by Echo Heron
“You’ll have to forgive me for not offering to escort you home, Mrs. Palmié, but I have to hurry before the rain comes. The blueprints for the porch are in my rucksack, and it’s important they stay dry. Besides, I don’t want to worry Clara and Mr. Allen. I’m already hours late.”
Mrs. Palmié waved him on. “Oh don’t you worry about me. I’ve walked this path a thousand times in much worse weather than this. I’m like the cows at milking time: I always find my way back to the barn.”
Needing no further urging, Edward made so quick a start, the bicycle slid out from under him.
8:38 p.m.
Lost in him, she had no awareness of the storm raging on around them. She raised her hand to his face to tell him she loved him, when the window above the couch blew open, showering them with cold rain.
Philip scrambled to his feet, pulling her up with him. As he secured the window, there came a crash from upstairs. She rushed up the stairs and padded quickly through the puddle that had formed beneath the windows. Happy to see none of the glass had been broken, she was fastening the locks when she noticed the shed door banging in the wind.
Hurrying downstairs, she stuck her head into the front room. “I’m going to close the shed door. It’s blown open, and the tools and wood are getting wet.”
“They’ll be fine,” he said, drawing her into an embrace. “It’s wood. It’s meant to withstand the elements.” He kissed her, leading her back to the couch. “I’ll wipe the tools down in the morning with kerosene.”
Clara broke away. “We have to change into dry clothes anyway, so I may as well get entirely soaked first.” Before he could stop her, she was out the door and sprinting across the yard, her wind-whipped skirts tangling around her ankles. As she worked to secure the rusted hasp, a sensual memory of Philip’s soft mouth made her take in a sharp breath.
She watched him through the window until she was sure of what she wanted, then walked toward him with purpose.
8:40 p.m.
Edward lay in the ditch, cold needles of rain stinging his face. He recalled the dozens of times his mother had warned him about the danger of stormy weather ‘widow-makers.’ Had it not been for the pain in his ribs, he might have had a laugh over it; but at the moment, laughing was the last thing he felt like doing.
He tentatively probed the stinging flesh above his eye, his fingers coming away dark with blood. With a grunt he picked himself up and kicked at the ‘widow-making’ branch that had fallen across the path. In light of the fact he was at his top speed when he hit it, he was amazed it hadn’t killed him.
He found his bicycle ten feet away, looking like some dead animal torn apart by wolves. He picked up the twisted wheel, quickly dropping it as the pain tore through his ribs. Kicking the ruined bike into the ditch, he began to run, the mud sucking at his shoes.
8:45 p.m.
Clara hurriedly changed out of the wet blouse and skirts that were the last vestiges of her armor, and into her pale green kimono. When she returned to him, Philip was standing by the fire staring into the flames.
He looked up, eyes shining. “Come here, Clara. Let me love you.”
8:47 p.m.
Edward almost shouted for joy at the first whiff of wood smoke. Thirty yards away, he could see the glow from the fireplace flickering orange and yellow on the cabin walls. The lace curtains were drawn in a futile attempt to create an illusion of privacy for those inside.
He hesitated below the porch steps trying to remember which was the creaking board. Unwilling to take a chance, he cautiously walked around to the parlor window, where, summoning all his courage, he looked inside.
Silhouetted against the flames Clara and Philip were locked in an embrace, their kiss frenzied, almost violent in its intensity. In their passion, Clara’s kimono slipped, revealing the smooth skin of her bare shoulder.
He staggered backward, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the heart. Wild with hurt, he ran like a madman across the yard, stumbled over a rake left lying under a pile of leaves, and sprawled headlong into the garden.
For the second time that night, he lay in the mud, his emotional torment eclipsing any physical pain he may have felt. How could she have chosen him—a man who had no other choice except to eventually abandon her? He pressed his fists against his eyes, as if to erase the image of her bare shoulder from his memory. She would ruin herself this night, and there would be no way for her to hide it.
