by Echo Heron
“You don’t understand,” Joseph pleaded, “My wife is a madwoman. Her jealousies have driven me to desperate measures. I need to have a clean start somewhere else.”
Edward shook him like a misbehaved puppy. “Stop this sniveling about running away and stand up to it like a gentleman. You can’t live in terror of being found out for the rest of your life. Tell the truth, and let people think what they may.”
Clara could not take her eyes off Edward. Next to Mr. Briggs, he looked preternaturally large and healthy, his life untouched by such troubles. The Edward she knew as an amiable and placid individual was miraculously transformed into a man of strength and command. She marveled at the way he’d taken all the twisty wickedness out of the situation and made it clean and straight.
“Your sympathies are wrongly placed,” Joseph protested. “You don’t know what I’ve had to live with.”
“Sully the woman all you like, Briggs, but my sympathies don’t lie with you. You may be innocent with these girls, but you have wronged your wife just the same by keeping her hidden in this filthy pigsty. Where’s your pride, man?”
A woman with fine skin and dark, almond eyes barged into the room. Her shoddy attire and wild, uncombed hair did little to conceal the fact she had once been beautiful. She threw herself at Edward’s feet, sobbing.
“Everything you’ve said is true, sir,” Mrs. Briggs wailed. “He shuns me and his children and leaves us here in this horrible place. When I saw him walking with those young girls, I lost my head.”
Edward lifted her up with an easy courtesy. “Mr. Briggs has treated you and your children shamefully, Madam, and I do not for one moment wonder that you feel as you do, but it isn’t other women who make him act poorly, but rather his own bad judgment of his situation.
“I can see that you have been badly used, and I’ll see to it that your husband does better by you and finds a decent home that’s clean and proper.”
“All I’ve ever wanted is for him to love me,” she lamented, giving them an imploring look before bursting into tears and throwing herself once again at Edward’s feet.
In response to his wife’s dramatic outburst, Joseph rolled his eyes.
Edward seized him. “You meeching scoundrel! Tell her you’ll take better care of her and the children.”
Joseph cowered.
“Stop that!” Edward shook him, this time hard enough to rattle Joseph’s teeth. “Tell her! Now!”
“All right, I’ll try, but she must give up her threats and her dagger.”
“Your husband has proposed a fair deal,” Edward said, holding out his hand. “Give your weapon to me.”
An hour later, with promises made and the dagger securely concealed inside Clara’s purse, she and Edward started for home, reveling in the fresh, cold air.
“I’m ashamed of him,” Edward said finally. “What a mess he’s made for himself.”
“Yes, he has,” she agreed wearily, “however, he is indispensable to me and my department. There is no other mosaicist in world who is as good.”
She took Edward’s arm, glad for the comfort he afforded her. “To be honest, I feel sorry for Mrs. Briggs—away from her country and her family and among people who hate her for her color.”
“I wouldn’t pity her too much,” Edward said, “With Mrs. Briggs’s talent for melodrama, she could very well be the next star of the stage.”
March 4, 1905
Dear Clara,
Your late night escapade with Joe Briggs keeps growing on me. How could you think of going into that horrid, dirty place to meet a woman crazed by injured feelings and jealousy? I am so thankful for the noble Mr. Booth, I could embrace him.
What an awful thing for Mr. Briggs to live with a wife he does not love. Use your influence on him so that he will at least take his family to a nicer place.
I’m still trembling at the thought of what may have happened to you.
Love, Mama
Baltimore, MD
March 7, 1905
Sister: I feel so sorry for Mr. Briggs that I can hardly sleep for thinking of him and the horror he must live through each day with that woman. I know it’s best that he stay with her, at least for the children’s sake, but what a shame to be saddled like that.
Mr. Booth is good-looking, kind, intelligent, practical and chivalrous—all in one man. If you can’t find a use for him, please, send him on to me.
