by Echo Heron
I have received more lovely letters from our dear Mr. Booth telling us all the exciting news of your Irving Place family. He also sent a kaleidoscope to amuse me. What a wonder of an invention. I sit for hours looking out at a new world of crazy quilt colors and cracked lines.
Our best news: Mr. Booth has offered to come with Dudley Carpenter and Mr. Yorke to build a new porch and put up an arbor where the old one fell last winter. He has already drawn up the plans and thinks they can be built in four days.
Maternal advice is sometimes good, but one must be prudent about offering such counsel, especially when that child has done a masterful work of making her own life adorned with success and happiness. I do not mean to be intrusive, but I want to say that I wish you thought as much of Mr. Booth as he does of you. He is such a fine, upstanding man, and I hope that some day you may see him as more than a friend. If it’s any recommendation, I believe Emily is half in love with him herself—imagine that!
Not to worry you darling, but I’ve had a little twist in my heart that passed as quickly as it came. The doctor tells me I must rest often, so I shall leave off for now and go sit outside with my kaleidoscope.
Have you figured out yet who sent the bouquet of orchids to your stateroom?
We have.
Love, Mama
June 28th
We have been busy. Like a noble and conquering army, your sturdy good men came and built our arbor and porch with precision and aplomb. At the end of day, drooped with weariness, they triumphed over my kitchen as well. Mr. Booth cooked our suppers while Mr. Yorke and Dudley washed and dried the dishes. After dinner, Mr. Booth kept us entertained with witty stories, while Dudley charmed us all by drawing our portraits. We’ve found Mr. Yorke to be a veritable cornucopia of knowledge.
Four days later, these three miracles of kindness vanished back to their own work as quietly and orderly as they had come. How blessed you are to have such a rich and loving second family.
Your last letter written on the train to Switzerland has been read so many times by so many relatives and neighbors that the paper is worn thin. Your descriptions of Vesuvius and your sail around Capri are being quoted throughout Tallmadge.
You have not mentioned if Tiffany is paying you anything while you are gone, or if this is all dead expense. I ask because Emily came back from Chicago, where she went to a gift shop to buy a $2.50 vase for her room. The shopkeeper asked if she wanted to see the Tiffany ware. Inside the case were all of your hard-worked designs—ink holders, tea screens, vases, jewelry—selling for a king’s ransom that certainly no regular mortal could ever afford.
Your two loving families are in a united front against Tiffany and his schemes. He is, in our collective opinion, a scoundrel, one without regard for anything or anyone other than himself and his money.
On the matter of scoundrels, the papers are full of the murder of Stanford White by the cuckolded husband of some misguided girl. If I recall, Mr. White was the man Mr. Booth threw down the stairs many years ago for his attempted misconduct with you. Now he has been thrown down for good.
Here in Tallmadge we have our own scandal: Ed Hewlett has put his sister, Sarah, in an asylum for the insane. Sarah is about as insane as I am, and there are plenty here who will attest to her sweet nature and normal mind. It made me weep to hear that they cut off all her beautiful hair and took away her clothes, and then practically starved the girl. They will not give her her mail, but open it themselves. I hope to goodness he reads my last letter to her, for his eyes will burn at what I think of him.
I’ve sold the Jersey cow, so instead of having 18 qts. of milk each day to care for, butterize and sell, we now have 2 qts., just enough for use in cooking and at table. The doctor advises I buy my butter along with my bread, since I am to leave off baking as well. Rev. Cutler is advised not to exert himself, so now we are both in command of our hours to take things easy.
I gave the chickens to Violet Price Talbot. Her little son and daughter are the most delightful children, and how clever is the Lord to have made them in the image of their father. What God did not give to Violet in intelligence and looks, He made up in maternal talent. When I tried to give her little Alfred one of my old waists to be worn as a shirt, he took it outside, flung himself down and rolled around in the dirt yelling all the while, “I won’t have it, Mrs. Cutler, I simply won’t have it!” We laughed until we wept.
