by Echo Heron
They were again drawn back to the beach, this time to watch the full moon rise out over the water like a great gold ball. Mr. Yorke softly played the harmonica, while Marion Palmié read aloud the last few chapters of Dorian Gray.
Just as Dorian plunged the knife into his portrait, Philip pulled Clara to her feet and danced her down to the beach. They strolled barefoot in the surf, held spellbound by the silver moonglade cutting across the water.
“What do you think Louis wants of you this time?”
She shrugged, concentrating on the moon and the sound of the waves instead of his physical proximity. “It could be anything. Mr. Tiffany is a man of many surprises. Whatever it is that he wants, it’s going to be a challenge. Chaos is what drives him, and because of that, he believes it should drive everyone, especially me.”
“And, what exactly does drive you, Mrs. Driscoll?”
“Nature,” she answered in earnest, “and making beautiful things.”
Philip swung her around to face him. “If you weren’t dependent on your salary, and if Mr. Tiffany were not so dependent upon you, would you still work yourself to exhaustion to make these beautiful things? Surely you’d follow more pleasurable pastimes?”
“Tell me, Philip, why do you write about social activism?”
“Because I have to—it’s my passion.”
She went ahead of him. “Then we understand each other. Were I as wealthy as Mr. Tiffany, I would still work at my art—it’s what I was meant to do.”
“Clara?”
She heard his intent, and her skin pebbled with gooseflesh.
His maneuvering brought her around so that she was again facing him. In the moonlight, he seemed dream-like. “You are like no other woman I have ever met.”
There were a hundred clever things she could have said that would break the tension of the moment and deflect his attentions, but she could not make herself form the words.
He entwined his fingers with hers and brought her hand to his lips. “I want to spend time with you alone, away from the others.”
“I don’t think that’s wise. You need to concentrate on your writing, and I need to continue with my work.”
He embraced her, and for a brief moment she gave in, letting her body relax against his. His warmth and the strength of his arms as they enclosed her in an embrace felt strangely like a home she’d searched for all her life.
“I want to know who you are,” he whispered. “I want to be more to you than just one of the group.”
She fought the desire to let him kiss her. “Don’t do this.” She pulled away. “I don’t trust myself with romance. You scare me—my feelings for you scare me. I find myself thinking of you when I should only be thinking of my work. I shouldn’t even be with you now. It’s—”
His eyes suddenly focused on something behind her.
She turned in time to see a man loom out of the darkness walking his bicycle. His shirt and hair were soaked with sweat, and he looked on the brink of exhaustion, as if he’d come a long way. He raised a work-roughened hand in greeting. “I hear there’s a county fair somewhere hereabouts.”
“About a mile that way.” Philip pointed in the direction of the town. “Follow the path along the shoreline.”
The man tipped his hat murmuring his thanks, and then whistled three times. From the bushes came a raggedy barefoot boy of about twelve. “Come on,” the man called, mounting his wheel. The boy, tipping his cap at them, ran after the bicycle, whooping and waving his hands as he went.
Grateful for the interruption and inspired by the child’s spirit, Clara snatched Philip’s handkerchief from his waistcoat and twisted around in the sand. “Come on,” she said, already running in the direction of the group. “Let’s see if you can catch me.”
At precisely nine a.m. the following morning, Clara, Alice and Agnes Northrop filed into Mr. Tiffany’s office. Messrs. Platt and Thomas sat casually chatting, while Louis paced, hands clasped behind him.
They’d barely taken their seats, when Louis began. “I apologize for calling you back from your vacations, ladies, but we’re faced with an urgent situation that requires your assistance. Tiffany’s has received a request from the Astors for six landscape windows. I know each of you understands how important it is that we give them exactly what they want.”
Clara tilted her head in concern—the landscape windows were the exclusive domain of the men’s department.
“What Mr. Tiffany is getting at, ladies,” Mr. Platt said, rising from his chair, “is that we’ve run into some trouble with the men’s department.”
