by Echo Heron
“I assure you we’re quite serious, Father,” Clara said. “We’re well-acquainted with every inch of these windows. Look here,” she pointed to the tight cluster of blossoms, “this is confetti glass, called so because of the way it’s made with all little bits of colored glass. And these folds here in Christ’s robe? See how the glass folds? That’s called drapery glass. We’re the only glass studio to use this technique.”
The priest lifted his glasses and squinted at the folded glass.
She stepped back and pointed toward the top of the window. “Did you notice the lustrous sheen of the sky? Mr. Arthur Nash formulated that glass. Lovely, isn’t it?”
Miss Wilhemson pointed to the borders portraying flowers and vines. “And see how the borders are all in the art nouveau style? That was Mrs. Driscoll’s idea.”
“Lillian Palmié painted all the faces,” Miss Hawthorne said, “and I painted the feet and hands.”
The priest stared at them, incredulous. “But you are women!”
“So was the Virgin Mary,” Clara remarked drily, “and just think what she created.”
Still unconvinced, the priest shook his head. “But these windows are signed. It’s written right here, see? Tiffany Studios.” He looked at them as if this proved everything.
Clara broke into a smile. “Well, Father, just who do you think Tiffany Studios is?”
December 24, 1896
Norwich, Connecticut
Accompanied by harness bells, the sleigh runners sliced through the snow, making the hollow, high-pitched sound that Clara always found eerie. Mesmerized by the rise and fall of the horses’ shadows on the unbroken snowdrifts, she leaned against Edwin, seeking the warmth of his body.
Taking the reins in one hand, he slipped an arm around her. His increasing attentiveness toward her was a welcome change from his usual remoteness, and it made her happy.
“We should have asked the Norwich stationmaster to telegraph word to your mother that we missed the last train and are coming by sleigh without George,” she said.
“No time!” Edwin shouted over the noise of the bells. “Anyway, they wouldn’t have received the message before we arrived. It’s only twenty miles to Danielson. We’ll be there in no time.”
“But this is the third time in a row George has failed to come along,” she argued. “Your mother is sure to suspect something’s amiss. Don’t you think it’s time someone told her about his seizures?”
“That would only serve to upset everyone. I’ll tell her that he was obligated to complete an illustration by Monday and couldn’t spare the time. She’ll believe whatever I tell her.”
“I don’t know, somehow it doesn’t seem fair that your parents know nothing about his illness. Can’t you at least inform your father?”
“What would you have me tell them, Clara? That none of the doctors Belknap has hired can find anything wrong? Or, perhaps I should tell them about the last quack who told him to forget art and find a career on the stage, so as to divert his mind to something useful.”
Both of them collapsed in laughter. Resting her head against his shoulder, Clara gazed up at the halo of purple, orange, and yellow that encircled the moon.
“I’ll bet you didn’t know that in this region the January moon was called the ‘Wolf Moon,’ because during the deepest part of winter, starving wolves used to surround the Indian villages and howl.” She paused. “Do you ever wonder what the moon is like?”
“It’s probably nothing more than rock craters, but that’s one mystery that will remain a mystery forever.”
“You mean like yourself?”
“You mistake simplicity for secrecy, my dear. What you see is all I am.”
“What I see is a complex mystery. I suspect below that simple exterior there are many layers that I know nothing about.”
Edwin fell into silence. He wasn’t much for chatter, especially when he was the subject of conversation. Nestling close to him, she amused herself with peering inside the farmhouses they passed. Some were dark, but most glowed with the golden light of gas lamps and fireplaces. The thought of families gathered around cozy parlors, sipping mulled cider, made her yearn for a real home of her own, one where she could rise, work, eat and sleep by her own clock and at her own pace.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a woman’s nightgown hanging on a clothesline, flapping in the wind, tossing its arms and hurling itself every which away, so that it looked like a fat old woman giving way to a furious temper. It reminded her of Mr. Tiffany when he was in a mood.