Love, Mama
July 16
I pick up where I left off with good news. The Hewlett affair has been made public, and Mr. Hewlett and his wife are scourged without mercy. God forgive me, but I am glad.
Mrs. Fenn has taken in Sarah. Under that good woman’s care, she’ll be brought to health and, with God’s grace, will be restored to her rightful inheritance that her brother stole from her.
We’ve received your card about Marcus Aurealius’s horse and the Temples at Paestum. You must have been very ill indeed, not to ride the horses at Siena. Your new Paris hat and gown sound lovely. I can hardly wait to see them on the genuine article.
It is hot and I am very tired so must rest for now. I’ll write later when I am stronger.
Love, Mama
August 4, 1906
Sister:
I fear Mama is losing ground. She is fainting, and her breathing is poor. The doctor says there is no way of telling whether or not she will rally after this last bad attack of heart congestion. She tries to assure us, but she is failing.
You have been gone almost three months. It’s time for you to come home. Rev. Cutler cannot cope alone. Dudley Carpenter and Alice are coming to look after Mama for a week, while I arrange things at school. Mr. Booth has offered to help in any way he can.
One of our neighbors, whom I shall not name, referred to you once (and only once, you can be sure) as ‘improperly gallivanting over Italy like a wild horse in need of hobbling.’ Upon hearing this blasphemy, Mama, as sick as she was, bolted from her bed and paid the crone a visit to give her a rather harsh tongue lashing. I’m willing to bet the old bat won’t make that mistake again.
Mr. Yorke and I are corresponding about the door springs and the adjustments to the new arbor.
Emily
August 15, 1906
Liverpool, England
Dearest Mama,
I sail today on the SS Baltic and will be home before you know it. I long to hold you safely in my arms and look upon your beautiful face.
I love you. Clara
~ 26 ~
Noon at Tiffany’s
December 6, 1906
Dear Emily,
When I arrived, I found sweet Alice and Edward waiting for me at the station, flowers in hand. New York sounded awful, but looked so bright and clean. The subway and everything I saw made me feel seized and held by the old spell, but I shall soon get over it.
Miss Griffin’s things are still strewn about my room. She’s not had time to fix it up, as Mr. Tiffany has worked her hard in my absence. She had to hire a colored woman for $2 to help clean up and move me back in. In the meantime, I’m sleeping in Edward’s clean and orderly room, while he shares quarters with Mr. Yorke.
My first day back at Tiffany’s, as I stepped into the hall, there was Miss Northrop greeting me with great enthusiasm. Two of my best girls saw me and spread the news. I was nearly eaten up by the lambs, who rushed out in a body. On this pleasant tide of friendliness I was born into the workroom. Frank nearly had spasms and would have been holding my hand yet, had I not forcibly withdrawn it. Altogether, my heart was quite warmed by it all.
Dudley’s exhibition was lucrative. He sold several paintings, one of them the portrait of our beloved Alice in her mother’s wedding dress. He is presently doing a full-length portrait of me in my Paris hat and gown, but he’s such a perfectionist and so temperamental that I fear it won’t be done much before my eightieth birthday.
Oh Em, it’s just you and me now. Poor old scrawny robin, no longer a round, proud bird of letters. I open the envelope look
ing for Mama’s handwriting. Not finding it, I suddenly remember and feel the loss afresh. Sometimes I have dreams she is here, and I wake up expecting to see her sitting in my rocking chair, mending.
I burst into tears at the oddest times—at a kind word or when I see a mother being tender with her child. The vision of Mama in those days after she could no longer speak—she looked like a living saint. Her last moment stays in my mind, when it looked like she rallied, and she took our hands and smiled so that her face was luminous.
My regard for Mr. Tiffany has raised a notch, for he’s been very kind. I don’t think I’ve seen him like this before, except for a brief moment here and there. Perhaps he has mellowed with age.
Tonight Alice is taking me to Low’s for dinner, and tomorrow, to Henry Street Settlement for tea. There is to be an elaborate supper in Chinatown with Edward, after which I’m to read from Pride and Prejudice for the Irving Place family.
