarrassing for Josie than for you, but I hope she will be as sensible about it as she is thankful. I shall write a letter to Mr. Driscoll, for he is now a partner in my matters.

  With love, Mama

  Franklin Square Station

  Manhattan

  THE SIGHT OF the black ostrich feather joggling over the heads of the other passengers emerging from the train made Clara smile.

  Weary of being overlooked in crowds due to her small stature, Alice had hit upon the idea of redecorating her hats with tall feathers and grand sprays of flowers to give her height. Her millinery creations were so fantastic as to have gained a certain amount of notoriety throughout Manhattan.

  Alice flung herself into Clara’s arms and then drew back, her eyes full of concern. “What is it, dearest? You look … worn out.”

  Fully aware that the normal landscape of her face had changed, Clara tucked Alice’s hand securely under her own. “Worn out doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. If you don’t mind, let’s wait before we head to Miss Todd’s. I could use some fresh air. I’ve been cooped up all day with Kate and Emily, writing the three hundred and sixty-seven wedding announcements Mr. Driscoll insisted we send out.”

  She caught Alice’s shocked expression. “Not only that, but he insisted on purchasing them at Dempsey and Carroll’s. It was a ridiculous waste of money. I could easily have done without and purchased something useful, like a new pen and ink set for Josie, or a camera to make photographic studies of plants and flowers for my designs.”

  They found an empty bench near the station and seated themselves. Under the streetlamp, a recent dusting of snow sparkled like tiny diamonds on the sidewalk. Alice pulled a wool scarf from her valise and wrapped it around her neck. “How did Mr. Tiffany take the news of your departure?”

  “He was upset. I don’t think he really believed I’d actually leave.” Clara looked away. The truth of it was that Louis Tiffany had been beside himself, ranting and raving so that by the time she left his office, she’d felt guilty, as if she’d betrayed him in some way.

  “He got himself all in a flap,” she resumed. “Mr. Platt, the company treasurer, wasn’t too happy about it either. Mr. Mitchell, on the other hand, was so elated at the news of my departure that I thought he was going to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of the building right then and there.”

  As they laughed, Clara studied her closest friend. Alice’s fair skin and delicate features created a kind of graceful beauty that struck her as something remarkable. She leaned over and kissed Alice’s cheek. “I’d go mad if I didn’t have you to talk to.”

  “Is it leaving Tiffany’s that’s troubling you?”

  “That’s part of the inventory, I suppose, but there are other matters to keep me awake at night.”

  “Josie?”

  “No. She’s recovered well enough, but her color remains poor and she’s often unable to catch her breath. It’s her spirit that’s slow to heal, although her overall outlook has brightened considerably since she learned of my betrothal. She designed every piece of my travel wardrobe. That being said, she’s not happy about having to return to Tallmadge while we’re on our wedding trip.” Clara laughed. “She even tried to convince Mr. Driscoll that going to Florida, Cuba, Mexico and California was excessive.”

  A sharp wind caused both women to pull their coats snugly about their necks.

  “Forgive me if this is too personal a matter,” Alice began, “but is there some trouble between you and Mr. Driscoll?”

  “Not trouble. It’s more that I have grave doubts about marrying him. I’m having nightmares, and this morning Kate told me that when I pace in the middle of the night, I sound like a woman trying to get away from herself.”

  “But, Clara, this is a common state of mind among new brides.”

  Clara made a fist, the soft kid glove pulling tight across her knuckles. “Bride!” she said in disgust, “I hate the very word. It seems to be the only one that defines me
now, as if I were a sort of secondary accessory belonging to Mr. Driscoll.

  “I hate that I must ask for money. I hate that I’m now dependent on someone else for every basic need. Above all, I despise the fact that I can be myself only in a limited fashion.” She angrily wiped away tears. “I can assure you not many brides feel this way before marriage!

  “Oh, I suppose we get on well enough, and he is refined to a certain degree, although his nature is more suited to matters of the business trade than the world of art, but I don’t love him as a woman should love a husband.”

  “You could break the engagement. You wouldn’t be the first bride to back out.”

  “Four days before the wedding?” Clara looked at Alice as if she’d gone mad. “The humiliation and gossip would ruin us. What’s done is done. I’ve committed myself.”

