by Echo Heron
“You can, and you will,” Edward said, leading her to a bench. “I’ll teach you to skate in the same manner as I’ve taught hundreds of others. There’s nothing to it; if you can walk, you can skate.”
She let him lace up her skates, listening to his detailed instructions on keeping her balance and controlling her ankles. Seconds later he led her out to the middle of the rink, where she at once began floundering in a ridiculous manner, while a procession of lithe youths and maidens swept around her like fairies floating on air.
“Don’t look at your feet!” Edward barked, struggling to keep them both upright. “Don’t stick your stomach out like that! Lean forward and look graceful! For God’s sake, can’t you see how these other people do it?”
Her mouth puckered with annoyance. “Don’t you yell at me! Is this how you teach people to skate? By bullying them? I do see how the others do it, but if I manage to stay in an upright position, it’s a cause for celebration, not criticism!”
His arm around her waist, Edward pushed her forward. “Stop wobbling! Pick up your foot and push yourself forward with your other foot. Take it slow and easy. No hurry. Just glide like a swan, smooth and …”
She was suddenly moving forward much faster than she wanted. All around her the skaters were like demons, whizzing by at alarming rates of speed. She looked down and lost her balance, pulling Edward almost off his skates. For a few seconds, they did a mad dance with tottering legs and arms flung haphazardly about.
“I told you,” he growled, “never look down at your feet! My God, you look slender, and you walk and ride with a certain amount of grace, so that I supposed you’d be light on your feet, but I swear Clara, you must weigh five hundred pounds!”
She twisted away from the arm steadying her, shouting above the music, “You are quite unfair, Mr. Booth! You brought me here to humiliate me, and I won’t have it!”
Picking up her feet, she skated against the circling crowd, successfully weaving around the other skaters, only faintly cognizant of a sensation that was akin to flying downhill on her bicycle. As she reached the railing and was about to step off the ice, she was staggered by the sudden realization that she’d skated a quarter of the way around the rink without losing her balance.
Over her shoulder she saw Edward standing in the middle of the circling crowd applauding, his approving grin directed at her.
Clara flicked the snow off her gloves. “You seem to have undertaken my physical training, Mr. Booth. First, the bicycle, and now, skating. All my various sides will be developed by the time you’re done with me.” She stooped to pry her feet out of her boots.
“We’ll have you training in fisticuffs next,” Edward teased. “That might come in particularly handy when dealing with the characters at Tiffany’s. When you’ve finished with that, we’ll look into diving and kite flying.”
Someone flung open the foyer door, knocking her off her feet. She would have gone headfirst into the wall, had Edward not caught her.
She brushed herself off. “For goodness sakes, watch how you come into a place! You could have killed—”
The man removed his hat, and the reproach died on her tongue. It was the most amazing face she’d ever seen. His jaw, straight nose and strikingly sensuous mouth were so artistically without flaw that she was tempted to touch him to make sure he was real.
“I do apologize,” he said. “It was thoughtless of me to have charged in like that.” He helped her to her feet with an elegant movement. He was lean, and taller than she by several inches. “I hope I haven’t caused any permanent damage.”
She shook her head, staring at him, the power of speech having abandoned her.
Puzzled, he looked to Edward who, in turn, looked at Clara.
When she still didn’t respond, he extended his hand. “I’m Philip Loring Allen. I’ve just moved in.”
Introducing himself, Edward shook the offered hand. Both men turned to her. Vaguely aware something was expected of her, she looked to Edward for assistance.
“This is Mrs. Clara Driscoll,” Edward said, giving her a quizzical glance. “We’ve just come from the skating rink where she’s in training.”
Mr. Allen shook her hand looking faintly amused. “Are you thinking of joining up with the hockey leagues, Mrs. Driscoll?”
Collecting her wits, she gave him her brightest smile. “Not unless the rules change to include playing the game on all fours,” she replied. “I believe what Mr. Booth euphemistically calls my training is another way of saying that he pushes me around the rink, rather like a perambulator or an invalid’s chair.”