Now it’s back to the mines, dear sister. Be well and take care of yourself.
Love, Clara
P.S. My oculist gave me prisms for my work, a pair of smoked glasses for outside and theater, and a special set of magnifying glasses for your letters. Paper is cheaper than new eyes—buy more paper and write larger.
ALICE RIPPED INTO her Christmas present with all the excitement of a child. At the sight of the gold and garnet broach, she seemed stricken.
“It took me forever to figure out how to work your initials into the filigree,” Clara said. “And look here, I’ve added a bail so you can wear it as a pendant, too.”
Breaking into sobs, Alice pulled her into a fierce embrace.
“If you’re crying because you wanted diamonds or rubies instead, you’d better go ahead and blubber, Alice. The garnets were hard enough to obtain without going into debt.”
“It’s beautiful. I’ll wear it every day and think of you.”
Clara held her at arms length, studying her face. “How can you help but think of me every day? We have adjoining rooms, eat nearly every meal together, and we work for the same company. I would think you’d want to forget me a little.”
When there came no response, Clara picked up her gift box and took off the lid. “I think I’d better open my gift, before you tell me why you’re crying.”
Made entirely of ivory brocade and adorned with clusters of white silk roses, the hat was finer than anything she’d seen.
“It’s for your next wedding,” Alice said, wiping her eyes.
Clara hugged her. “You’ve outdone yourself on this one, my dear. If you ever leave Tiffany’s, you’ll have no trouble making money with your hats, although I suppose you would have to join the Evil Milliner’s Union.”
“I am leaving Tiffany’s,” Alice said quietly. “I’ve already given notice. My mother is ill and has asked that I come back to Cleveland. I’ve applied for a position teaching art at one of the girls’ schools there.”
Clara felt the legs kicked out from under her, as the last pillar of her world collapsed. Assaulted by a sense of loss and a fear of loneliness, she wept in earnest.
Alice hugged her. “I’m not the only constant in your life, you know; you have Emily, regardless of her disposition, and, you have Edward. I’ll take up your mother’s place in the round robin and play referee between you and Emily.”
There came a soft tap and rattle at the door. Simultaneously, they looked at the mantle clock, then back at each other. It was too late for callers.
“It’s probably Saint Nick making his first delivery of coal,” Alice said, rising from the couch. Holding her wrapper tight around her neck, she opened the door a crack and looked into the hall.
Muggs, looking perfectly sure of itself as only cats can, meowed his arrival and jumped into Clara’s lap. She gently stroked his silky head and was rewarded with an exuberant rumble of purring.
“You see?” Alice said. “There’s my replacement. As long as you pet the cat, he’ll listen to all your cares and worries and not care two bits about it.”
May 27, 1907
Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company
For the first few months of Alice’s absence, Clara wrote every day. The long missives in which she poured out her heart were written with such dramatic fervor, that Alice suggested she might try her hand at writing penny dreadfuls.
Clara dipped her pen and went back to her letter, determined to finish it within the remaining five minutes of her lunch break.
… I don’t want to belabor the point, dear Alice, but I’m not the only one who feels abandoned. Poor faithful Dudley hasn’t eaten for months, and Miss Owens complains bitterly that no one enjoys her pot roast and corn pudding the way you did. Mr. Tiffany has asked about you several times, wanting to know if you’re done with your foolish notions of teaching and ready to return to the Corona studio. Edward is inconsolable over having lost his partner in crime, although he and Emily are now in cahoots—mostly about me.
Mrs. Käsebier and I are attending a tea for Women in the Arts to raise—
Louis entered her studio and placed an order sheet on top of her letter. “The whole series of daffodil lamps are sold out. I’ll need at least three more of the daffodil and dogwood floor lamps, three daffodil and narcissus table lamps, and perhaps two of the plain daffodil table lamps. That should be adequate.”
He rested a hand on her chair so that his fingers grazed her shoulder.