  Alice put an arm around her. “If you really feel this way, how do you expect this union to bring you any joy?”

  “Is anyone ever truly happy for longer than a fleeting moment or two? People look to love for happiness. I’ve always seen folly in that. I’m a practical woman, and this is the most sensible plan available.”

  Alice threw up her hands. “For Heaven’s sake, Clara, morganatic marriages went out of style eons ago. I know you feel this is the only way out for you and Josie, but I fear for your peace of mind.”

  Clara pulled Alice to her feet. “You shouldn’t listen to me when I get like this. Mr. Driscoll is a kind and generous man. He’ll provide for me and Jo, plus I’ll not have to worry about any confinements.” Alice puzzled for a moment and then laughed abruptly when Clara’s meaning became clear. “Oh, I see. How did you and Mr. Driscoll come to that resolution?”

  “Actually, it was Mr. Driscoll who brought it up. We’ve agreed that ours will be a chaste marriage unless I change my mind.” She arched an eyebrow. “And I assure you there’ll be snow in Hell before that ever comes to pass.”

  “There aren’t many men who would agree to something like that,‘ Alice said, shaking her head. “Have you decided on a place to live?”

  “Mr. Driscoll decided for us. He leased a large suite of rooms on the eighth floor of the San Remo, the new residence hotel on Central Park West at Seventy-fifth Street—the one with the two towers. He thinks the park view will be beneficial to Josie’s health.

  “I was dead set against it at first, because of the expense, but then Mr. Driscoll saw an advertisement in the New York Times that read: ‘If you wish to avoid the drudgery of housekeeping and the cares of cooking, the residential suites at the Hotel San Remo are what you’ve been looking for.’” Clara snorted. “He knew at once it was perfect for me.”

  “Go ahead and shock me,” Alice said eagerly. “What do they charge for rent?”

  “Somewhere around seven thousand dollars a year, plus another six dollars a week per person for meals. I don’t know how Mr. Driscoll affords it, and he doesn’t tell me. The one thing he’s adamant about is that we never discuss finances.

  “He’s given us free rein to furnish the rooms as we see fit. If truth be told, I’m more excited about arranging the suite than I am about getting married.” Clara started to laugh and then checked herself. “Don’t think me ungrateful. I’m well aware that not many unmarried women over the age of twenty-five are likely to find a respectable wealthy gentleman, who will wed them, whisk them off on exotic travels, put them up in expensive hotel suites and provide for their family.”

  “I don’t think of you as ungrateful in the least,” Alice said, all trace of amusement gone. “My view of the arrangement is that it isn’t an equal exchange, but rather a socially condoned robbery. Some great wrong has been done to our sex, so that we are continually forced into accepting these unsuitable situations.” She shook her head in disappointment. “And I was so sure Mr. Belknap would propose.”

  “Henry and I might have made a better match of temperaments, but his mother would never have allowed it. Besides,” Clara gave Alice a meaningful glance, “you’ve been part of the art community long enough to know there are men who are happier in the company of other men.” She paused before adding, “He’s asked George to move in.”

  “You mean with him?”

  “Of course I mean with him.”

  They linked arms and resumed walking toward the trolley.

  “I want to hear all about your gown,” Alice said.

  “You’re going to do more than hear about it. You’ve been chosen to make a hat for my wedding trip. And when you finish that, I’m locking you in with Kate and Emily until those absurd announcements are finished.”

  Thanksgiving, November 28, 1889

  Bathed in the flickering light of a multitude of candles, Clara stood alone in the vestibule, while her mother was in the choir loft conferring with the violinists.

  She caught sight of a regal-looking bride reflected in the beveled windows and raised her bouquet of white chrysanthemums to make sure it was really her reflection. Through the filmy veil, her face appeared serene and flawless, like that of a porcelain doll.

  The gown had been made especially for her at Mr. Driscoll’s insistence and expense. The cream silk brocade that made up the bodice and draped skirts flowed from a yoke of Brussels lace that extended shoulder to shoulder. From the circlet of orange blossoms that crowned her head, a fine tulle veil cascaded over her shoulders to the floor.