“Mr. Tiffany came down to see me this morning,” she said. “He spent an hour going over the list of things he wants designed and finished before next Easter.”
She paused, hoping he would comment. When he didn’t, she continued. “It’s going to mean working all day on Saturdays, and probably every evening, except Sundays.”
The sleigh swerved over a large drift, almost throwing them from their seats. Edwin called to the horses and pulled up on the reins. He set the brake and jumped out.
“Is everything all right?” she shouted after him. “Wait a minute while I light the other lantern.”
He took the lantern from her and went about checking the team in his thorough, impassive manner. When at last he finished, he came to her, reached up beneath the blankets and caught her roughly under the arms, swinging her to the ground. She marveled at his strength; at five feet eight inches and one hundred forty pounds (if the glass scales in the basement were to be believed), she could not be called a dainty woman.
For a long time he watched her, saying nothing. Eventually his eyes shifted to a nearby copse of pines, his expression unreadable.
She glanced nervously around the desolate countryside, and a wave of fear went through her, though she could not have explained the reason for her alarm. Spears of icy wind tore through her coat, numbing her. “We’re going to be late. Your mother will be worried.”
“Be quiet and listen,” he said, his breath coming in shivery sighs, as if he were having a fit of nerves. “Two months ago I answered an ad in the Times for a position as foreman on a coffee plantation in Mexico, inland from Veracruz. The company that owns it has promised to supply me with fifty workers. The plantation house goes with the job.”
He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “It doesn’t start until August, and the salary isn’t much, but if I make the production quota for two years running, the company will give me a twenty percent interest in the plantation and the option to buy them out.”
She started to shiver, unsure whether it was more from nerves or the cold. “Have you signed a contract?”
He nodded. “When I told them I’d been teaching at the Settlement, they said they’d add a few dollars to my monthly pay if I agree to teach English to the local boys. I thought that since you’ve been to Mexico, and already know the place, you could do the teaching part.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to claim familiarity,” she said, jiggling her feet, hoping to bring some feeling back into her toes. “I visited a different part of Mexico for a few weeks. I know nothing about the language except a few basic phrases. I’m sure there are books on how to go about it, but …”
Her freezing feet were momentarily forgotten with the sudden realization of what he was getting at. To hide her elation, she buried her face in his heavy coat, breathing in the flowery fragrance of the exotic pipe tobacco supplied to him by the Chinaman who sold him his miraculous headache powders.
“Leave New York and come with me,” he whispered. “Just think, no more snow or ice, and you would never again have to deal with the likes of Tiffany. We might even be able to afford that bicycle you want so badly.” He pulled her toward him. Kissing her lightly he held her anchored against his chest. “What do you say? Will you marry me and come to Mexico?”
Vivid memories of Mexico’s blue sea and exotic plants and flowers instantly came to mind. The image of taking shower baths in the tropical afternoon rain fille
d her with delight. Even the idea of teaching appealed to her as a challenging adventure.
There would be no end of fascinating things to sketch. She could work in tile, creating mosaics. Surely there would be a market for it someplace in Mexico. She would bring a camera with her. Tiffany might even commission her to design landscape windows or perhaps exotic one-of-a-kind pieces. It wouldn’t be as if she were working for him directly, so it wouldn’t matter whether she was married or not.
Despite the cold, a drop of perspiration slid down between her breasts under her corset. “Could we … could my mother and sisters come in the winter to visit?”
“I suppose,” he said carefully. “Once I start making money, you might even be able to visit them in the summer and stay as long as you liked.”
She looked at him, thinking of the life they could have. It would be the most reckless thing she’d ever done. The very thought of it made her feel wild and free, and the feeling suited her. “Yes,” she said, finally, “I’ll marry you and go with you to Mexico.”
With a satisfied smile, he lifted her into the sleigh, as if she weighed no more than a child, and hoisted himself up behind her. He took up the reins, and with a quick snap they were under way.