Not daring to move, she kept her eyes on the order sheet. “What about the spreading cherry table lamps? They were popular last spring.”
“I prefer the daffodil lamps for now.” He moved to the window, fiddling absentmindedly with his pocket watch.
She quickly glanced into the workroom where her girls were seemingly busy at work. She knew better. Anyone who bothered to look closely enough would have seen that every eye was trained on her and their employer. They weren’t prying; it was more a matter of a flock protecting their shepherdess.
They’d noticed the increasing frequency with which Tiffany visited her office, and her growing discomfort at being left alone with him. Taking matters into their own hands, they devised a plan to insure she and their employer were never left to themselves for more than a few moments at a time. They made up urgent questions, and when they ran out of those, created minor disasters, from feigning fainting spells to actually breaking glass.
“I’d like you to come to Laurelton Hall the second weekend in June,” Tiffany said, once again standing behind her. She could feel his thighs pressing against the back of her chair. “I’ve invited Miss Griffin, Miss Northrop, and Dr. McIlhiney as well. I want you to see my home. More than that …” he bent close to her ear, speaking in an intimate whisper, “… I want to see you in it.”
Her eyes darted to the workshop. Miss Ring and young Miss Barnes were already on their feet.
She would not deny that the idea of seeing the Laurelton Hall palace excited her. Mr. Platt described it as ‘indescribably wondrous,’ and the papers reported it as a deserving candidate for the Eighth Wonder of the World, alongside the Taj Mahal. She reasoned (quickly, for Miss Barnes was on her way across the workroom with a rapid, determined step) that in the presence of such respectable company, she was sure to be safe.
“I would like that very much, Mr. Tiffany. Thank you. Shall I expect your chauffer or should I take the train?”
“Excuse me,” Miss Barnes stepped into the room, “I was wondering … I was wondering …” The girl shriveled under Mr. Tiffany’s gaze.
“Do you have a question Miss Barnes?” Clara prompted, hoping the girl would come up with something that sounded plausible.
“Um, well, I was wondering if you could tell me … tell me …”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Louis shouted. “What is it you want?”
Miss Barnes took another step toward Clara and fainted dead away.
June 8, 1907
Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island, N.Y.
The spectacular beauty and originality of Laurelton
Hall was utterly unlike anything she could have imagined. For once, money and artistic ability had been blended to create perfection. From the moment the chauffeured car entered the long, blue gravel drive, Clara had never stopped marveling. After winding past fields of daffodils and honeysuckle, under arches of wisteria and around ponds edged with Japanese iris and day lilies, they passed between the blue K’ang Hsi lions that guarded the entrance. With her first glimpse of the cream-colored palace with the turquoise copper roof, she was filled with awe.
The eighty-four room, eight level leviathan was an eclectic blend of Islamic, Mission-Moorish, and art nouveau architecture belonging to no one but Louis Tiffany. The grand tour was like being in some fantastical waking dream decorated with glassed-in gardens, courts and terraces where marble columns were topped by ceramic poppies, magnolias and peonies, accurate to the smallest detail. For her, the zenith of Tiffany’s true architectural genius was the way he’d designed the glass walls to bring sun, sky, storms and the harbor inside—making it all part of the structure.
Exhausted by bowling games and tennis matches, not to mention the lavish seven-course dinner, the guests retired to their rooms. As for herself, she was much too excited to sleep. She wanted to explore as much of the place as she could on her own, and when the multitudes of clocks struck two, she ventured out, praying she would find her way back before breakfast.
She was beginning to tire by the time she came upon an indoor courtyard under a blue glass dome. In the center, water spouted from a glass amphora fountain into a marble pool ringed with quartz crystals. Seating herself, she let the sound of the water lull her into a dreamy trance.
She became aware of him watching her long before he spoke.
“Do you like it, Clara?”
“I do,” she said, calmly. “It’s one of the most amazing places I’ve ever been.”
Louis sat next to her. She met his eyes, saw what was in them, and looked away. “It’s an experience I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”