He hauled himself to his feet. He’d allowed his life to twine around hers the way a vine crawled toward the sun. It was her vitality and resilience that drew him; her loving nature left him no choice but to love her. Was that not reason enough to save her? He would do no less for any other woman. Even if he had to force her, he could not allow her to marry a lifetime of disgrace for a momentary pleasure. If she hated him for it, so be it.
Picking up his rucksack and hat, he climbed onto the porch, knocking the mud from his shoes against the one squealing board. He rattled the handle and shoved the door open, let it slam, then slammed it again for good measure. “Hello? Clara? Philip? I’m late, but I’m here. What a storm! I say you two, where are you hiding? I hope there’s hot tea.”
Delaying the moment as long as he could, he took a breath and stepped smiling into the parlor.
Years later, when she saw her first Keystone Cops film, Clara would recall the night Edward Booth rescued her from her own foolishness. The sound of footsteps heavy and solid on the porch sent her and Philip scrambling off the sofa like it was a hot griddle.
Frantically rearranging their clothes while grabbing at hair combs, sketchpad and book, they made a mad dash to the safety of separation—she, throwing herself into her chair, and Philip reclining on the couch, pretending to be engrossed in his book.
In a desperate attempt to appear calm, she bent over her sketchpad so Edward might not see the flush of excitement that lingered.
“Hello, Edward,” she called in a voice that sounded forced. “We’re in the front room.”
Edward set down his rucksack. “Sorry I’m late, but the ferry was delayed, and then I had a bit of a mishap with my wheel, so I had to walk the last mile.” He took off his hat, revealing the gash on his forehead. “I’m afraid I had a bit of a row with a tree. I think I need your expert nursing, Clara.”
She examined the cut to his forehead, and went to the kitchen in search of the medicine kit. Through the door she could hear the men’s voices low and serious, with no hint of the usual lighthearted banter that was their custom.
Edward’s voice suddenly rose to a sharp pitch, and then just as quickly subsided. She thought she heard him say, ‘Not here!’ or maybe it was, ‘Not her!’ She sidled closer to the door, straining to hear more, but their voices dwindled to a faint series of murmurs.
When she reentered the room, the two men were staring at one another, the tension thick as pudding. For an instant, Philip met her eyes and withdrew into himself. She longed to reassure him, to tell him she loved him and that there would be another time.
She cleaned and bandaged Edward’s wound, easing the strained silence with a stream of chatter that sounded inane even to her. The moment she was finished, Edward yawned, wincing as he did so.
“Shall I make you something to eat? You must be famished.”
Edward shook his head, his eyes wandering everywhere but to her. His gaze came to rest on her hair combs that lay next to the couch, and for a moment his face filled with disgust. “Don’t bother; I’ll make a cup of tea and set up the hammock in the kitchen. We all need to get some sleep. I expect Mr. Yorke will be up on the early morning ferry. If we’re to have this porch done by next week, we’ll need to hop to.”
Halfway to the kitchen, he reached over the back of the couch and turned Philip’s book right side up. “Easier reading that way, old chap.”
Sleepless, she lay balled up inside her quilt, interpreting every sound. She willed herself to relax, but her thoughts refused to be corralled. Deceit was not in her natur
e, and the thought that honest, sweet Edward might know what she and Philip were up to, made her insides wither.
She turned over, impatiently plucking at the tangle of her nightgown. What were they up to? Love? Passion? She couldn’t get beyond the wanting of him, to be sure.
Alternately cringing and exulting over the events of the evening, she found herself analyzing Edward’s every word and nuance of expression. What if he had guessed, or even worse—what if he’d seen? She shook her head and rubbed at her eyes, scratchy from lack of sleep. He couldn’t have known, but why else wouldn’t he look at her?
Suddenly furious, she sat up, hands clenched. What business was it of Edward’s, or any of them, for that matter? Was she not allowed to have her own private life?