  The heady fragrance of the orange blossoms mingled with the scent of burning candles to create an intoxicating perfume that made her dizzy. She peered through the crack between the nave doors. Kate, Emily and Josie, each in her best gown, stood on the steps of the altar. Opposite them, Mr. Hulse, the groom’s best man and business partner, was checking his pocket watch, while Mr. Driscoll looked on. In contrast to her sisters, who fairly sparkled in their wedding party euphoria, the two older men looked positively mournful.

  She located Alice by the tall branches of holly berry shooting up from her hat. Next to Alice, George chattered away to Henry, who was turned in his seat staring expectantly at the nave doors. In the last row sat several of her girls.

  She would have liked to be with them, at someone else’s wedding, gossiping about Mr. Tiffany’s latest Cane Criticism and Destruction. The thought made her smile, Mr. Tiffany’s cane and Mr. Mitchell’s thumb-screwing notwithstanding.

  A gust of cold wind sliced through the church doors, wrapping the veil around her face like a shroud. An overwhelming panic seized her, as she frantically plucked at the suffocating veil. The future awaiting her at the end of the aisle was not hers. How could she have allowed it to go this far? Whirling around, she tore blindly at the church door handles, sure she would die if she didn’t get away.

  “Clara?” Her mother’s quiet voice cut through her terror.

  Before she could turn, Fannie gently pulled her back from the door and searched her daughter’s eyes through the veil. “What is it, my darling? You’re trembling.”

  Clara let go of the bouquet and buried her face in the stiff silk of her mother’s dress. “I don’t know, Mama. I … I’m …”

  Fannie cradled her until she stopped trembling. Clara pulled back and looked into her mother’s eyes. In them she found the love and strength that had been the ultimate saving graces of her life. The strangling hysteria loosened its grip and receded. “I’m sorry,” she shifted her attention to the floor. “I’ve lost one of my pearl buttons. I thought I’d look for it on the steps.”

  Fannie lifted Clara’s arms and examined the line of tiny pearl buttons that ran the length of each tapering sleeve. “You are mistaken, dear. You see? Every pearl is in place. Your vision must have been clouded by your veil.”

  She stared intently into her daughter’s eyes, speaking in a low voice. “Now listen to me. You are my firstborn, and I know the concerns of your heart as if they were mine. This is not the end of your life. You will rise to your dream, because it comes from a source that is greater than yourself. Your purpose has been clear since the day you were born.
Right now, you might feel like a midnight traveler, not knowing which way to go, but have faith that some day you will be free to show the world who you are. Whatever fears haunt your dreams, remember that you are made of sturdier stuff—you have already proven it so.”

  She knelt to pick up the bouquet that lay at their feet and placed it back in Clara’s hand. Straightening the bridal veil, Fannie kissed her just as the first exquisite notes of Vivaldi’s “Largo” sounded high and clear throughout the church. On cue, the doors to the nave opened.

  Fannie linked her arm through Clara’s and, with great majesty, walked her to the altar.

  Lenox Hill

  November 28, 1889

  Could there be a day more clouded? It is done—Clara married. Nothing to be thankful for this day. L.C.T.

  ~ 10 ~

  Hotel San Remo

  September 26, 1891

  Dearest Mama,

  The wedding photograph of you and of Reverend Cutler came this morning. How beautiful you look! It’s a comfort knowing you are both happy in this union.

  Considering the ease with which I’ve taken to married life, my previous fears now seem foolish. Mr. Driscoll and I arrived home last week, and as we sailed into New York Harbor, I was reminded of how alive and beautiful this city is in its ever-changing glory. Like the loyal darlings they are, Alice and Dudley were there to welcome the SS Normannia and escort us back to the San Remo.

  It’s a relief to pick up life where we left it, me to my little atelier and Mr. Driscoll to his business. Alice and I will meet Josie at the train tomorrow. You can be sure I’ll make her recite every detail of your wedding party, so I can at least imagine I was there.

  Next Sunday, I’ll resume our weekly gatherings (my version of a salon). One of the San Remo’s young Irish housemaids has agreed to pose for the group. This child has a glorious mane of thick red hair that I would kill puppies to have. Honestly, she about knocks your eyes out with her beauty. As far as I can tell, she’s the only female who can pry Dudley’s eyes away from Alice.