by Echo Heron
“I did have a fever,” she said, softly. “In hindsight, you might say I was out of my mind.”
“I’m sorry,” Alice said, taking her hand. “That wasn’t fair of me. It must have hurt you terribly to see them together. I wish you could have been spared that indignity at least.”
“You know about that, too?” Clara snatched her hand away and rounded on her. “Is nothing private?”
“You aren’t the only who was hurt, you know,” Alice shot back. “Philip was overcome with grief and guilt over the whole affair. Mr. Yorke told us he was inconsolable for weeks. And what about us? You never once came to me about this. It was as if you had no trust in me. We’re a close-knit family, Clara. Precious few things are kept secret among us, especially when it so affects one of our dearest members.”
“And I don’t suppose any of you considered telling me he was engaged?” Clara said, bitterly. “What a low trick—all of you letting me go on making a fool of myself. How could you have been so deliberately cruel? Especially you, my closest friend!” She turned onto Park Avenue, walking rapidly in the direction of Gramercy Park.
“It wasn’t our place to tell you,” Alice yelled, running after her. She grabbed Clara’s arm and spun her around. “Even if we told you, would it have made any difference? We kept waiting and hoping that Philip would say something to you about it. Later, when we realized he was falling in love with you, we were sure he’d break his engagement, but he didn’t.”
Alice’s shoulders fell, her anger spent. “By the time we realized how involved you were, none of us had the courage or the heart to tell you, so we kept watch over you. Why do you think we hardly ever left the two of you alone?”
“So the night Edward found us at the cabin, he already knew?”
“Yes, of course. He was determined to save you from making your own misery. Had he missed the ferry that night, I think he would have risked swimming the river.”
Clara closed her eyes and sighed. “What a fool I’ve been. I’ll never forgive myself for this.”
Alice looked at her in genuine surprise. “Forgive yourself for what? No one is blaming you. Most of us secretly envy you.”
“Envy me?” She gave a harsh laugh. “I’ve made a fool of myself, my friends were put to great tests on my behalf, and I almost ruined myself in the bargain.”
“All true,” Alice agreed, “but you loved passionately and were loved in return. I would give anything to know that feeling once in my life, even if it did ruin me. Many women go to their graves never having known passion like that. I’m fairly certain that everyone who has ever felt it has made a fool of themselves at one time or another.”
She pinched Clara’s cheek. “Forgive yourself. Just promise me you don’t let this stop you from loving again.”
April 2, 1906
Clara stated her case in no uncertain terms. Beating around the bush with Louis Tiffany was never a good idea.
“I want to go to Europe in May and return in October. It will be slow here, and Mr. Briggs is perfectly capable of handling anything that might come up.”
Louis said nothing. It was hard for her to judge from his expression what he was thinking. He held his tented fingers over the lower half of his face, tapping his nose with the point of his index fingers.
“I’ll visit all the galleries, sketching everything I see,” she continued. “When I come back, I’ll be filled with ideas for new things. Actually, you could look at this trip as a sort of investment in future projects.” She raised her eyebrows. “What do you say?”
Louis lowered his fingers. “By all means go.”
She tilted her head, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“It will be a wonderful experience,” Louis continued. “I’ll give you a list of my favorite sketching places.”
Suspicion wound itself around her and squeezed. She knew him too well—his quick generosity would not be without a price. However, if she could make it to the hall without his saying anything more, she just might be home free. She took an experimental step back toward the door. “When I return, I promise to give you wonderful designs.” Another step. “Perhaps we might even branch into some new novelty.”
“I’m sure whatever inspiration you have will be exceptional—it always is.” Louis continued to tap his nose. “However,” he paused, “before I agree to let you go, you must find a replacement.”
“Replacement? Mr. Briggs is my replacement.”
“I’d rather you choose someone else. Mr. Briggs knows the work, but he doesn’t have the sensitive, feminine touch you do, nor does he have any idea how to keep the books.”
