by Echo Heron
Clara began sketching. “That’s perfect. To that I think I’ll add a series of clear glass beads rising upward from the mouth of each fish and have them ring the top opening of the shade, like air bubbles. I’ve talked to the Corona men and Mr. Nash about making glass that mimics underwater reflections. They said they’d work on it.”
The door to the roof squeaked open, and Edward Booth appeared, looking cool and refreshed in his spotless white linen suit. He carried a thick book under one arm and a leather case in each hand. Despite his burden, there was lightness to his step.
He set the cases next to Clara’s chair. “I beg your pardon ladies, but I wonder if I might join you?”
Alice motioned for him to sit down. “Have a seat and enjoy the ability to breathe again. Clara and I were just going over lamp designs.”
“Actually, it’s your lamps I’ve come to discuss. I found the dinner conversation about your moth lamp fascinating.”
“Are you an artist, Mr. Booth?” Clara asked. “I was under the impression you were one of Miss Owens’s stalwart businessmen, meant to keep her artistic boarders behaving properly.”
“I don’t know how stalwart the superintendent of an importing firm can claim to be, but I do enjoy viewing good art, even though I personally have no artistic talent.”
The fair skin of his neck, barely discernible from the white of his collar, blushed red. “When I visit museums, I might not recognize the artists’ names, but there are certain paintings that make an impression.” He lifted one of the cases onto his lap.
“I have something here that I think might be of service to you. I collect butterflies and other winged insects. These are my mounted specimens, and this book here …” he handed it to Alice, “contains enlarged photographs of flowers. I’d be happy to lend them to you.” He opened the case and placed it on the table between them. The array of richly colored specimens caused the two women to make identical sounds of astonishment.
“You mentioned your primrose and butterfly lamp,” Mr. Booth continued, “and I thought these fine fellows could be the specimens you’re searching for.” He tapped the glass over two small butterflies, one of yellow and the other, orange. “Clouded yellow and orange-barred sulphurs—they‘re quite the dandies.”
He pointed next to an iridescent blue dragonfly. “It’s just a suggestion, but I thought you might like to use this Blue Dasher as your motif instead of a moth. The wings resemble lace, which might work out well in stained glass.”
Clara looked from the butterflies to him. The lines around his mouth suggested he had laughed a great deal in his time, and there was a passion behind his eyes that told her he would be a good person to know. “I’m overwhelmed by your generosity,” she stammered. “I hardly know what to say.”
“That statement in and of itself is fairly overwhelming,” Alice said. “Mrs. Driscoll is so rarely at a loss for words.”
Ignoring Alice’s remark, Clara continued: “These specimens would be of inestimable value in the work we’re doing. I would never be able to thank you enough. The way it stands now, I have to depend on my family to send specimens. I’m still waiting for my box of primroses, and the moths they sent were no more than a small pile of dust by the time they arrived.”
Mr. Booth suddenly got to his feet. “I’ve just had a brilliant idea! Are either of you ladies in possession of a wheel?”
“I’m saving up to purchase one,” Clara said. “Of course, I’ll have to learn how to ride, but considering that thousands of women are bicycling all over New York every day, I doubt my natural clumsiness will hold me back.”
“It’s ever so easy to learn,” Mr. Booth said with growing excitement. “Once you’re up and rolling, I’d be delighted to show you some rides that would take us into the Hudson Valley. There are hundreds of varieties of wildflowers and plants you could choose for your work, not to mention that it’s an entomologist’s paradise. I’ve been meaning to go there to collect more specimens.”
Alice fanned herself with the cover of her sketchpad. “Susan B. Anthony believes that bicycling has done more to emancipate women than anything else. She thinks it gives women a sense of freedom and self-reliance.”
“That would be right up your alley, Mrs. Driscoll,” Edward said, eyeing her outfit. “I see you already have your trousers.”