Clara quickly glanced back, wanting to memorize the place where her life changed course.
Just outside Mr. Tiffany’s door, she checked her hairpins and smoothed down the front of her skirt. All morning she’d been jittery, thinking of how best to deliver the news. On the verge of nervous exhaustion, she built up her courage by revisiting thoughts of Mexico and how easy her life would become without the constant pressure Tiffany’s served up each day. She would just tell him outright and be done with it, once and for all.
At the sound of men’s raised voices coming through his door, she turned to leave, but thought better of it. If she went back to the workroom, the women would assume she’d lost her nerve. It would be better to stay put. Recognizing Henry Belknap’s voice, she was drawn closer to the door.
“You simply must prohibit Dr. McIlhiney from nosing around Arthur’s studio, Louis. Arthur Nash is your master glassmaker, for God’s sake, he should be respected as such.”
At the mention of Arthur Nash, she pressed her ear to the door, trying not to think of how disappointed her mother would be at her shameless eavesdropping. Mr. Nash was a likeable English gentleman, who had once enjoyed a very brief partnership with Louis in the first glass factory at Corona until it burned down, some said by arson. He also had the distinction of developing some of the most magnificent art glass the world had ever known. Unfortunately, the world knew nothing of Arthur Nash—Louis Tiffany had seen to that.
“Thank you, Mr. Belknap,” Mr. Nash’s voice was low, but firm. “My son discovered Dr. McIlhiney here rifling through my private notes this morning. When confronted, McIlhiney had the unmitigated gall to try and wheedle the formulas out of him—as if my own son would ever give out such information.”
“You and your son are imagining things, Arthur,” Louis said. “Dr. McIlhiney has no more interest in stealing your formulas than …”
“Please sir, do not insult my intelligence,” Nash said. “Dr. McIlhiney is an analytical chemist. What else would the man want with my notebooks at six-thirty in the morning? You have already stripped me of my factory, my due, and every penny I owned, Louis. You cannot have my formulas as well.”
The pause that followed was so lengthy, she panicked, afraid the door would fly open at any moment. She was about to flee, when Louis’s voice boomed through the door.
“What is it you want, Arthur? Another partnership? I’ll have my attorneys draw up papers today if that’s what you want.”
“Oh yes, of course you will.” The note of sarcasm in Nash’s rising voice could not be missed. “May I inquire whether they’ll be the same solicitors who helped your father hornswoggle John LaFarge out of his opalescent glass formula?”
“Now hold on, Arthur,” Henry said with the voice of reason. “We need to go at this with equanimity.”
“Of course,” Mr. Nash agreed, “you’re quite right, Belknap. Therefore it is with equanimity that I say if you wish to continue having quality Favrile and all the other types of glass I invent, keep Dr. McIlhiney out of my workshop.”
From the note of finality in Arthur Nash’s voice, it was clear the meeting was at an end. In her panic to get away, Clara tripped over her skirts and fell against the door. Making a quick recovery, she knocked just as Dr. McIlhiney stormed out, followed by Arthur Nash.
“Happy New Year’s Eve, Mrs. Driscoll,” Mr. Nash said. “How lovely to see you.”
Returning his greeting, she nodded at Henry and stepped inside the office.
“Close the door please,” Louis said, his voice still carrying a fringe of agitation. “How may I help you, Clara?”
She winced. He’d started calling her by her Christian name when they were alone. She hadn’t been able to get used to it. It felt too familiar—almost a violation of her person.
“I believe you’ve met my friend, George Waldo, the freelance illustrator who teaches at the Art Students’ League? His brother, Edwin Waldo, has taken a position as manager on a coffee plantation in Mexico and has asked that I accompany him as his wife.”
Louis exhaled and covered his face with his hands.
“I’ll be leaving at the end of April, after the Easter rush.” She dipped her head to try and make out his expression from between his fingers. “I thought it only fair to give you plenty of advance notice.”