He took the pencil out from behind his ear and began scribbling on his desk pad. “Whomever you find will have to meet my approval. I can’t let you leave until you do.” He looked off into the middle distance. She could almost hear him plotting.
“If you do manage to find a suitable replacement,” he said at length, “I think I’ll send Miss Northrop along with you. The two of you can share a stateroom and split the expense.”
Her dream of having a nice little stateroom all to herself withered away. Agnes Northrop’s heart and soul belonged to Louis Tiffany. That meant that besides always having to be on her best behavior, she’d never be able to complain about him.
“Well then,” she said, “I’d better hurry and make my selections, so that Miss Northrop has plenty of time to pack.”
44 Irving Place
April 16, 1906
Dearest Mama, et al,
I received the robin tonight, and it was like an oasis in a weary land. I feel as though I’ve been dragged through a knothole at work. Mr. Platt came to tell me that, to date, greater than 125 of my lamp designs have been made. It’s an accomplishment I suppose, although at present I find little joy in it.
Details of the terrible San Francisco earthquake have reached us. Everyone is appalled at the devastation. Edward says it will take years to rebuild.
Emily, you will be relieved to know Mr. Briggs’s affairs are looking up. He moved his family into a house he bought outside the city. There’s an apple orchard on the land, and Mrs. Briggs has installed three dozen laying hens and planted a large garden. When the apples come in, she plans on selling them to the vendors.
My best news is that on May 12th, I will be aboard the S.S. Prinzess Irene of the North German Lloyd Line, heading for Europe. How I wish you could be there to see me off … or better yet, go with me. Edward is green with envy. He so much wants to visit his family and give me a personal tour of London, but cannot take the time from work.
Mr. Tiffany wants to send Miss Northrop along to ensure I don’t have too good a time. She’d be full of Mr. Tiffany this, Mr. Tiffany that, every moment of the day and night. I’m not going to worry about it, and I’m not going to let it interfere with my good time either. If she says one word about Tiffany or his studios, I shan’t hesitate to push her overboard.
Miss Griffin is giving up her room to one of the other Tiffany Girls and will take my room for the summer, so that I am relieved of that expense.
I’m having a silk evening dress made for aboard ship, and my ecru linen traveling suit is being completely made over with navy blue braid. I’ve put off shopping for a hat until I can get up the courage. The thought of those evil milliners measuring my head, clucking their tongues and making comments under their breath makes me want to bite somebody.
Now, all that I have left to do is to find my replacement. Mr. Tiffany has rejected my last four recommendations. Everyone at Irving Place is wracking their brains, and I must say, we’ve come up with some humorous solutions. Edward said the best idea is to put Frank in charge. In all honesty, I agree he would be the best choice, for he’s a fine artistic talent with a wonderful sense of color. He has a head for numbers and bookkeeping, and, when Mr. Tiffany or the girls began to harp and chatter, he would remain serene, not being able to hear a word of criticism or complaint.
The bell h
as rung, and I must go worry some more over my replacement. I love you and can hardly wait to see you this fall.
With all my love, Clara
May 5, 1906
Lenox Hill
The Tiffany Spring Ball, held at the Lenox Hill mansion, was the biggest event of the year for the Tiffany Company employees. Besides giving them a day off to prepare, it provided them with the golden opportunity of seeing firsthand how the other half lived.
In their spring finery, the Tiffany Girls reminded Clara of a flock of beautiful birds. Frank and the boys from the stockrooms looked dashing in their dark suits as they danced the girls around the floor, until all anyone could see were swirling white skirts and flashes of the men’s patent leather boots.
Stooped and somber as an ancient egret, Simpkins approached her and bowed. “Mr. Tiffany requests the pleasure of your company, Mrs. Driscoll. He wishes me to escort you to his room.”
“His room?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“You mean his boudoir?”
“Yes, Madam.”
She nodded. “Please tell Mr. Tiffany I’ll see him in the library.”
“Very good, Madam.”
