by Echo Heron
Clara was about to ask what way that might have been, when Susie Cutler stepped onto the porch waving a Western Union telegram.
The Diary of Kate Eloise Wolcott:
August 9: Clara has called off the search. The Pinkerton detective confirmed that Edwin boarded a westbound train at Council Bluffs, Iowa. Mama and Clara arrive home tomorrow. K.W.
August 11: We received a letter from Alice saying that the Waldos believe Edwin is dead despite Pinkerton reports. George sailing home from Italy. K.W.
August 12: Clara arrived home thinner, but no worse for wear. She seems not so much heartbroken as suffering from hurt pride. Her anger will save her in the end. Mama keeps us busy with errands. K.W
August 25: No further news on Edwin. No one has mentioned his name. The newspapers are reporting him dead. Just as well. K.W.
August 26: Rev. Cutler and Clara to Akron to shop and talk. She returned much cheered and more like our old Clara. Rev. Cutler is a marvel at making people see their follies for what they are—learning opportunities in life’s classroom. K.W.
September 6: Clara made watermelon pickles and then went out to dwell on where to put the new driveway. We paid a moonlight call on cousin Annis, who was already in her nightdress, but we threw pebbles at her window until she came out. We talked and giggled like schoolgirls until well after midnight. K.W.
September 18: We put Clara on the train for New York this morning. I prefer to think of this farce in a positive way—as if she’s been in a sanitarium and miraculously cured of a life-threatening illness. K.W.
San Francisco, California
September 25, 1897
Mr. Tiffany:
Your lost bird is free. How you manage to get her back into your cage is your concern. Wire reward posthaste to: Stockton Street Western Union Office, Union Square, San Francisco.
According to the newspapers, I’ve met my end. I prefer to keep it that way.
E. W.
Lenox Hill
November 22, 1897
I have arranged for my ‘lost bird’ to pick up where she left off. I shall say nothing more about it. Belknap is due to return to work next week as well. Strange coincidence.
Father has once again shown his true colors. Mother has not been in her grave a full week, and he has already turned Burnie and our spinster sister out of the house. L.C.T.
~ 16 ~
44 Irving Place
March 14, 1898
Dearest Mama et al,
I devoured the robin while having breakfast, and what a magnificent bird she was! No, there has been no word on Edwin. I have all but forgotten about that unfortunate incident, and I hope you will follow my example in this matter. It seems so long ago that I stepped off the ferry at Christopher Street, worn and heart-weary, amazed at how much bigger and busier New York was than any other place on earth. But now I’m back in the flow of work and the loving embrace of my New York family.
I was flabbergasted at Mr. Mitchell’s kind letter asking me to return to Tiffany’s, and then, to find everything just as it was when I left—as if everyone knew I’d return.
The best prize of all was to find my own dear Alice hired on as my assistant! Mr. Tiffany likes her work, and the Tiffany Girls have taken to her like ducks to water.
Please send cherry and apple blossoms and primroses the moment they’re in bloom. I need them to make studies of the colors and veining for my lampshade designs. I have so many ideas for lamps that I can barely get one drawn before another is crowding my brain. Mr. Tiffany is still reluctant to put the finished samples in the showroom, but I’m hoping he’ll soon overcome his fears and get on with it.
You can see from the above address that there’s been another change. Last Monday, our landlady gave Alice and me the bad news (not quite as bad as Tammany Hall being elected, however) that either we sign a year’s lease or vacate. We found Miss Owens’s Boardinghouse the same day. It’s a first-class house with all the modern improvements—electric fixtures, hot and cold water, baths, furnace, etc. The rooms are clean and airy. The owner, Miss Mary Owens, seems a practical, capable woman who has excellent sense about varying and adapting her table to the weather. Best of all, most of her boarders are artists of one persuasion or another, with a few schoolteachers and businessmen thrown in as stabilizing influences on the more passionate artistic temperaments.
