by Echo Heron
She remembered nothing of her ride back to Irving Place, except a vague sense of surprise that she could function at all. The shock gave way to anger, anguish, and finally a deep, aching pain that seeped in and overtook her.
Within the hour he was there, nervous, contrite, begging her to listen.
She stood by the window, staring out, seeing nothing. Her hair hung loose in disarray, and she had not yet bothered to change out of her bicycle suit.
“Her name is Ferne Ryan,” he began. “We were classmates at the University of Wisconsin. Our parents were good friends, so, of course, our mothers began plotting years ago—probably before we were born. Ferne and I never had a choice.”
The curtains billowed in on the breeze, catching on her Tiffany lamp. She pushed them off and lowered the window. “How long have you been betrothed?” she asked, amazed that she could speak at all, let alone be standing without assistance.
“Three years.” He turned her around to face him. “Listen to me. It’s true that Ferne and I are good friends—like you and Edward—but I’m no more in love with her than she is with me. When I first realized I loved you, I thought I might be able to break away from her, but I wanted to do it gradually, so as not to hurt anyone.”
“You are a liar!” she shouted, her voice raw with misery. “I saw you with her. I saw you kiss her and the way she looked at you. Is that what you consider being ‘good friends’?” Her voice went raw as she choked out the words. “You’ve deceived me from the beginning. I thought you were the finest man I’d ever met—a crusader, a paragon of what was right. Now I see you had no regard for me or for anyone other than yourself.”
She let the tears run down her face unchecked. “I was happy. I looked forward to getting up in the morning. For once, I had more than my work to look forward to. For once I felt I knew was it was to love and to feel passion.” She made herself look at him. “No man has ever known me as well as you. And to think that I almost compromised myself and that you would have let me!”
He touched her shoulder. “Please Clara, won’t you—?”
“No, I won’t!” She slapped his hand away. “I want you to leave and not come back. You’ve broken my trust, and that’s an injury that can never be mended.”
He stood with his arms at his sides. “Please don’t shut me out like this. Tell me what I can do to make this right with you.”
“Nothing. There’s nothing left here. Go marry her. Marry your Ferne Ryan, and leave me alone.”
July 26, 1905
Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company
There was nothing subtle about the pain she felt in losing Philip. The work at Tiffany’s that she once declared would be the death of her was now the only thing that kept her from wallowing in the memories and what might have been.
Louis was thrilled by the volume and quality of her things, but not so thrilled that he was willing to entertain any further raises in her salary.
To her relief, Edward once again took up the quest of devising new diversions and entertainments. At the moment, she was wishing he would come and distract the whole of the women’s department from the terrible heat.
By noon, the temperature inside the workroom had reached an unprecedented 109 degrees, despite the bank of fans lined up like sentinels in front of the windows. Resolved not to have any of her flock succumb to the unpleasant forces of nature, she set up the usual buckets of ice water cut with alcohol in the corners of the workroom. All of the women draped cloths dipped in the cooling mixture over their heads and around their necks, so that at first sight they resembled a group of religious fanatics.
Regardless of their efforts, the women, and finally Joseph and Frank, dropped like flies. By closing time, she and Mr. Bracey were two of four who’d managed to stick it out. As she started for home, her blinding headache grew steadily worse, until she was so caught up in pain and nausea she could not keep her thoughts straight, let alone voice them.
As she crossed Gramercy Park, she came to the frightening realization that she wasn’t sure which direction she needed to go to get home. Blurred by the haze of heat, none of the streets or buildings seemed familiar, though she was fairly sure it was the same route she’d traveled every day for years.
She lowered herself onto the nearest bench, desperately wanting to capture and corral her thoughts, a task that proved to be like trying to catch smoke with one’s hands. She could make out the figure of a policeman standing on the corner, but when she tried to wave him over, she couldn’t lift her arms.