“They won’t take on the job.” Louis bristled, as if still unable to believe they’d refused him. “They insist it’s not possible.”
“Not possible?” Miss Northrop frowned.
“That’s absurd,” Alice said derisively. “Six landscape windows are a simple, straightforward task.”
“Unless,” Clara said, “there are extenuating circumstances such as …” She looked from Louis to Mr. Platt “… time restraints? How many weeks do we have?”
“Not weeks—six days,” Mr. Thomas said.
Incredulous, Miss Northrop shook her head, the vein in the middle of her forehead visibly throbbing. “Six windows in six days? The men are correct. It cannot be done.”
The heavy silence that followed was broken when Clara pushed back her chair and stood. “We accept the assignment. You shall have your six windows six days from today.”
Mouths agape, Alice and Agnes stared at her.
“By God, Mrs. Driscoll!” Louis hooted, “I knew you’d rise to it!” He turned to the men. “What did I tell you? The woman is a marvel!”
Clara raised her voice above his. “Before you get too far in your praises, Mr. Tiffany, my department will agree to this challenge only if the following conditions are met.”
Quickly calculating what she could ask for in this careful game of give and take, she held up a hand and ticked off her demands, one per finger.
“First, Miss Gouvy, Miss Northrop, Mr. Briggs, and I are to work together in making the designs without any oversight or cane criticisms from you.
“Second, every person in my department who works on this project must receive an extra ten cents an hour for every hour they work in the next six days.
“Third, lunch and coffee are to be provided for every person in my department each day including today, so that we don’t have to stop what we’re doing in order to hunt up sustenance. Taking into account that the men’s department is given free beer every day, it seems only fair.
“Last, once we’ve completed the assignment, we are to have the following two Saturdays off. You may call them congratulatory holidays or whatever you please, but my girls must have time to recuperate.”
The outraged refusal on the tip of his tongue, Tiffany opened his mouth to let fly, when Mr. Platt held up a hand.
“That sounds entirely reasonable to me, Mrs. Driscoll. You give us our six windows in six days, and I and Mr. Tiffany will personally see to it all your demands are fully met.”
Beaming with satisfaction, Mr. Platt shook hands with the three women, never once giving Louis Tiffany so much as a glance.
Clara told her department about the extra benefits before telling them about what Alice officially dubbed the ‘Six in Six Project.’
“It will mean working twelve full hours each day. I know you’re apprehensive, but—”
“Scared out of our wits is more like it,” shouted one of the girls at the back of the room.
When their nervous twittering ceased, Clara resumed, “It will be an onerous task, and we are taking a risk. However, if we meet this challenge, it will be a shining accomplishment. The men insist the project is not possible. The fact of the matter is that it’s not possible for them. It is possible for us. To date, we’ve met all of Mr. Tiffany’s challenges and come out ahead.”
The women began to applaud, but she held up a hand. “Keep in mind that the reason we’ve won out
over every arduous, maddening task is that Tiffany’s Women’s Department and the Tiffany Girls are the best.”
This time when they cheered, she didn’t stop them.
It wasn’t ten minutes later that Mr. Bracey and Joseph tracked her to the glass racks, where she was selecting the pieces they would need. The moment she saw them, she knew the trouble had already started.
Joseph spoke first. “It’s the men’s manager, Mr. Fitzgerald. He must have known something was afoot, when he saw the three of you come in this morning.”
“Yes,” she said, trying to ignore the ache behind her eyes. “He came into the workroom while I was explaining what we’re up against.”
“Aye,” Mr. Bracey said, “I saw him leave. Ya could see the steam risin’ off the top of his head.”
She removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. “He’s been sore about the women’s department since the day it opened. Mr. Mitchell once said he blames me personally for everything that goes wrong with the company. However, for now, we need to concentrate on the job at hand and regard Mr. Fitzgerald and his bullies as harmless garter snakes and continue walking forward.”