On the evening we visited the house, several of the boarders were rehearsing a play one of them had written, while others were reading Jane Austen’s Emma aloud. That alone decided us. This and three meals a day comes at a cost of $50 a month. Yes, expensive, but worth it. The house is surrounded by parks—Union Square, Madison, Gramercy and Stuyvesant. Before long, I’ll have enough money to buy a bicycle, and then I shall be free to visit every park in the city at my leisure.
Mama, you needn’t worry over my going about unchaperoned. New York is the safest place I can imagine, with all these masses of people milling about every moment of the day and night.
I’ve joined the Town and Country Club for $10 a month. It’s a place where I can go for a hot lunch each day and lie down to rest my eyes. I also subscribed to The Nation, ($3) which comes once a week and gives me the best articles from the daily papers.
Henry Belknap found extra work for George at Georges Glaenzer Decorating for $3 a week. If he works out, he’ll be sent to Hyde Park to help decorate the new Vanderbilt mansion. He found a doctor here, who recommended some sort of elixir to treat his fits, but he discovered it was made from lizard droppings so into the East River it went.
One of Miss Owens’s boarders, Mr. Bainbridge, is a stage manager. He asked me to read for one of the roles. I was all nerves, but my love for theatricals came to my aid. Mr. Bainbridge was quite impressed with my memory for lines. When I told him I harbored a secret desire to be on the stage, he replied that he hoped I would continue to resist the temptation.
Love, Clara
P.S. Kate: I sympathize with you about hats. Milliners must all possess wicked natures. How provoking that purchasing headwear should cause such anguish of spirit.
June 13, 1898
CLARA FOUND MR. TIFFANY in Mr. Mitchell’s office contemplating her most recent lamp. Above a base of intricately detailed copper that mimicked a twisting grapevine hung a dome of purple and red glass grapes inset with opalescent pieces meant to soften the overall effect.
“Mr. Mitchell might be delayed,” Louis said, “There was a problem with one of the furnaces at the Corona factory. It blew up several thousand dollars worth of vases last night. I sent him to assess the—”
A rumpled Pringle Mitchell dragged himself across the threshold, his summer frockcoat slung over his shoulder. He dropped into a chair mopping his face and neck. “It’s only the middle of June, and it’s already hotter than blazes. There’s got to be a half-dozen horses dead in the streets between here and the station.”
“It’s too hot, Pringle. Let’s get on with the discussion about placing the lamps in the showroom.”
“I still don’t like that grape lamp,” Mitchell grumbled. “It’s too large. You need to make it smaller and of calmer colors … white and green perhaps.”
Suffering beneath three layers of heavy skirts, Clara groaned. Just the thought of having to undo what took her and the other women weeks of hard work to accomplish made her tired.
“I wouldn’t think of having it changed,” Louis said. “It’s perfect as it stands.”
“Then I’ll repeat what I’ve said all along,” Mitchell said. “These things will never sell except as novelty items. We should leave them to the street peddlers.”
Annoyed, Clara stamped her foot. “They will sell, and not only that, they’ll sell for top price.”
“They most certainly will not!” Mitchell countered. “All the time and money you’ve spent over these gewgaws has been a waste. We’ll never earn it back.”
Resisting the temptation to argue, she began again. “I tell you what, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll wager my week�
��s salary that this lamp will sell within seven days. Not only that, but with Mr. Tiffany’s permission, I’ll add the poppy table lamp into the bargain. Both lamps must sell within a week, or you can keep my wages.”
Mitchell’s face lit up with a flash of genuine glee. “I accept your wager, and because I am so sure these glass follies of yours won’t sell, I’ll sweeten the stakes for you. If they both sell within the week, I’ll personally double your next paycheck. We can place them in the showroom today, if you like.”
“Well then,” Clara said, rising from her chair. “I say we adjourn to the showroom. What say you, Mr. Tiffany?”
Louis glanced from Mitchell to Clara. “Have you two taken leave of your wits? Surely you don’t mean to put them in the showroom now?”
“What better time than the present?” Clara said. “Mr. Mitchell? Are you with me, or have you already decided to back down?”
Pringle Mitchell donned his coat. Together they looked at Louis.
