by Echo Heron
“Could you see yourself living here?”
“I’d have to carry a map,” she laughed.
His hand closed over hers. “It doesn’t have to be just a memory. You could have it as your own, if you lived here with me.”
She eased her hand out from under his. “Mr. Tiffany, you must not pursue this idea any further.”
He dropped to his knees before her. “From the moment I opened my office door and saw you those many years ago, you have never been far from my mind. I’m a passionate and lonely man, and you are too lovely and talented to be wasting your precious time with clerks and unknown artists. I can’t stand the idea of seeing you wither away like some old spinster. If we combined forces, you and I, we could dominate the market in art glass.”
“I believe we’ve already done that,” she said, fighting to maintain her composure.
“But we haven’t worked side by side as one mind, one talent. Come here and stay. You could work out your designs at your leisure. You can have your own apartments—a whole wing if you prefer. I’ll build any sort and size of studio you want. We could begin to know each other on a personal level. You would want for nothing and no one else.”
“The clerks and unknown artists you mentioned are not only my friends, they’re my family. Without them, I’d be lost. Even this stately palace couldn’t replace them.”
He took her by the shoulders. “I’ll show you a better world, here, with me.”
She eased out of his grip. “I can’t do that.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“It leaves you free to find a woman who’s suitable to your station in life.”
“But I don’t want some silly rich woman who simply wants to spend my money,” he pleaded. “You and I are artists of the same mind, the same heart.”
She shook her head, unable to get beyond the parts of him that were broken—the missing fragments of human compassion and understanding.
Mercifully, he did not push the matter again, and for a time they sat peacefully together listening to the water flow over the amphora and return to itself. The predawn light was just beginning at the edge of the garden when, as if by some invisible signal, they both rose at the same moment. He kissed her hand. “I won’t give up so easily.”
“You never do,” she said. “But someday you will have to.”
Mr. Tiffany handed each of them an envelope. “Ladies, inside those envelopes you will find an assignment that will commence in July and take two months to complete. You won’t be working in these studios, nor will you have Mr. Briggs or the Tiffany Girls to help you.”
She bit the inside of her lip. She couldn’t imagine having to work with Miss Northrop day in and day out. Two months of that, and she’d either go insane or commit murder.
“Just the two of us?” she asked, hoping her disappointment wouldn’t be detected.
“No, Dr. McIlhiney and I will be working closely with you every step of the way.”
“Is it a big project?” Miss Northrop asked eagerly. “A window or a mosaic for some international exposition?”
Already Clara’s eyes were aching.
“No again,” Louis smiled, “but before you look at your assignment, you should know that every expense, including your personal expenses, will be taken care of.” He opened the door.
“One last thing, ladies. Refusing the project is not an option, although, I doubt either of you will turn down this opportunity. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” As she passed into the hall, Louis gave her a wink before closing the door.
In the hallway, Clara held up her envelope. “Shall we see what fate has in store for us, Miss Northrop?”
“I’ve too much to do,” Miss Northrop answered curtly. “Mr. Tiffany has entrusted me with designing an exclusive piece for his personal study.”
Clara tried not to smile. She knew from Joseph that Miss Northrop’s ‘exclusive piece’ was a pipe rest.
Miss Northrop quickly stepped into the lift. “I’ll read it some other time, when I’m not so busy.” Closing the lift gate, she dropped out of sight, but not before Clara heard the sound of an envelope being ripped open.
She opened her envelope on the spot. Inside were several pieces of paper covered in Louis’s messy scrawl.
My Dearest Clara,
Please accept my invitation to accompany me on a sketching tour throughout Brittany and various other European sites.
Enclosed are your tickets and a bank check to cover any expenses you might incur in preparation for the trip. For your comfort and in the name of propriety, I have invited two proper chaperones.
My heart is yours, Louis
Noon at Tiffany’s
June 27, 1907
Dearest Emily,
You had best sit down, for you will find my news rather shocking. On July 18th I leave for Europe aboard the S.S. Amerika on the Hamburg Line. It’s a new boat, seven stories high, with elevators and restaurants and all the modern improvements—a regular floating hotel.
Miss Northrop, Dr. McIlhiney (Mr. Tiffany’s chemist), and I are Mr. Tiffany’s guests. We are going in style, with Mr. Tiffany’s own touring car. Best of all, I have my own, first-class stateroom on the “A” level, so I’ll have a window. Miss Northrop has the adjoining stateroom, but I shall make sure to keep the connecting door locked.
I declined the invitation at first, but at Alice’s and Mr. Booth’s urging, I changed my mind, and am now resolved to it and feel it will be rather wonderful. I’ll love going once in this way—no worries as to what things are costing, and with people who want to see the same things I do. I am to have two new dinner gowns, three new waists and a sturdy but refined suit for the auto trips. We’ll put up in the finest hotels and take the automobile from there to picturesque fishing villages for sketching whenever the mood strikes us. Mr. Tiffany says he’s too old to rough it in these places.
It might be wise to lower the rent on the farm to $150 per annum. Mama always spoke highly of Mr. West, and I’m sure she would want him and his family there for less rent, rather than having more money from an unscrupulous or dirty family.
I’m glad that Rev. Cutler has found a home with the Carter family. This is a worry off my mind.
It feels so strange, Emily, that the place where we were born and have always known as home will be occupied by strangers. I know I must accept this, but it makes me feel so old.
Mr. Tiffany is here (fourth time today), and so I must leave off.
Love always, Clara
August 18, 1907
Sister:
I received your letter dated August 7th. You are certainly costing Mr. Tiffany an awful lot, but I suppose it’s a kind of relief to him to have some way to spend all the money you make for him.