In the middle of trying to find the humor in dying on a park bench in broad daylight, she felt the last of her strength ebb away. Her head slumped onto her chest, and whatever thoughts were left, fractured and floated away into a black void.
Minutes or days later—she had no way of telling—she was conscious of being shaken. “Miss Clara? Are you alright?” The voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.
A woman lifted her chin. Clara opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue was thick, and all that came out was a sound like that of a choking baby.
“Don’t you know me, Miss?” The woman searched her face for signs of recognition. “It’s Bernice, the housemaid from Miss Owens’s. Are you sick, ma’am?”
Bernice? Miss Owens? The names swirled in the fog that had taken over her mind, and then disappeared. Crying weakly, she attempted to wipe away the saliva running down her chin and could not. She sank once again into the murk then came back up to find the woman, Bernice, and a man looming over her, wearing expressions of grave concern. Bernice began chaffing her hands, while the man held a canteen to her lips, forcing her to swallow a heavily sugared liquid.
He pulled off her high collar, and she managed a sigh. There was nothing she loved more than a dress without a collar. His commanding voice forced her back to the surface.
“Clara, wake up! You must drink as much as you can!”
She swallowed a little at a time, the rest spilling onto her dress. The next thing she knew, he had her in his arms and was running. Through the blurred window of her vision, shocked faces flashed by. A door opened, and Miss Owens appeared.
Overjoyed at the sight of someone she recognized, she waved a finger and tried to form the words to say she didn’t think she’d be having dinner when, without realizing how, she was on someone’s sofa with Miss Owens bent over her removing her clothing.
Stripped down to only a thin cotton chemise, she felt herself being lowered into a tub filled with cool water and ice. The fog that was keeping her mind prisoner slowly lifted.
The man—she saw now it was Edward—removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs and got into the water with her. He gently rubbed her down, encouraging her to stay with them. A faint smile came to her lips, as she tried to imagine where else she might possibly go.
Miss Owens packed iced cloths under her arms and around her neck, and poured numbingly cold water over the top of her head until her scalp tingled. Alice materialized out of nowhere, alternately spooning salty broth and then sugared water into her mouth.
It wasn’t until they lifted her out of the tub that they noticed her chemise had turned diaphanous. A gentleman to his core, Edward averted his eyes even while carrying her to her room, where she lay inside her cotton towel cocoon until the doctor arrived.
It was an easy diagnosis: heatstroke, the same thing that killed dozens of horses in New York’s summer streets. The doctor assured them that had she not been found and treated so efficiently, she would have had the distinction of being the first woman to perish on a Gramercy Park bench.
44 Irving Place Prison
July 31, 1905
Dear Ones,
By now you will have received Mr. Booth’s letter describing last week’s fiasco. The doctor insists I stay in bed and only allows me to be up for one hour a day. I am to eat fruit and drink warm tea at least 6 times a day. I dare not ignore his advice (even though I am PERFECTLY WELL), for I am constantly under the e
ye of my self-appointed jailer, Warden Booth.
August 2nd is Beatrix Hawthorne’s wedding. She’s marrying a literary man 12 years her senior. I’m sick about not being able to attend, for I am curious as a cat to see what kind of man was clever enough for her.
On the subject of marriage, I forgot to tell you that I went to Mrs. Cornwell’s swanky Murray Hill home for Independence Day dinner. During dessert, she announced to all present that she is bound and determined to marry me off to a rich society man. I haven’t laughed so hard in months. I told her I didn’t have the time or the correct attitude, but she wouldn’t hear of it and said that I was wasting my time loafing around 44 Irving Place.
She went on to say that she’d heard rumors Mr. Tiffany was drinking heavily since the death of his wife, and since he respected me so much, wouldn’t it be just the thing for me to help him see the light and perhaps come up married in the process? She kept repeating: “Clara Wolcott Tiffany. It has such a lovely ring to it.”