Laughing in spite of himself, Louis picked up his cane. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
To make sure the lamps received the benefit of full light, Clara chose a display table near the showroom window. When she was satisfied the lamps were displayed to their best advantage, she and the men retreated to a side room where they could judge the customers’ initial reactions.
No sooner had they settled in than a handsome matron in mourning dress and with the bearing of an empress entered the showroom. At her side was a striking woman of perhaps twenty, her shining black hair tucked under a hat of pink rosebuds and white feathers. A tasteful rope of pearls hung low across her bosom. Neither woman appeared to have been affected by the killing heat.
With a sharp intake of breath, Louis turned away, pretending to inspect a vase. “Good God, it’s Mrs. and Miss Goelet!”
Clara had no idea who the Goelets were, but it didn’t take much to conclude the women were from money, and a great deal of it at that. “Who are they?”
“Widow of Ogden Goelet,” Louis whispered. “Vast real estate investments. Founded the Metropolitan Opera. Next to the Astors and the Morgans, they’re among the stars of New York society.” He shoved her toward the showroom. “Go! Don’t let them out of your sight until you’ve sold them something.”
When she stepped into the showroom, the women were turned away, examining a gilded mirror. Using a childhood trick Kate taught her, she stared hard at the backs of their heads, willing them to turn their attention to the lamps.
Searching the room for the force that summoned them, the women were all at once gliding toward the lamps. Clara heard their intake of breath and then Miss Goelet’s urgent exclamation.
“Oh Mother, look here!”
Their excited murmurs drew her and Mr. Mitchell across the room like puppets on invisible strings.
The young woman was touching the poppy lamp. “… so unusual, we must have them, Mother. I want this one for my writing desk and the grape will go perfectly in the first floor library.”
Clara inched closer, Mr. Mitchell on her heels. Mrs. Goelet beckoned her with a bejeweled finger. “You there, excuse me.”
“Yes, Madam, how may I help you?” Amused that she had suddenly adopted a slight British accent, Clara bowed in imitation of the Tiffany showroom salesclerks.
“These lamps are not priced,” said Mrs. Goelet.
“I apologize, Madam, but that’s because they were placed in the showroom only moments ago. You are the first to view these magnificent works of art.”
Mr. Mitchell nudged her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his highly arched eyebrow making her think perhaps Mr. Bainbridge was correct in discouraging her longings to be an actress.
The young woman smiled, revealing even, white teeth that perfectly matched her pearls. “Do you know the price?”
“Of course. The grapevine table lamp is …” she could feel Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Mitchell tense, “… three hundred and fifty dollars, and the poppy desk lamp is three hundred.”
Behind her, Mr. Mitchell let out a faint gasp. Clara took a quick glance over Mrs. Goelet’s shoulder at Mr. Tiffany, who was standing stock still, his mouth fallen open.
Mrs. Goelet appeared doubtful.
Clara stepped in front of Mr. Mitchell, blocking him completely from Mrs. Goelet’s view. “I am sure you will agree, Madam, that these two unique and extraordinarily beautiful pieces are well worth the price. They are works of art, worthy of placement in any fine European gallery.”
“She’s right, Mother,” Miss Goelet said.” They are unusual, and so perfectly suited to our décor.”
Mrs. Goelet sighed. “You’re the one with the eye for art, my dear, and there is no denying they are beautiful.”
She took a gilt-edged card from her purse and handed it to Clara. “Have them crated and delivered today to this address. Make sure they are accompanied by trusted men who can place them for us.”
Appearing as if by magic, Louis swooped down, plucked the card out of Clara’s fingers and bowed.
Mrs. Goelet offered him her hand. “Ah, Mr. Tiffany, I see you have added yet another stunning jewel to your collection of masterpieces.”
“Mother is much too modest with her praise, Mr. Tiffany,” Miss Goelet said. “These lamps are exquisite, and such a clever idea. Who is the artist behind these magnificent pieces?”