Emily
Tiffany’s
March 9, 1905
Dear Ones,
I’m afraid I’ve stirred your sympathies too much. Not to worry over Joe Briggs! All is jogging along for him, as it has for many weary years. If you have pity to spare, give it to me instead—my work at Tiffany’s is without end. Philip is taking me to Still’s Oyster House for dinner and then to the theater. I would much rather just sit and listen to him talk, for I find the man far more fascinating than any play.
Love, Clara
P.S. Seriously, Emily, you should rethink these electric treatments. Consider how electricity turns the insides of light bulbs all dark and broken-down looking.
April 10, 1905
“Henry Belknap!” Clara set down her packages and ran to embrace him. “I haven’t seen you since before George died.”
He clasped her in his arms, and then held her away while they looked each other over. It was easy to see the grief that marked him. The face she once considered as having an almost juvenile mien was now lined and careworn.
“You are ageless,” he said. “It’s a miracle that even Louis hasn’t managed to wear you down.”
“But he’s trying very hard,” she smiled. “I’ve made over the wisteria lamp so many times the poor old patterns are worn out. Only yesterday he sent me a note demanding I design twenty new clocks. He’s obsessed with them this year.”
“Why do stay with him?” Henry asked. “I’ve never understood that.”
She didn’t answer right away, but unpinned her hat, giving it a shake before placing it on the sidetable. “I’ve come to the realization that the art and beauty of the things I create take on an importance that is far greater than the constant aggravation Mr. Tiffany inflicts on me.”
“And the fact that he’s still putting his name on your work?”
Clara shrugged. “I’ll never give up trying to convince Mr. Tiffany that my name should be on what I create, but I find great solace in the fact that people see something in my work that gives them pleasure. That in and of itself is almost enough.”
He pointed a finger at her. “I see something else in your eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re in love.”
The blood rushed to her face. “If I’m in love, I certainly have no business being so.”
“You’re quite wrong on that, my dear. When people say they have no business being in love is precisely when they should fall in love. You’re too young and alive to remain a widow. Do I know him?”
She nodded. “I believe the others suspect, but he and I have so little time together, they aren’t sure, although I have noticed that Edward has taken to watching us like a hawk.”
“No doubt, because Edward is in love with you himself.”
“Not likely.” She made a sour face. “Edward and I are both too dictatorial, he more than I, if that’s even possible.”
“So?” Henry leaned close. “Who is the lucky fellow?”
“Mr. Allen.”
Henry sat back, his smile gone. “Philip Allen?”
“Of course, Philip Allen. Why are you looking like that?”
“I thought Mr. Allen was …” he broke off and shrugged. “I thought he’d gone back to his Washington post. I wasn’t aware he was in New York again.”
She saw the lie but didn’t push. If Philip were guilty of past misdemeanors, what of it? Everyone had his or her little peccadilloes. She knew all she needed to know about Philip and loved him for it. She didn’t need to know every dark corner of his past.
“You must stay for dinner,” she said, leaping to a safer
subject. “I’ll ask Miss Owens to set another place. Everyone will be glad to see you. Dudley is coming by with Mr. McBride. It will be like old times. We want you back with us again, Henry. We’ve missed you.”
“I can’t,” he said. “Not yet. Actually, I’ve come to tell you that I’m leaving New York. My mother’s doctor has convinced her she’d be better off in a less demanding city. She’s purchased a grand country house in Salem.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I think I might take up writing, or perhaps I’ll try to market my photography.”
“But what about the gallery? What about all of us?”
“I can’t stay here, Clara. Every street and building holds memories for me. It only serves to remind me of how lonely I am. I think I might have a better chance at a new beginning in Massachusetts.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go. Mother expected me an hour ago.”
They said their goodbyes with promises of frequent visits. Watching him descend the stairs, she could not stop the feeling that her life was diminishing bit by bit.
June 14, 1905
Still inside the remnants of a dream, Clara raised her arms and slipped them around the man’s neck to return his gentle kiss.
“Would you like to ride away with me today to parts unknown?”