She couldn’t recall which man suggested they sit in the parlor and share a pot of tea, but she was glad for it. As Mr. Allen spoke of his journey from the University of Wisconsin to New York, he impressed her as a marvelous speaker who knew how to phrase things to make everything seem new and interesting. He was obviously well-read, for he knew a fair amount about every subject they touched on.
Edward brought in a second pot of tea and refilled their cups. “Mr. Allen, you must tell us all about the position that so completely occupies your time that none of us has met you before this.”
“I’m a journalist and a writer,” Philip replied. “I started at the Evening Post as a reporter, and then went on to be exchange editor and Washington correspondent. I mostly do political writing, but I also write stories with a social conscience for Scribner’s.”
He moved forward in his chair, the light of the flames falling softly on his face as he turned toward her. She caught the scent of his shaving soap—bay rum—and breathed it in as deeply as she could without being obvious. When she dared to look directly into his eyes, a wave of heat began in her thighs and traveled up her body into her throat, where it gained a voice in the form of a quiet moan. Whatever emotion he’d touched in her was not one with which she was familiar.
“I understand you’re an artist, Mrs. Driscoll?”
Pulling herself up straight she coughed, willing herself to say something that would demonstrate that she was a sensible woman and not some young ninny taken in by his good looks. “I’m an artist of sorts,” she said, blushing furiously. “I design things.”
“Clara’s modesty only extends as far as first introductions,” Edward said good-naturedly. “Don’t let her fool you, Mr. Allen; her designs are what keep Louis Tiffany’s company alive. Her work has won awards at the Paris Exposition, and I’m sure she’ll take the upcoming Turin exhibition, as well.”
“I admit that I already knew about your triumphs in Paris,” Philip said. “I wanted to find out if you did.”
She drew back to see if he was teasing. “How could you possibly have known that? I don’t believe my name was ever mentioned in the newspapers.”
For an instant, Mr. Allen seemed unsure of himself. He looked briefly at his long fingers twined together in his lap. “I’m a journalist, Mrs. Driscoll. It’s my business to know what goes on in the world. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear about your work. I greatly admire those whose talents are in the visual arts.”
He listened with rapt attention as she spoke of patterns and cartoons, molds and cames, and how the glass was selected and cut. When she finished, she looked up to find him staring. She thought of her rough, too-large hands and her inelegant clothes and burned with embarrassment.
Edward looked at his pocket watch, yawned and rose from the settee. “Isn’t anyone else tired? It’s nearly midnight.”
Disbelieving, Clara glanced at the mantle clock; it felt like only minutes since they’d met in the foyer. “I’d like to spend the rest of the night in conversation,” she said rising. “Unfortunately, Mr. Tiffany expects me at seven tomorrow morning to go over the final entries for his Turin exhibit.”
“I don’t think you’ll need worry about being on time.” Mr. Allen shrugged into his overcoat. “Mr. Charles Tiffany is in a bad way and not expected to live out the weekend.”
She stared at him. “Are you sure? Mr. T
iffany gave no indication that his father was ill.”
“I received word from one of the Tiffany staff last night.” He wrapped his scarf about his neck. “I should have been at my office an hour ago writing up an account of Mr. Tiffany’s life, so it will be ready for print as soon as he passes.”
“You’re going to your office now? In the middle of the night?”
“This is the best time to write, when it’s still and the only things I have to contend with are my own thoughts. It’s similar to how your work is best done in natural light.”
Edward cleared his throat. “Well, sir, I wish you a good night and good writing.”
Afraid he might vanish and she would never see him again, Clara followed Mr. Allen to the door. “If you can find the time, please consider yourself welcome to join our group. Most of us are on the second and third floors at the front. My room is the usual gathering place. I can’t tell you exactly what it is we talk about or what adventures we have, but I can guarantee that whatever we say or do is usually pretty lively.”
“If you get lost,” Edward said, “Ask anyone you see to direct you to Clara Driscoll’s Impromptu Salon for Lively Dilettantes.”