~ 17 ~
Tallmadge
July 1, 1898
Dearest Clara,
I am 89 years old—not dead. I want to hear all about Mr. Tiffany’s “personal particulars.” Feel free to send them on to me in a private note separate from the robin—no sense educating Katie or Emily on these matters. Enclosed is a dollar. Spend it on what you want.
Love, Grandma
44 Irving Place
July 10, 1898
ATTENTION ROUND ROBINITES! On July 7th, 1898, I purchased my very own Yukon Ladies’ Bicycle from a man whose wife tried riding it once. He didn’t charge for the lamp, the bell, or the touring case, but judging from the relief on his face when I wheeled the bicycle away, I believe he would have gladly given me the whole kit and caboodle for free, had it not been for his wife’s doctor bills.
My desire for admiration gave me confidence and greatly assisted me in learning how to ride in a remarkably short time. I sallied forth in my new bicycle suit and fancy straw hat with a cornhusk top and wobbled up and down the street, but was unable to turn around gracefully, so that I had to get off every time.
Finally, with Mr. Booth’s encouragement, I ventured as far as Gramercy Park. The following day, we rode up Madison Avenue and through the park to 72nd and up Central Park West to 110th. Several twists and turns later, we took our places alongside the two hundred other riders cycling up and down Riverside Drive.
To answer your questions, Mr. Edward Booth is six feet tall, English, and of athletic build. He has a beautiful voice and pronunciation, and is most agreeable. We get on quite well as friends. He came to America five years ago and thought it an awful place compared with London, but now he says nothing would make him go back to England.
I’m working on a secret project for Mr. Tiffany, which necessitates that I stay after closing. It’s a one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-reproduced, centerpiece table lamp, done in a peacock feather motif. The shade is in tones of royal blue and gold. The bronze base is an ornate swirling water pattern inset with iridescent tiles. Incorporated into the pattern are places for six Favrile glass cups of the most delicate blue. It’s so exquisite as to take my breath away.
Mr. Tiffany is paying me privately ($25!). Were this lamp to be sold, he could easily ask $1,000 for it. I can only guess that it’s meant as a special gift for his wife, although he has not said as much, and I don’t like to ask.
Alice and I are doing piecework for Mr. Tiffany’s father, Mr. Charles Tiffany. So far, he has commissioned me to design a silver cover for his personal diary and a brooch and necklace for his shop. Alice is working on an earbob and pendant set.
Difficult to believe Mrs. Price allowed herself to die. I was sure she would outlast us all. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that Miss Violet Price immediately accepted Mr. Talbot’s proposal.
I have it on good authority that a new type of S-curve corset is in the making. It forces the upper spine forward and pushes the hips backward. The overall effect (other than bending one into a pretzel) is to make the hips, behind, and bosom protrude (the latter into what is called a “pigeon-pouter” bosom). It is said to crush the lungs and be more harmful to a woman’s spine and innards than all the other current fashion contraptions combined.
I decided I’d had enough, and in the names of comfort and health, I’m taking up freer clothing. It’s a change I’ve dreamed of making, but haven’t had the courage to carry through until now. Don’t worry Mama, I’ll be decent and not give in entirely to eccentric behavior.
My love always, Clara
P.S. Henry and I went to see “The Royal Box.” It’s one of those rousing musicals that never fail to make me pic
ture myself as the leading lady, admired by all. Then I come home and sing to myself in the mirror, and the spell is broken.
September 7, 1898
CLARA GLANCED UP from her work and was rendered momentarily mute. Her newest girl stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. Barely fifteen, the child wore a brown brocade dress sporting puffs of pink silk at the shoulders and hem. Her pink hat, adorned with ostrich feathers, was set at a rakish angle on her small, neat head.
The girl curtsied, causing Clara to bite her tongue so as not to guffaw outright. “A man stopped me as I was coming in, ma’am, and he told me—”
“That was Mr. Bracey,” Clara said. Daniel must have thought the girl had mistaken the building for a fancy hotel.