The whisper was all too real, each puff of breath tickling her nose. She opened her eyes to find Philip’s face above hers. Confused, she lay still, trying to decide whether or not she was still dreaming.
The sharp rap at her door was real enough. She made a mad dash across the room and threw her weight against the door. “Yes, what is it?”
“It’s Bernice, Miss Clara. Miss Owens sent me up to tell you and Miss Alice that breakfast will be served in the small dining room this morning ’cause there ain’t hardly nobody here.”
Clara glanced at the mantle clock and groaned. She’d overslept and would have to hurry to make it to Tiffany’s on time. She wheeled on Philip, who was sitting on her bed, grinning like a fool. Instead of his city suit, he was wearing his bicycle clothes.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Have you gone mad? What if Alice or someone else comes in and finds you here? They’ll think we … we …”
“Let them,” Philip said, gathering himself up. “Did you know that I love the way you look when you sleep?”
She pushed him toward the door. “You have to leave! I’ve got to get ready for work.”
He caught her by the waist. “It’s the perfect morning for an adventure. Take the day off. Ring up Tiffany’s and tell them you have the grippe. We’ll ask Miss Owens to pack a lunch, and then we can ride out of the city and have a picnic in the hills.”
She wiggled out of his grip and brushed past him, seeking the safety of her dressing screen. “I can’t. I have a meeting with Mr. Tiffany and his cronies first thing this morning about how to get around the Union contract and hire on more people. I have to be there.”
“But it’s my only day off for weeks,” he complained. “We aren’t going to have another chance for ages.”
She paused over the buttons on her skirt. It wasn’t as if Mr. Tiffany and his board couldn’t figure it out for themselves. She opened her mouth to tell him yes, but snapped it shut. With their minds always on schemes to save money, there was the danger the Tiffany Powers That Be might come up with a plan that would put her department at a disadvantage. Her input would be essential. If things fell apart because she’d shirked her responsibility, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.
“The temptation is great,” she said, pinning up her hair, “but go I must. They expect me, and if I’m not there, they’ll find a way to muck it up, and then my girls and I will have to live with whatever cockamamie plan they come up with.”
She emerged from behind the screen and held the door open for him. “I can’t be late.”
“All right,” he teased, “but you’ll be sorry.”
She sighed. “Believe me, I already am.”
For the better part of two hours, the three of them waited in Mr. Platt’s office for the tardy Mr. Tiffany. Glad to have brought her sketchbook along, Clara worked out several designs, while Mr. Thomas and Mr. Platt could talk of nothing else except Christy Mathewson pitching a no-hitter the day before, giving the Giants a victory over the Cubs.
Simpkins telephoned several times to report on Mr. Tiffany’s progress. In the first call, the valet explained in his understated monotone that Mr. Tiffany was on his way and they were to stay put. A half-hour later, Simpkins reported there was car trouble. In his third call, Simpkins announced that Mr. Tiffany had returned to the house for his notes. The last time he called, he reverted to his original message.
When the phone on Louis’s desk rang a fifth time, no one moved to answer it, for the simple reason that they were too stunned by the sight of Louis Tiffany weaving in the doorway, his tie askew and his collar open.
“Ahhh, look who’s here—my loyal guard.” Louis reached over to hang up his walking stick, missed the hook, and stumbled into the wall. He kicked at the cane and missed.
Before Mr. Thomas or Mr. Platt could react, Clara was on her feet. She leaned in to help him and stopped short. The smell of whiskey that exuded from him was overpowering. “Why Mr. Tiffany, you’ve been drinking!”
He faced her, his eyes red and wandering uncontrollably in their sockets. “Tho? What do you propose to do about that, Mrs. Driscoll? Call the polith?”
“You can’t even stand up straight.”
“I motht thertainly can. I’ll show you.”
In a move that reminded her of a performing circus clown, Louis shoved his toe under the fallen cane and tried to flip it into the air. Teetering backward, he landed on his hindquarters so hard the floor shook beneath their feet.