She threw off the covers and got out of bed. What did she care what they thought? She rested her head against the window, her breath fogging the pane, and then clearing. Wrapping her arms about herself, she watched the storm exhaust itself and die away.
In the first gray light of morning, she crawled back under the covers and lay still, eyes on the bare rafters. From below came the quick, successive thunks of Edward splitting wood for the kitchen stove.
Exhausted, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her.
Noon at Tiffany’s
November 10, 1904
Dearest Ones,
We are fretfully busy at work on the new Fire Worshipper panels and all the lamps and deluxe individual pieces for the oncoming holiday season. In all honesty, I would rather be digging potatoes than making $500 lamps.
We have just now come from our first ride on the Subway that opened a week ago. This wonderful modern marvel took us from 14th Street and shot up to 125th, only 3 minutes from the Fort Lee Ferry. In the past this trip has taken a full hour by horsecar and cost 10 cents. Now it costs a nickel and takes 15 minutes.
You don’t realize how fast you’re going, because you can’t see anything but an occasional station flash by. The white posts on the sides of the tracks are trying to my eyes, but I try not to look. The stations reminded me of expensive, freshly scrubbed bathrooms, with their clean green and white tiles. Another wonderful thing about the cars is the quickness with which they get up speed after stopping—much different from a railroad train.
On Election Day, the Irving Place family hiked to a great flat rock overlooking the Hudson and all New York. We broiled steaks on long, forked sticks over a fire. Around nine, we crawled up Broadway, watching the Times searchlight indicating a majority for Roosevelt. By eleven, it was evident it was a Roosevelt victory.
When I opened my eyes this morning, they were greeted by a splendid patch of sunlight splashed across the yellow chrysanthemums my dear Philip brought last night. I’ve been light as a feather all day just for the thought of them waiting for me in my cozy room.
I purchased a lovely blue and white lawn dress on sale at Wannamaker’s, and my gray silk waist and my black skirt have been satisfactorily altered and mended to look brand new, so I’m set until next year.
Alice and Mr. Booth send their love. Me too. Clara
~ 23 ~
44 Irving Place
February 17, 1905
Dear Ones,
Mr. Booth has graciously offered to give up his hand at the Whist table to write for me while I rest my eyes. I’m lying on Miss Griffin’s couch with Muggs (our new house cat), asleep on my chest. Across the room, Miss Nye is reading Plato’s Apology of Socrates to the Whisters.
Not much news except that Mr. Tiffany flirts with disaster by taking a major Easter window away from the men and giving it to my department. This on the heels of giving us the Rose window for Mr. Thomas’s sister at Bryn Mawr. As I walk by the men’s department now, I am a model of contriteness.
Our own workroom windows are being replaced, and it’s so cold, the girls get up and dance every half hour to keep their blood from freezing. They’re enjoying these little flights of exercise so much, we may keep up the practice until summer.
If you haven’t seen it in the papers, Mr. Tiffany gave $300,000 to the Infirmary for Women and Children. I am quite sure I helped make a large part of that contribution.
Emily, sir: I’m sorry I haven’t executed your list of orders as swiftly as you commanded, but I’ve been so miserable with work, I’ve yet to answer my Christmas mail. I haven’t had time to have my hair treated or even combed properly. I look such a fright, small children flee in terror at my approach.
Honestly, Em, isn’t it about time you dispensed with the electric shock treatments? In case no one has mentioned it, it hasn’t improved your disposition one iota.
The aftermath of last week’s ice storm was a sight to behold. In the bright sun, the trees were a mass of glittering diamonds. Even with my eyes, as poor as they are—
MISS GRIFFIN CRANED her neck over her cards, looking into the hall. “Clara! A man just went into your room.”
Clara sent Muggs to the floor and hurried across the hall where Joseph Briggs stood in the middle of her room looking lost, his eyes full of worry.
“Joseph?”
He grasped her hands. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to resign my post at Tiffany’s, immediately.”