“No ma’am.” She curtsied again. “He said his name was Mr. Mitchell. He told me to tell you that Mr. Tiffany wants to see you right away.”
As the girl began backing away, Clara held up a finger. “Before you go, if I may make a few suggestions?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Another curtsy.
Clara removed her apron and smoothed down her skirts. “First, no one in this department calls me ‘ma’am.’ The title ages me, and I already feel much older than my actual age. Please call me Mrs. Driscoll, or even Clara, it’s shorter.”
The girl curtsied.
“Secondly, you must not curtsy. It’s bad for the knees, and, though I would like to think so at times, I am not the Queen.
And last, while your gown is quite lovely, you mustn’t wear your good dresses to work, because by the end of the day they will be ruined beyond repair.” She handed over her apron and a smock. “Wear these today, and tomorrow wear an everyday skirt and waist, the more worn, the better.”
The girl began to curtsy, remembered herself and backed out of the room.
“Well, what do you think?” Louis asked, watching her closely.
Clara dared not touch the lustrous yellow sheet of glass through which multicolored glass filaments had been threaded.
“It’s …wonderful,” she breathed. “Did Mr. Nash make this?”
“He supplied the formula,” Tiffany replied tartly. “I supplied the materials, the factory, the manpower, and the money to make it a reality. It’s costly to make—about ten dollars a pound. This is the only sheet of its kind in existence. I want you to utilize it to best advantage in a design of your making. Just make sure you’re both selector and cutter—it’s too rare to entrust to anyone else.”
He wandered over to his orchids, pinched off a dead leaf and let it fall to the carpet. “The primrose lamp sold the first day, so I’ll want three more of them, along with another three of the cherry blossom lamp. We’ve had quite a few requests for more of the lotus leaf design, too. In fact, I’ll have Mr. Mitchell make a list of the designs that have sold well and have you repeat them.”
He glanced at her. “It’s already September. If you’re to get all this done before the holiday rush, you’ll need to step up production. I want everything done and in the showrooms no later than November first.”
An uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach worked its way into her temples. It would be humanly impossible to make that many lamps in such a short time. What further worried her was the way Tiffany wouldn’t look at her. She knew him—he had more to demand of her, and it was something she wasn’t going to like.
“About my idea for small novelty items,” he began, “I’ve decided they might prove lucrative if we can make enough.”
She started to point out that the novelty items were her idea, but thought better of it. It wasn’t worth the risk of inciting his anger; with Mr. Tiffany, she knew to choose her battles carefully.
“I was thinking we could introduce these things slowly,” he continued, “perhaps two styles of ink trays, several types of small boxes and three or four different tea screens. After the first of the year, I want you to start working on making fancy clocks.”
He left his orchids and faced her. “As always, your designs for these items should reflect my belief that art can be found even in everyday things.”
She tapped her notebook with her pencil. “While I’m busy doing all that, who will work on the windows and mosaics?”
He seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “You and your girls. You know as well as I do that the mosaics and windows can’t be ignored, even for a day. I have customers who expect their things to be finished on time—which brings me to my next bit of news.”
He paused while she braced herself.
“I’m putting Alice Gouvy in charge of the women’s department at the Corona factory designing Favrile vases and glassware. I’m—”
Fury, born of bitter disappointment, lifted her to her feet before he could finish. “You must not do that, Mr. Tiffany! Alice is the one artist I trust implicitly. If you take her from me, there’s no way we could possibly complete all these things by the time you want them.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” Tiffany said gruffly. “I’m assigning Joseph Briggs as your new assistant. He’ll be completely under your direction. Being one of Queen Victoria’s subjects, he doesn’t seem to mind following a woman’s orders as much as our men do. He’s the finest mosaicist in England, and I daresay in America as well. He’ll be most beneficial as a liaison among your department, the men’s department, and the foundry. However, as Mr. Briggs won’t be able to start work until January, I’m letting you keep Miss Gouvy until then.”