Mr. Thomas rapidly hoisted him off the floor. “I’ll take you home, Mr. Tiffany. You shouldn’t be here in this condition.”
Louis shook him off. “Get away! I want Clara to take me home. She’s prettier than you.”
A brief smile flitted across Bond Thomas’s face. “I agree with you about that, Louis. However, I’m guessing she doesn’t drive nearly as well.”
She rushed back to Irving Place, hoping to catch Philip. When he failed to answer his door, she went in search of Miss Owens.
“Let me see.” Miss Owens studied the ceiling while she formulated her answer. “Mr. Allen stayed quite a while at breakfast. He drank three cups of coffee while reading the Times, and then asked to use the telephone. I was helping with the dishes, so I didn’t pay him much mind, but I did overhear him say he was going to take his wheel up to …” Miss Owens frowned and shook her head.
“Up to where?”
“I can’t remember. These days, my memory is less like a camel’s and more like an unhatched egg.”
“Please try, Miss Owens. I want to surprise him. It’s his first day off in such a long time, and I won’t have this opportunity again for ages.”
Miss Owens snapped her fingers. “Highbridge Park! Came to me just like that. Isn’t it funny how the mind plays tricks? Why, my grandmother could remember the name of every one of her schoolmates from the time she was six years old.”
“Miss Owens, please! Did he say which part of Highbridge?”
“No,” Miss Owens shook her head, “I don’t remember that, but I do recall that he asked one of the kitchen maids to pack him a nice lunch. I think she gave him the rest of the ham, with some of that dill mustard my sister made last year, two apples and the last part of that cheese from—”
Calling out her thanks over her shoulder, Clara took the stairs two at a time, already unfastening the buttons on her collar.
Highbridge Park, Manhattan
She found his bicycle amongst the ten or so parked along a low wall at the beginning of a wooded trail. Squeezing her bicycle in alongside his, she bounded up the rocky footpath in anticipation of his surprise at seeing her. He’d break into his slow, crooked smile and pull her behind a tree for a kiss. Lat
er, they’d have dinner at Child’s and, if he wasn’t too tired, take in a play.
She was thinking of which play they might attend when she spotted his sporty green cap—the one she’d given him for his birthday. She ran a short distance into the woods and hid behind a tree. She’d call out something humorous, maybe something about Danderine and his hair, or maybe she’d just whistle and wait for him to find her.
The cap came closer, bobbing in rhythm with his loping gait. Next his forehead and eyes came into view, then his nose, and finally that sensuous mouth moving in animated speech. She craned forward to get a better view of his companion. Even from a distance, she could see the woman possessed the delicate flawless beauty that belonged only to the young. Her bicycle suit was cut to show her exceptionally good figure to an advantage.
The woman stayed even with him, moving with a saucy swing, her back straight, and head high. Her voice was clear, the words ringing with a lively spirit. It was the sight of Philip’s arm about her waist and the familiarity with which they treated each other, bumping hips and laughing, that robbed her of breath.
For just an instant, she found solace in the thought that the woman might be one of his many cousins, but as they came even to her hiding place, Philip pulled the woman around and kissed her in a manner that could not be considered cousinly by any stretch of the imagination.
Time slowed and stopped. Blind with the pain of betrayal, she saw nothing other than the woman wrapped inside Philip’s arms, her mouth on the same lips she’d kissed only a few hours before. She picked her way to the trail, hurrying in the direction of her bicycle as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She hoped by some miracle he might not notice her—but it wasn’t a day for miracles.
He shouted her name, the panic in his voice echoing in her ears.
She was within yards of her bicycle, when he caught her by the arm and pulled her around. Over his shoulder she could see the other woman looking a little bewildered, but not threatened—as if she were completely sure of him.
Clara wrenched her arm free. Searching the handsome face that had held her captive for so long, she slapped him hard enough to knock him off balance.