I told her I couldn’t think of a worse fate. I can just imagine me chained to the worktable in his private studio, with the valet Simpkins standing over me with a whip and a serving tray of hot cocoa.
The dictatorial Warden Booth tells me my time is up, and I must abandon this strenuous occupation of writing, as it’s time for more fruit and tea. (He’s so bossy, he watches me until every drop and bite is consumed).
Much love, Clara
P.S. Dear Rev. and Mrs. Cutler and Fair Emily:
I’ve read over the previous page, and I am not so bad as I have been painted. But, despite these barbed aspersions, I’m doing well and happy in my task of watching over our reluctant prisoner patient. I hope you will come for another visit. Your comforting presence is always welcome here.
Now I must tend to our slightly bruised flower. I bid you adieu and Godspeed.
With love to all, Edward Abraham Booth
August 5, 1905
Dearest Clara,
When you saw the frightful record of 109-degree heat at Tiffany’s, why didn’t you flee as a bird to the mountains? Don’t you ever stay there again under such stress of weather, even if Tiffany’s and all it stands for melts to the ground! I thank God for Mr. Booth’s presence of mind and his quick actions. What a treasure of a man!
In a few days, we are having a telephone installed in the dining room. We’re going to insulate it so that we won’t hear the usual hums and buzzes. It will be quite a comfort and help, since we are not able to run about as we once did.
Here is Emily now, pen in hand. I relinquish the robin to her.
Much love, Mama
Clara:
You speak about the dimming of my bulb? How was it possible that you didn’t notice you were no longer perspiring? Nevertheless, we are once again in a furious rack against Tiffany’s N.Y. I don’t know with whom I am more angry, you or that arrogant miser you call your employer.
Remember, you are my only remaining sister. It would not do for you to leave me an only child. Who else would be left to rub my feet in my dotage?
Emily
September 21, 1905
Clara was mildly flattered to be included as an unofficial member of Tiffany’s board meetings, though, considering she was responsible for designing the majority of the merchandise sold, it seemed only natural.
Louis sat with his arms folded across his chest, all but his eyes impassive. She could read those eyes better than anyone, and in them she saw his quiet, stubborn fury simmering just under the surface.
“Our objective this morning,” Mr. Thomas began, “is to solve the ongoing problem we face every year with the holiday rush and not being able to handle it because of lack of help. At present, Tiffany’s employs the maximum number of female glass workers allowed under the union contract. We’re here to devise a way to increase the amount of output without increasing the female workforce.”
“I’ve been thinking about this a great deal as of late,” Mr. Schmidt said cautiously, avoiding looking in Louis’s direction. “What about sending Mrs. Driscoll to Boston to start another company for us? We would, of course, market the product, but she could manage the place.”
Mr. Platt gave a nod of approval. “A wonderful idea. In Boston, there would be no limit on the number of people she could hire. She certainly knows enough about the business to do a fine job.”
Clara considered the proposition. Going to Boston meant leaving New York and everything and everyone she knew. On the other hand, it also meant having complete control over her own work. With Henry close by, he could introduce her into a new group of friends, and New York was a relatively short train trip. “I could do it,” she said. “It isn’t as though Boston is on the other side of the world.”
“Absolutely not!” Louis thumped his cane for emphasis. “I’m well aware you’ve all been conspiring about this for weeks, and you can put the idea right out of your minds. I want Mrs. Driscoll here. End of discussion.”
Mr. Platt cleared his throat. “Think of it as expansion, Louis. We can make twice the money. It’s reasonable to assume there’s a market for our things everywhere. New York City isn’t the universe. My God, man, the Boston Brahmins would storm the showroom, money in hand.”
“No!” Louis’s jaw clenched. “I won’t stand for it. Mrs. Driscoll stays here!”
Silence fell as the men stared down at the table with feigned interest, as if they’d each found their destiny written in the grain of the wood.
“Why not, Mr. Tiffany?” Clara asked with a lift of her shoulders. “Why won’t you stand for it?”