Clara felt her heart pounding in her throat. It was the moment she had waited for all her life. From this time forward her name would be linked with creations of beauty. She dried her hand against her skirt in anticipation of the women’s praise and extended it, a bashful smile on her lips.
Louis moved in front of her. “They are the first of a new line I’m designing,” he said without any hesitation. “There are soon to be many more, all made with Tiffany glass in unique motifs from nature.”
Stinging disappointment and humiliation left her mute. She buried her hand in her skirt pocket and bit her lip to keep herself from saying something, or screaming, or worse yet, breaking down in tears.
Mr. Mitchell stepped closer and gave her a swift, commiserating pat on the shoulder. The small gesture helped eased her anguish. By the time she could breathe normally, she’d numbed herself to the pain of Mr. Tiffany’s betrayal with reassurances that it was only her first triumph—there would be more.
Certainly Mr. Tiffany couldn’t take credit for all of her work.
On the walk back to Mr. Mitchell’s office, Mr. Tiffany had not stopped talking. Any attempt on Clara’s part to voice her thoughts about the sale of the lamps was thwarted.
Louis rubbed his hands together after the fashion of a man who has just discovered a gold mine. “I want you to direct all your energy into designing lamps. Have your girls start making copies of the two we’ve just sold. I’ll have Mr. Mitchell include them in our next catalog. Show me the sketches you brought of the new models.”
When they reached Mr. Mitchell’s office, Clara rummaged through the pile of designs until she found the ones she liked best and placed them before Louis. “This wisteria motif is more complicated, but if you like it well enough, I could begin working on it at once. The base would be a bronze imitation of a wisteria trunk with roots fanning out on the bottom. You can see here …” she pointed with the end of her pencil “… the branching laterals support the pendulous clusters of purple and blue flowers against a background of opalescent glass. I’ve replaced the usual straight bottom rim with irregular shapes like clusters of hanging flowers.”
She chose another design. “This is my evening primrose and butterfly lamp. The shade is made up of clouds of yellow butterflies, each butterfly set in a network of gold wire in graceful waving lines—like the lines of smoke.”
Louis studied both sketches. “Where did these ideas come from?”
“We have a wisteria arbor at home, and next to our farm is a field of primroses. As a child, I’d sit all day in that field and make believe I was in Heaven. I have so many ideas crowding my head they wake me in the
middle of the night. I have to keep my sketchbook next to my bed.”
Louis pulled the pencil out of her hand began sketching haphazardly over her design. His erratic pencil strokes grew more spasmodic with his increasing frustration until the lines made no sense. “Never mind. Work out whatever ideas you want. I suspect Mrs. Goelet and her daughter will be our best advertisers. Miss Goelet has already gained a reputation as a discerning collector. This sale is going to set off an explosion of interest.”
He studied the wisteria design again. “I don’t want you wasting your time making molds. Have the men in the plaster room make the casts from your drawings and instructions. I want you to keep your mind on the designs and the color selections.”
She brought out several more drawings, one a watercolor showing a dome of gold petals. “This is the laburnum library lamp, and this one here is my lotus design. I thought having hanging lotus blossoms inside an outer shade was a unique idea. Also, I haven’t sketched it out yet, but I have an idea about using a moth motif for a desk lamp. I’m just waiting until they invade my clothes again to make studies.”
“Moths?” Louis slipped down into a chair, his fingers tented under his chin. “I’m having a hard time envisioning moths as a lamp, although the idea is intriguing.”
Mr. Mitchell entered his office, hands held up in surrender. “Don’t start crowing over your victory, Mrs. Driscoll. I want to go on record as saying that watching you hoodwink the Goelets into purchasing the lamps for those preposterous prices was almost worth losing the wager.”
He threw himself into a chair opposite Louis. “Those women must have been addled by the heat.”
She laughed in spite of herself and glanced around his gloomy office. “I noticed you don’t have a shade for your gas globe, Mr. Mitchell. I was thinking that if you had one of my shades, you might come to appreciate them more. Besides giving your eyes a rest, it would be an A-one advertisement for the lamps. Tell me which flowers you like, and I’ll design a motif just for you.”