The misery over losing Alice settled in her chest, making it difficult to talk. She wanted to cry almost as much as she wanted to walk away. “I’ll need to hire more women,” she said finally. “Even then, it’s going to mean working ten or twelve hours each day, including Saturdays. The women aren’t going to like that. They already work more hours than they’re paid for.”
Louis struck a condescending pose. It was one of his attitudes she hated most. “If they don’t want to work, they can leave my employ. Hire on as many extra girls as you need, but make sure everything is done to my standards of quality.”
“Please, Mr. Tiffany, try to see reason. Even with the extra women working twelve hours a day, we can’t complete all this work in so short a time.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, we cannot. You ask too much. I can’t do this.”
“You can.” He stared across the desk. “You can, because, my dear Clara, you’re the only one who could. You are by far the best artisan in the field. The men’s department could never do what you and the Tiffany Girls accomplish.”
She was unable to respond, until, in a flash of brilliance, she grasped the opportunity, opened her sketchbook and placed it on his desk. “If you truly believe what you’ve just said, then you should have no objection to this.”
Louis adjusted his pince-nez and studied her drawing of a circle in which a delicate vine twined in and around stylized letters. He looked up, his expression blank. “What is it?”
“Don’t you see?” She leaned forward and traced the ornate C. and the W. “It’s my mark, the one I’d like engraved on each of my designs.”
“No!”
“I thought since the lamps were such a success—”
“No.” Louis shook his head. “It’s too early to tell how long that success will last.”
“But if we—”
“I said no, I mean no. I’ll reconsider when I’m assured the lamps and novelties will continue to sell after the initial enthusiasm has died down.”
“But you promised!”
He slapped his desk. “Enough! We have more important things to deal with than your mark. You need to step lively. Make sure your girls enter into the spirit of things.”
He strode to the door with purpose, picking up his cane on the way. “I’m taking the stairs down to speak to the men about preparing for the onslaught of work that you’ll be bringing them.” He gave her one of his imperious smiles. “However, in the interest of saving time, I suggest you take the lift.”
Tiffany’s
&n
bsp; September 13, 1898
Dearest Family,
I have only ten minutes in which to eat my dinner—a buttered roll and hot coffee, which was all the vendor had left after the noon rush. The spills and smears of food may be unsightly, but they do prove that I am receiving nourishment.
These are troubled times into which your robin flew this morning. Do you remember my tall Swedish girl, Miss Wilhemson, who left to be married? Yesterday morning, the newspaper criers were shouting from every corner, and, thinking it was another Tammany Hall murder, I went down to get a paper. Instead it was an illustrated account of how Miss Wilhemson had been found dead in an alley, an empty bottle of carbolic acid by her side. My recommendation letter was in her pocket, along with a letter from her fiancé saying he never intended to marry her. I immediately went to the tenement house where her family lives. They were in a terrible state, both terrified and hysterical. They had no idea what to do, so it fell to me to send for the undertaker. Every penny of their life savings went for a pine box and a small stone marker.
Everyone in my department has been deeply affected. The girls can hardly keep their minds on their work. Thursday, I am taking them all to the funeral. It is the least we can do.
I’m at my wit’s end over the burden being heaped on me at Tiffany’s. I must refuse all invitations to go anywhere or do anything. I give my callers a book to read and go on working. Mr. Tiffany seems particularly inspired to have all my designs made, and so this makes for a lively time for tired old Clara. Added to this is more thumb-screwing from Mr. Mitchell, who insists I take on the bookkeeping for my department. (Emily, if I am not here when you visit at Christmas, you’ll find me in the nearest sanatorium for the insane).
I’m designing from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., and then spending the rest of my evening getting up a new system of books for estimates of costs and what is charged me for labor and expenses. Mr. Booth is quite efficient at these things and is willing to help. I shall come out all right, but the amount of detail is appalling, and it’s something I know nothing about.