Mr. Bracey scratched under his cap. “Ya can be thinkin’ what ya please, Miss, but if ya don’t mind, I’ll be sendin’ up a prayer that the serpent don’t come round to strike ya in the back.”
August 2, 1902
Edward removed his shoes and noiselessly crossed the darkened room. “I’ve come from the chemist,” he whispered. “He gave me aspirin powder; he said it’s much more effective at curing headaches than quinine and whiskey. Miss Owens mixed it with lemonade to make it easier to swallow.
“If you like, I can read London’s Son of the Wolf until you fall asleep.”
She swallowed the too sweet concoction and lay back. “I don’t think I’m up for a book, but perhaps you could just talk for a bit.”
“That’s easy enough.” Edward settled himself on an ottoman next to her. “I’ve received news from London about my brother, Cecil, and his vacuum cleaning machine. It seems that King Edward and Queen Alexandra heard about the miraculous powers of his invention and invited him to give them a demonstration at Buckingham Palace.”
She sat up. “King Albert Edward the Seventh … of England?”
“Is there another?” Edward smiled. “According to Cecil, the king is quite a jolly fellow, and Queen Alexandra is a most attractive woman. The real news is that they were so impressed by what they saw, they commissioned him to clean the coronation carpets in Westminster Abbey for the crowning next week, and purchased two of his machines for permanent use at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle.”
Edward shook his head. “Who would have thought little Cecil would be invited to tea by the King and Queen of England?”
“You must be so proud of him.” She swung her legs over the side of the couch. “I’m proud of him, and I’ve never even met him. We’ll have a celebration party. We should tell Miss Owens. You know what a zealous Anglophile she is; she’ll be sure to make a special dinner.”
Philip rapped on the open door. “Miss Owens informs me you’re ill with another Tiffany headache, but I’ve come to say you have to abandon your ills for now.”
She let go of Edward’s hands. “I’m feeling much better since hearing Edward’s wonderful news about his brother. It seems that King—”
Philip clapped Edward on the back. “Sorry, old man, I don’t mean to steal your thunder, but Mrs. Driscoll has great cause for a celebration of her own.” He took Clara by the shoulders, holding her in a firm, proprietary manner that annoyed and thrilled her at the same time. “It took some doing, but I’ve ferreted out information from one of our men in Turin.”
At the mention of Turin, she went still.
“Your wisteria and the pond lily lamps won gold medals. They’re the talk of the exposition.”
Flooded with exhilaration, she sucked in her breath. “Gold medals? For both? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Philip laughed. “The European papers are describing them as ‘unique and revolutionary.’”
“Has Mr. Tiffany received the news?” she asked eagerly. “Has he been told?”
“Months ago.” Philip reclaimed her hands. “He was notified in June.”
Hurt, and then anger clotted in her throat like an iron ball. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
“You’ve won the gold.” Edward patted her gently on the back. “Don’t pay the spiteful old humbug any mind, he’s jealous is all. Your lamps inspire people. For an artist, it doesn’t come finer than that.”
She pushed a few stray tendrils away from her face. “Of course, you’re right,” she said, reclaiming her elation. “It’s a night for celebration all the way around, but right now I’m going to run my wheel down the longest hill I can find with my feet off the pedals.”
Tiffany’s
December 17, 1902
Dearest Family,
I can’t leave until the late train on Wednesday, as my girls and I were stuck with yet another batch of windows that Mr. Tiffany withdrew from the men’s department. He feels we do a better job, which is nice, but at the same time adds to our already stretched time budget. Worse, it fuels the men’s resentments against my department. Ever since we triumphed on the ‘Six in Six Project,’ relations between our departments have been strained. One of the men called out an offensive word the other morning as I arrived. It left me feeling low all day.
It’s only because Christmas comes on Thursday that I feel I can sneak off to Tallmadge at all. I can work night and day afterward to make up for it—I do that anyway, but never mind. Last month we received an order for 40 dragonfly and 20 wisteria table lamps. Immediately following that was another for 20 conventional peony globes, with each one going for $250 to $750—a fortune in sales.