“Is Dorothy here, Simpkins?”
“Yes, Madam. She arrived last night from St. Timothy’s. I have already informed her of your presence.”
Simpkins hadn’t gone five feet when he hesitated. “Madam?”
“Yes, Simpkins?”
“Mr. Tiffany is … well, Madam, you should know that Mr. Tiffany is …”
“Drunk?”
“No, not tonight. What I mean to say is that Mr. Tiffany is …”
She could see how difficult it was for him. “It’s all right, Simpkins. You may trust me with whatever it is. I’ll not give you away.”
The elderly valet nodded. “Thank you, Madam. What I mean to say is that Mr. Tiffany is not happy. I worry for him. He imbibes too much, too often. The children have done with him, and he’s …” Simpkins hesitated, looking down at his shoes. “He is in need of a wife.”
She pursed her lips. “I couldn’t agree more, Simpkins, however although I do provide solutions to many of his problems, that is one thing Mr. Tiffany will have to take care of on his own.”
For a moment Simpkins looked even more somber than usual, a feat she wouldn’t have thought possible.
“Yes, Madam. However, as Mr. Tiffany thinks so highly of you, I thought perhaps—”
“Go no further, Simpkins. I understand, but I’m afraid I must disappoint. I am no fair candidate for marriage, not even for our dear Mr. Tiffany. I’m quite settled on that point.”
Simpkins let out a mournful sigh, bowed, and then hobbled away.
She found Edith Griffin at the refreshments table and quickly drew her aside. “In ten minutes have one of the attendants show you to the library. Say that Mr. Tiffany and Mrs. Driscoll are expecting you.”
Miss Griffin grimaced. “But Mr. Tiffany hates to be interrupted when he meets with you. What should I say when I get there?”
“Don’t worry about that, only make sure you don’t leave the library without me, no matter what Mr. Tiffany says.”
The library door was ajar when she arrived. Louis was already there, writing at a corner table. Upon seeing her, he came across the room to kiss her hand. In his evening dress, he cut a handsome figure. Any woman who didn’t know him well might be swept off her feet. He was so nearly a gentleman, though not quite.
“The girls are hoping you’ll come down to the ball.” She disengaged her hand and hid it in the soft folds of her gown. “It doesn’t seem fair that we should be having all the fun without our host.”
“I’ll come down after a while, but only if you promise to honor me with a dance or two.”
“Of course.” She went to the table that held her prize-winning dragonfly lamp. “Simpkins said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” He edged casually toward her. “I’ve purchased tickets for the theater next Saturday, and I‘d like you to accompany me. Afterwards, I thought we might have dinner at Delmonico’s. Would you like that?”
She moved to an adjacent table. “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Tiffany, but have you forgotten that I’m sailing for Europe on Saturday?”
Louis stopped in his advance, his expressions revolving from hopeful expectation to disappointment and finally, annoyance. “I’ve not approved anyone to replace you. My express instructions were that you couldn’t leave until you found someone I deemed capable.”
She could barely suppress a smile. “But I have found a replacement. She’s inarguably the best choice, so I have no doubt you’ll approve. She’s worked for you for some years and … ah, here she is now. Come in Miss Griffin.”
Dazzled by the splendor of the library, Edith Griffin stood speechless in the doorway.
Clara took her by the elbow and guided her to Louis. “I was just telling Mr. Tiffany that you’ll be assuming my position while I’m away.” She gave Louis a look, trying not to sound too delighted with herself. “Miss Griffin was right under my nose the whole time—quite literally. Not only is she an integral part of the women’s department, she occupies the room directly across the hall from mine at Irving Place.”
Beaming, she placed an arm affectionately around Miss Griffin’s small shoulders. “Miss Griffin meets all your requirements. She’s a fine critic and her artwork is beyond reproach. She’s very orderly; and more importantly, the women respect her. Have I forgotten anything, Miss Griffin?”