She sank into a chair. Losing Joseph would mean she would have to take on all the mosaic work herself. It would never do. She’d either go mad or die—probably both. She searched his face for signs of drunkenness or any hint that he might be playing a joke, and found neither.
“You are not leaving. Unless you’ve committed murder, I won’t let you give up your position at Tiffany’s and let us all down.” She paused, then, “You haven’t have you? Committed murder, I mean.”
He shook his head. “It’s my wife. She’s gone mad with jealousy.”
Clara regarded her assistant’s weak chin and bulging forehead, and could not imagine what it was about him that might incite such feelings in a woman.
He caught her expression. “I know it’s hard to believe, but last week a couple of the girls and I were walking to the trolley together after work when Mrs. Briggs came out of nowhere and charged the girls with a knife. I held her back while the girls escaped, but now she’s intent on going to Mr. Tiffany directly and accusing him of running some sort of a bawdy house.
“The thing of it is, my wife is colored. I’ve heard enough of Tiffany’s diatribes about Jews and Negros to know he’d fire me on the spot should he find out.”
Clara was trying to imagine how Mr. Tiffany might react to a ranting, crazy, colored woman wielding a knife, when a thought struck her. She turned in her seat to face him. “Let me go with you now to see if I can talk some sense into her.”
Joseph looked doubtful. “We live in the colored part of town. I don’t think you’d like it much.”
“I assure you, I’ve been in worse places,” she said getting to her feet. “Besides, it’s better than bloodshed, don’t you think?” She hesitated. “To be on the safe side, I’ll ask Mr. Allen to accompany us. Wait here.”
Half asleep, Philip cracked open his door and squinted into the hall light. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her as he kicked the door shut behind them.
She pushed him away and quickly related Joseph’s dilemma.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked sourly.
“I’m going to speak with Mrs. Briggs. Tonight. At their home. I want you to come with me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake Clara, the man is a toad. Why would you put yourself into such danger?”
“He is hardly a toad. His pride in his work and his perception of what is beautiful are more than admirable. I can’t afford to lose him.”
“He wasn’t keen enough to have avoided marrying a colored woman.”
Ignoring the barbed comment she started for the door. “Will you accompany us or not?”
“I won’t, and you won’t either. You don’t know how dangerous this woman is. She might try to kill you. I won’t allow you to take the chance.”
She fixed he
r eyes on him. “You won’t allow me? I wasn’t aware you were in charge of what I do.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant, and I am going, whether you come along or not.”
“Don’t be a fool! Going off to talk reason to some irate lunatic makes you seem as insane as she is. Why must you always pry into messes that don’t concern you? Involving yourself with your female workers is bad enough, but now you must get entangled with your assistant, too?”
She couldn’t have felt any more insulted if he’d struck her. “You’re forgetting yourself, Philip!”
“I think you’re forgetting yourself, Clara.” He turned his back on her. “Stay home. Let him go back to whatever rat’s nest he came from. His marital problems are none of your business. You have to think about—”
Before he could finish telling her what she had to be thinking about, she slipped into the hall, where Edward was just coming up the stairs.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “Mr. Briggs has told me everything. If we’re going to prevent disaster, we’ll need to hurry.”
The Briggs family occupied two airless overheated rooms that smelled of rancid cooking fat. Three young children, dressed only in gray shirts to the waist and nothing more, lay asleep on a soiled couch. Their legs and ankles were covered with sores—whether from fleas or rats, Clara couldn’t be sure.
A young woman in a faded work dress came in from the room that served as both a kitchen and bedroom and introduced herself as Mrs. Briggs’s sister. “She’s gone to find the girls,” she said. “She was like a wildcat when she left.”
Joseph gave a sudden nervous snicker.
Edward crossed the room and jerked him to his feet. “Do you think this is humorous, Briggs?” He gestured toward the children. “This is an appalling way to live. Look at your children, man; for God’s sake, barn animals are kept better. Where’s your sense of decency? You make a good wage, take your family out of this hellhole and bring them to a respectable place.”