Mr. Platt asked me to make a watch chain using the sand flea as a model. It’s so detailed that it nearly ruined my eyes, but he’s very pleased with it, and he is the one person I enjoy pleasing. Added to this, I have to make statistical reports for the 1903 lampshades, besides modeling a $200 inkwell so it can go into the works before I leave.
The last few nights Philip has been coming to my room to play the mandolin and discuss the plots for some stories he’s writing. Last night, he remained until after 1 a.m., so I am befuddle-headed today.
I’ve hired on five more people. The new deaf boy and the pretty Cuban girl do such beautiful, careful work. Our new Italian boy doesn’t eat at lunchtime, but instead reads books—he’s thin, but smart.
Frank and the new deaf boy have joined in continuing my education in sign language and the alphabet. They have insisted on teaching me phrases that they assure me are the most useful: ‘Another beer, please,’ ‘I want to eat now,’ ‘Help me get up.’ and ‘Help! I see a bear coming.’
Kate, when I get home, I’ll teach you exercises that may help you stand straight without causing further pain.
I attended the Taft and Belknap gallery opening at 41 E 20th Street with Dudley and Mr. McBride. Henry is so much happier since he left Tiffany’s—something I completely understand.
I hear Mr. Tiffany bellowing nearby. He’s pushing for more of my designs, and I feel my brain is gradually turning to putty or some equally unproductive substance.
Love to all, Clara
P.S. No, Emily, your ‘superior knowledge’ doesn’t impress (or oppress) me. We all know as much as you, but in subjects other than Latin and mathematics. Our interests lean more toward useful knowledge.
Lenox Hill
December 26, 1902
Construction of Laurelton Hall coming along as well as can be expected during winter. It shall be magnificent—more breathtaking than anything ever built on American soil.
Louise maintains she will never live there, insisting that she prefers the simplicity of The Briars for her summer residence. I’ve explained the difference between simplicity and unexceptional from an artistic point of view, but to no avail. She
does not understand the concept of our station in life. I’m hoping that when she’s done with these endless complaints of stomach pain, she’ll see reason.
Ensconced in all their petty jealousies over my acquisition of all the lands around Laurelton Hall, the rabble at Oyster Bay continue their dispute over my rights to the five underwater acres at Cold Spring Harbor. Their attempts to thwart my plans for building a seawall and breakwater in order to enlarge my private sand beach below the house will assuredly fail. With some persuading the courts will rule in my favor. Let’s see how the scum like that. L.C.T.
~ 21 ~
January 19, 1903
Dear Katie,
I received your card at the breakfast table today and have made up my mind to come home February 1st. It isn’t foolish at all—the Wolcott girls don’t have abdominal surgery every day. I’ll be there when the doctor takes you into surgery on the 2nd. You may not need my moral support, but you’ll enjoy it just the same.
I’ll bring all the carpet and drapery samples that George chose for the parlor. I’m sending on several silk scarves from Vantine’s that you can wear until your hair grows out. Let me know if you need anything else. Chin up, dearest; you’ll be fit as a fiddle before you know it.
Love, Clara
PS: Remind me to tell you about the American Sculptor’s dinner at Madison Square. There were over 10,000 candles burning all at once. Breathtaking!
Tallmadge
January 30, 1903
Clara: Come home at once!
Emily
February 15, 1903
Dearest Clara,
I expect to rise to the situation gradually, but at present I cannot write much. It was a trial for me, that as good and capable as Kate was, her life seemed humble. You and Emily so easily gathered the renown for brilliance, but Kate served with calm and wisdom. Do you remember how wide open and surprised her eyes were in the moment of death? I think she saw beyond this terrible storm to the land of summer.
After you left, I went into the parlor and sat in front of her picture, feeling shaken and alone. And yet grievous as our loss is, it would have been worse for her if you had died, than it is for you to lose her. Her life lay largely in you. She was always planning for you, for the times when you were home. Your loss would have made a void in her simple life that nothing could fill.