“Yes,” Miss Griffin said, recovering herself. “I held a position as bookkeeper for two years before I came to work for you, Mr. Tiffany. I am quite able to handle all the accounting for the department as well.”
Tiffany stroked his beard, his expression one of a man who had been outwitted and did not like it.
“Oh, and as far as Miss Northrop’s accompanying me?” Clara said. “I’ve already checked with her, and unfortunately she’s not able to go right now, such short notice and all that.”
Louis danced with her only once, and, to her relief, did not attempt to engage her in conversation. Afterward, he made a short speech about how proud he was of everyone, and then disappeared, not to be seen again.
At one a.m., Clara tucked the last of her flock safely into cabs and was allowing Simpkins to help her on with her coat, when from the corner of her eye, she saw a flutter of green silk descending the grand staircase.
She held out her arms to embrace the lovely young woman with the smoldering looks of a gypsy. “The butterfly has emerged from it’s chrysalis, and what a beauty she is. How are you, dear, or shall I begin addressing you as Miss Tiffany?”
“I’ll always be Dorothy to you.” The girl’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she led Clara to a sitting room to the side of the entry hall, where a log burning in the grate gave off the pleasant scent of oak.
Clara warmed herself by the fire. “How do you like St. Timothy’s?”
“I don’t, but my aunt thinks it’s the best thing for me. The only thing I do like about it is that it takes me away from here—from him.”
“Is he really such a trial for you? Don’t you have any love for him?”
“I suppose because he’s my father, I must love him” she said plaintively, “but I don’t like him very much. After Mama died, we were terrified of what he would do. He didn’t disappoint us—he turned into a real tyrant. His tempers kept us terrified.
“Have you been to the Palace yet?”
“The Palace?”
“Laurelton Hall. My sisters and I call it the Palace. We’ve dubbed Father King Louie the Nineteenth, because we believe he’s partly mad. What else can one say about a man who changes his suits three times a day and quotes from Louie Pasteur’s papers on the germ theory like he’s quoting scripture? And if you ever wondered where all the clocks you designed went, you need search no further than the Palace. His obsession with punctuality forced him to install two, sometimes three clocks in all the rooms.”
Clara watched the young woman, noting every detail and change in her. Quick-witted and expressive, Dorothy possessed all the magnetism of her father, but without any trace of falsity.
“He isn’t like my friends’ fathers,” Dorothy continued. “I suppose because he’s wealthier than the rest, but the other girls’ fathers are so much more devoted to their families than he is. Frankly, Clara, I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay with him. As far as I can tell, you’re the only woman besides my mother who has ever stood up to him and his rages.” Her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “I’ll warn you—he’s looking for another wife.”
“So Simpkins has already informed me,” Clara said. “Don’t tell me you would want me to—?”
“No!” Dorothy shrank back in mock horror. “I wouldn’t think of it! For as much as I would love to have you as my stepmother, I wouldn’t wish that fate on my worst enemy, let alone a dear friend.”
Lenox Hill
May 6, 1906
I have half a mind to book passage on Clara’s liner. But perhaps it’s best to let her have her freedom for a time? There may be something to the saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Perhaps when she views the great cathedral windows, she’ll find herself thinking of me.
When she returns, I shall barrage the lady with invitations. I’ve been out of the game for some time, and the rules of courtship are a bit more complicated now. Thank God I no longer have an appetite for coquettish flesh. I don’t know how Stanford White keeps up with all his girls. He continues to carry on with the young Evelyn Thaw, née Nesbit. She is barely in her twenties, and he is a man of fifty-two!
I suppose we all have our flirtations with danger—Mr. White with his numerous girls, me with the bottle. I wonder what tempts Clara? Certainly recognition, but I wonder—greatness? L.C.T.
~ 25 ~
June 21, 1906
Dearest Clara,
It doesn’t seem possible that my little girl, who used to play tricks on the other children by dressing the cats and dogs in their bonnets and socks, is now sitting in the Forum and Coliseum and being blessed by the Pope—but there you are.