She could not sleep for thoughts of Mr. Allen. Tossing about, first too hot, then too cold, Clara finally gave in and called to mind every line of his face, every gesture, every word spoken. She luxuriated in the memory of his voice and the scent of bay rum, until she remembered how she’d stumbled over introducing herself.
Her embarrassment deepened when she realized that, as a journalist, Mr. Allen might know the details of the Edwin Waldo story. The humiliation of it drove her out of bed. Crossing her arms over her flannel nightgown, she paced about the room, hoping to exhaust herself enough to sleep.
Philip Loring Allen. She liked the way the names rolled off her tongue, round and smooth. He’d charmed her, frightened her and made her laugh. His fire and his intelligence intrigued her.
Bone weary, she climbed back into bed and tried not to think about him. She couldn’t let herself be drawn in; she had work to do and a reputation to maintain. Romance was a sticky wicket—it had failed her in the past, or, more than likely, she had failed romance. Either way, she was better off remaining a widow.
Determined not to give the man another thought, she fell asleep an hour before she had to rise, her dreams betraying her with visions of Philip Allen.
Lenox Hill
February 18, 1902
Father dead this day, my fifty-fourth birthday. I am released from the Reign of the Iron Hand. My sisters and I are handsomely rewarded for our forbearance. From this day forward, I shall have complete control of both Tiffany and Company and Tiffany Glass and Decorating, and run them as I please. My restaurants will be four-star, my railroad cars private, and my hotel and liner suites, imperial.
But most importantly, without that controlling, strangling hand, I am now free to spend all I like on creating beautiful things for the world to enjoy. That, I solemnly promise. L.C.T.
Noon at Tiffany’s
March 26, 1902
Dearest Family,
Emily, we all read your story, ‘Poppa’s Mistake,’ in The Century. I’m so proud of you. Even Mr. Tiffany read and liked it. Our resident writer, Mr. Philip Allen, (In my mind I think of him as Philip the Fair, after King Philip IV of France) said it was well done; he ought to know: besides his reporting for the Evening Post, his stories and political commentaries have appeared in Leslie’s Magazine, Scribner’s, Saturday Evening Post, Harper’s, The Century, and The Black Cat.
Kate, I’m so sorry about your hair. Miss Griffin suggests rubbing Vaseline into your scalp twice a day. Once this peritonitis is cleared up, I’m sure you’ll grow it all back. It’s encouraging that you’re only sometimes in pain and can sit up. My doctor has prescribed quinine and whiskey for my headaches. Perhaps this will work for your stomach pain as well.
Please come to Point Pleasant this summer. I’ll teach you how to swim. You’ll be restored to health before you know it. I’ll send the wallpaper stencils next week to keep you occupied for the time being.
Mr. Platt is having one of my novelty inkbottle and pen tray sets manufactured by the hundreds. They sell for $10 each. The inkbottle is a poppy blossom of red glass, and the stopper is of black and purple in the form of the center stamen and seedpod. It makes for a lovely gift.
Mama, Mr. Booth has gone over your contract for the oil furnace with an attorney, and they both think it’s a swindle. He says he can get a hot water furnace for much less and that they are better for your health than hot air.
We have another challenging play from Mr. Yorke. A Chinese play—in Chinese. Mr. Allen, who has had theatrical training at the University of Wisconsin, will be directing. He is brilliant!
With Love, Clara
P.S. George’s illustrations for ‘The Mountain Matchmaker’ in The Century will be published sometime between May and October. I was the model for ‘the girl,’ but I don’t think it looks one bit like me.
July 6, 1902
Point Pleasant Seashore, NJ
The summer cast a tranquil spell over their world, making simple pleasures all that was required to make life complete. Their cabin and the Palmié guesthouse were filled to capacity. The women slept two to a bed upstairs, while the men slept downstairs and on whatever available space they could find. Edward set up a hammock in the kitchen, so as not to disturb anyone when he rose at five a.m. to catch the fish for their morning meal.
By the end of their first day, they’d voted five to one to have Mr. Yorke as Point Pleasant General Manager instead of Edward, their complaint being that Edward was too task-oriented and not enough pleasure-bent to allow them time for quiet reading and long naps.