They all looked at her, their expressions a mixture of shock and amusement.
“Because, Mrs. Driscoll, I want to be able to direct everything myself. God only knows what trouble you’ll get into up there without my oversight.”
“You mean the way I get into so much trouble here?”
Mr. Schmidt guffawed and instantly covered it with a cough.
Louis’s eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me, Mrs. Driscoll?”
She gave up. To question him was one thing, but to goad him into a disagreement was altogether beneath her. It would be too much like teasing a cranky child.
“I have a proposal,” she said. “I’m thinking that the best way to get around the union, at least as far as the mosaic work goes, is to start a union department inside my department and appoint Mr. Briggs as head man. Mr. Briggs could hire as many men as he needed to do the basic work, which would free up some of my girls to work on things that require more skill and artistic judgment.
“Of course this would need great tact and diplomacy so as not to get the men riled, but we can manage that. God forbid I should have to start sending gift baskets again.”
The men looked at each other, and then to Louis, who broke into a smile.
Laurelton Hall
November 17, 1905
Eighteen months is long enough to play this tiresome mourning role! I’ve ordered Simpkins to burn my widower’s clothes. I am not hardhearted—I do miss Louise; she was my anchor even if I sometimes found the rock too weighty to bear happily.
I seem to have failed as a father as well as a husband. My daughters generally look upon me with a wary, distasteful eye. Dorothy and Comfort avoid me entirely.
Clara is frequently on my mind. I am mulling over the idea of formally pursuing the lady, although there are many things to be considered. Right now her value to the company is worth more to me than my need of companionship. I can’t imagine she would have objections to such an arrangement. Certainly the difference of 13 years in our ages would be nothing to a woman who once married a man almost old enough to be her grandfather.
The battle over my land and riparian rights drags on. These people seem not to understand that I’m not like them. They must consider that my standing in the world is a universe apart from their own. I am one of an extravagant people who lead extravagant lives. L.C.T.
~ 24 ~
February 9, 1906
Dearest
Clara and Alice,
The pleasure of your company is requested at Laurelton Hall, on the weekend of February 10—12. My chauffeur will arrive at 44 Irving Place promptly at 6 p.m. Saturday, February 10th, to convey you to Cold Spring Harbor.
Dinner will be served promptly at 9 pm. Be on time!
L. C. Tiffany
February 10, 1906
Dear Mr. Tiffany,
Thank you for your generous invitation to Laurelton Hall. However, it is with regret that Miss Gouvy and I must decline, due to having made previous plans.
With sufficient notice. I am sure we will be able to visit your new home at some future date.
C. P. Driscoll and A.C. Gouvy
MISS GRIFFIN INSISTED on inflicting her new health regime on everyone. Designed to keep them alive far into their nineties, several of the practices seemed to Clara more barbaric than beneficial. Foregoing the water and yogurt enemas and other equally invasive measures, she and Alice decided a spirited walk through Madison Square Park was the least objectionable.
“Mr. Tiffany has been acting peculiar as of late,” Clara said, slowing in an effort to match Alice’s shorter stride.
“You mean more peculiar than usual?”
“I suppose. He’s needing to know what I’m doing every second of the day, constantly asking my opinions on everything from running the business right on down to what I think of his suits and hats.”
They came to a bench occupied by two lovers oblivious to everything except each other, and hurried on. “I have some news I think you should hear,” Alice began solemnly. “One of the women who works at the factory with me is Philip’s cousin. She told me that he and Miss Ryan have set a wedding date for early October. I thought you should know.”
Surprised the hurt was still so fierce, Clara said nothing until they reached the park entrance at East Twenty-third. “I suppose you guessed that Philip and I—”
Alice swung around with an air of exasperation. “For God’s sake, Clara, everyone knew. Did you think we were dense and blind? It was almost indecent the way you’d start looking feverish whenever he was around.”