He took his hands away, his fingers having left impressions where they’d pressed into his flesh. “Why are you doing this to me? Why now?”
“I’m not doing anything to you, I’m simply leaving to—”
He brought his fist down hard. “This is nonsense! I thought you’d gotten that marriage lunacy out of your system. You’re an artist, not a domestic slave. Marriage is a foolish occupation for young girls, not someone of your talents. Didn’t you learn your lesson last time? Your first and only responsibility should be to Tiffany’s. I won’t have you wasting your life on some man who in the end will only make your life miserable. I …”
He paused in his tirade, seemed to think better of it, and changed tack. “Have you seriously considered what living in Mexico would mean? Life in those filthy places presents all manner of dangers to your person, treacherous snakes and deadly insects, for instance. No one escapes being struck down by malaria, and if Mexico is the same as it was when I visited there last, there won’t be a qualified doctor within a hundred miles to help you.
“It’s a lawless land; there are savages who roam about looking for people to rob … and worse. They have no fear of consequences, because there are none.”
It was true that she hadn’t fully considered any of the perils he named, but she was certain he was exaggerating. If the plantation was as prosperous as Edwin assured her it was, physicians and supplies wouldn’t be far away, and surely there had to be some law and order.
“I appreciate your concerns, but I possess a hardy constitution; and, having been raised on a farm, it will take more than a few snakes and insects to scare me off. As far as bandits, I’m sure we’ll have adequate protection.”
Louis pushed a hand roughly through his hair—a sign he was working himself into a fit of temper. The unease she felt whenever she found herself on the other end of his displeasure rose up, threatening to undermine her resolve. She shifted on her feet.
He went to her. “After years of cajoling and threatening, I finally obtain permission from the board to give you carte blanche for the lamp designs. My god, I’ve practically put myself into ruin organizing a foundry and metal shop at the Corona factory, just so you can do as you please.” He spoke almost kindly, his expression a little sad. “Do you know what that means, Clara? You can design whatever you want—lamps, deluxe pieces—every idea you’ve ever had will be produced without interference.”
He took her hand. “Please, don�
��t leave me now. We’re on the brink of greatness.”
It took her a few seconds to fully grasp what he was saying, though she wasn’t sure whether or not it was a ploy to get her to stay. “I knew nothing of this. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“Because the foundry won’t be operational for a another month. I wanted to surprise you with the board’s approval and the finished foundry at the same time.”
She searched his face and saw that he was telling the truth. The disappointment that comes from lost opportunity welled up inside her, giving rise to fury.
“Once again, Mr. Tiffany, you come to the rescue too late. You should have told me sooner. But then again, you seem to believe that I should never have any kind of life outside of this building and working for you.”
Holding onto her last shred of composure, she went to the door. “At least in marriage, whatever art I create will be known as mine.”
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Louis shouted after her.
She stopped, but did not turn around.
“You seem to have overlooked the fact that without me you would no doubt still be in Cleveland designing chairs and tables for farmers. No one would have given you the chances I have.”
Eyes narrowed, she swung around to face him. “Perhaps, but it’s much more likely I would have gone to J. and R. Lamb, and if they hadn’t taken me, Stillwell’s would have. Those men would have given me the honor of allowing my mark to go on the pieces I design.
“I’ll finish the windows I’ve started and show Miss Griffin how to go about things. Agnes Northrop can handle the rest.” A shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “As for the lamps and the deluxe individual pieces, I think the great Louis C. Tiffany should design those—if he can.”
“Clara, listen to me, please.” Louis ran after her, catching her by the arm. “Don’t do this. I’m begging you. Don’t go.”
Before she knew what he was doing, he pressed his mouth to her palm and kissed it with all the heat of a lover.
She wrenched her hand away and cradled it against her chest as if she’d been burned. “I’ve given my notice,” she said. “We have nothing more to discuss.”