He didn’t object to having his title seized, but soon found it difficult to sit idle and let Mr. Yorke and the others do all the work, the worst of it being that he wasn’t allowed to tell the men how to do it. Taking pity, they agreed to let Edward catch breakfast, lunch and dinner. At once Philip volunteered to accompany him to give instructions on the scientific approach to fishing.
Clara tagged along to watch the competition and play referee, should one be necessary. For two hours, she listened to their boasting about how one had caught more fish than the other had ever seen. Philip repeatedly threw out his line, discoursing all the while on the art of fishing scientifically, while Edward caught two flounders and three bucktail flukes.
Back on shore, Edward gave Philip careful instruction on the scientific way to gut and clean a fish.
After lunch, they all adjourned to the beach where Alice, her luxuriant black hair freshly washed, sat in a scarlet kimono reading a volume of Henry James. At her feet, Philip rubbed lemon juice into his hands to rid them of the fish odor, at the same time having a rousing debate with Miss Nye about women’s right to vote; he being for the idea, while Miss Nye held that most women would not be able to cope with the responsibility of political decision.
Clara unfolded the latest round robin and commenced to read Kate’s part.
… According to the doctor, there are so many other worse diseases I could have had, that I consider myself lucky to just have peritonitis. Clara, you’re so good to send money for our new furnace, and we’re grateful to Mr. Booth, et al, for assistance in avoiding a swindle. Mama says his letters are the most enjoyable part of her week. He does make us laugh with his stories. I hope—
A shadow came between her and the sun. Clara looked up to find Mrs. Palmié, a tall, robust woman, standing over her, looking as though the family dog had died. As the capable proprietress of a busy guesthouse, this woman wasn’t often given to fits of worry. She put down the letter, endeavoring to remain calm.
“I’m sorry Clara, but Mr. Tiffany called. He asked me to tell you and Alice that it’s of the utmost importance that you return to work immediately. He wants both of you and someone by the name of Miss Northrop in his office tomorrow at nine sharp. He was adamant that you be on time. He
kept repeating, ‘Nine a.m. sharp! Do you understand? Nine a.m. sharp!’”
“What could Tiffany be thinking?” Philip said, after the initial groans of protests had died away. “Wasn’t it his decision to give you the week off? Perhaps he meant next Monday.”
“No, he was quite clear,” Mrs. Palmié said. “He wants them in there tomorrow morning.”
“Did he sound …” Clara stopped herself before she could say ‘drunk’. It was, after all, only one in the afternoon. “Reasonable?”
Mrs. Palmié paused. “Reasonable?”
“What Clara means to ask,” Alice said, shielding her eyes from the sun, “is, did Mr. Tiffany sound as though he’d breakfasted with the brandy bottle?”
Mrs. Palmié thought for a moment. “No. As a matter of fact, he sounded more like he needed a drink.”
Clara began gathering up her things. “I’ll take the next ferry. Something serious must have happened at the factory or the shop. He promised he wouldn’t call unless it was a matter of life and death.”
Philip briefly touched the small of her back. Without thinking, she pushed against him so his arm slipped around her waist. “There isn’t any reason to go in now. You and Alice can return with me first thing in the morning. We’ll arrive at Miss Owens’s in plenty of time.”
Lillian Palmié looked up from her embroidery hoop. “Anyhow, you can’t leave; you’re the only one brave enough to lead us in the discussion on Dorian Gray, and how it pertains to the current state of society.”
“If you go now,” Philip said, “you’ll miss Mr. Yorke’s sailing lesson and my tutorial on how to fish scientifically.”
“I agree with all arguments,” Alice said. “There’s nothing to be gained by our going into the city today, so we may as well have one more afternoon and evening of relaxation. I’m sure whatever the problem is, we’ll be there in plenty of time to save Mr. Tiffany and his company from ruin, just as we have so many times before. Finish your letter. We can worry about what Master Legree has in store for us tomorrow.”