While you traipse about in your luxury car, I’m here at the old house, my fingers wearing to the bone while I scrub floors and set my hand to repairing what I can before Mr. West’s brood takes over.
Shall I continue to send my letters to the Misses Tiffany at Laurelton Hall? Are you sure they are all being forwarded unopened? I teach young women and know how irresponsible they can be—especially the pampered ones.
Emily
Rue du Salle, Quimper
August 20, 1907
Dearest Emily,
While Mr. Tiffany and Miss Northrop sketch, I shall rest my artistic mind and scratch a few lines.
Miss Northrop really isn’t such an old prune, although I find her somewhat tedious when it comes to punctuality and detail. It makes me wonder if it weren’t she who infected Mr. Tiffany with these same obsessions. It seems odd and a little sweet that I have known these people for all these years and am only now getting to know them as friends. Of course, they are very different from my Irving Place family, but they are just as charming and enjoyable at times.
Mr. Tiffany has been the perfect gentleman. If he drinks to excess, he does so after I’ve gone to my room, for I haven’t seen him take more than an after-dinner b
randy. He’s full of fascinating stories of his travels, which make me long to see the camels and the pyramids and try my hand at surviving a sandstorm.
He’s such a strange man at times. He asked to read one of our robins, so I gave him one that was nice. He seemed to enjoy it very much, although I can’t imagine what it was about remaking hats and gowns and the price of work aprons that he found so entertaining.
Dr. McIlhiney is a bit dry of spirit, but I’ve drawn him out several times with scientific questions about chemical reactions in the glass. I don’t know where he goes while the rest of us sketch, but he seems to enjoy himself a good deal.
I can hardly wait to tell you in person all the wonderful things I’ve seen. France is such a beautiful country, and the food must be tasted to be believed. I will be a full 10 pounds heavier by the end of this trip. Thank God Miss Northrop is handy with a needle and thread to let out my seams.
I must stop here, for Mr. Tiffany is ready to move on down the street for another angle of the Cathedral.
Au revoir, Clara
PS: Of course the Misses Tiffany are forwarding your letters to me safely and unopened. What a notion, Emily. I do believe those electric treatments have finally started your brain to percolating.
Paris
September 2, 1907
I have made up my mind. We are to spend the morning on a grand shopping spree, and after lunch retire to the Musée du Louvre. I’ve asked McIlhiney to distract Miss Northrop while I take Clara into the Tuileries.
I feel like a schoolboy. I have no need of spirits—I’m in a state of natural intoxication. L.C.T.
Le Jarden des Tuileries, Paris
Encircled by diamonds, the large emerald reminded her of the waters at Point Pleasant. Clara closed the velvet ring box and placed it back in his hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tiffany, I can’t accept this.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “But I want to marry you—now—here in Paris. It’s not as if we’re so young that we have to go by convention and have one of those infernally long engagements. We could have an extended honeymoon and travel around the world. We would have such a life together. Mr. and Mrs. Louis Tiffany—two artists to be reckoned with.”
It was tempting to imagine what becoming Mrs. Louis Tiffany would be like—never having to think of expense. Making over skirts and hats and worrying over holes in her shoes would be a thing of the past. She could live in luxury, with servants attending her every need, all with a mere tug of the bell rope. To have all that and still be able to work at her leisure, without the headaches of bookkeeping and an angry men’s department, seemed like the perfect life.
Visions of luxury were immediately replaced with the image of herself announcing to Emily and the Irving Place family that she was married to Louis Tiffany. She sobered at once. Just as clearly as she could see herself as a woman of leisure, she could visualize the betrayal and hurt in their eyes. Emily would disown her, or, at the very least, refuse to see her. Alice would pretend to be happy for her, but be secretly horrified. Her women would feel betrayed, and Edward—she shuddered—Edward would be devastated.
“I’m honored that you want me as your wife, but I won’t marry you. I don’t love you in the way a woman should love her husband. I’m guilty of having done that once in my life, and I won’t do it again.”
Sulky and resistant, he seemed to be searching for some last, magic words to persuade her, when she rested a hand on his arm. “Mr. Tiffany, I believe you aren’t so much in love with me as you are with the idea of finding relief from your loneliness.”
He pulled away, his jubilation faded. “You speak as though I’m only looking for a companion. The very nature of my position in business and society requires me to be a man on the town. I have more cronies and female acquaintances than I know what to do with. There must be a hundred women in New York City alone who would jump at the chance to marry me.
“What I want is to have you as my wife, damn it!” He slashed the air. “Why do you deny yourself that which would be the remedy to both our ills?”
“I’ve told you before—because I’m not the sort of woman you want, nor are you the man for me. We would end up miserable together, feeling more alone than we do now. Resentments would grow into hate and worse.”
She got to her feet. “Can’t we be friends? I promise that in time you will thank me for this.”
“No,” he said flatly, “I’ll neither be your friend, nor shall I ever thank you for wounding me in this way.”
“Please, Mr. Tiffany, you mustn’t make more of this than it is. We are friends. I hope we will always be such.”
With a suddenness that startled her, he flung the ring box at her feet. “You can think and do whatever the hell you please,” he growled and stalked away.
Noon at Tiffany’s
October 16, 1907
Dearest Emily and Alice,
Here I am again feeling like a cat in a strange garret. I don’t yet have any great enthusiasm for the work, but shall once I get started. Mr. Tiffany has been indisposed since we returned, so my orders now come from Mr. Thomas.
We all gathered at Point Pleasant a last time before the end of the season. Philip Allen was there, since his wife has not yet returned from her long visit to California. Not being one to hold a grudge for long, I was friendly toward him, which I think he appreciated. He is much changed from our old Philip—hollow-eyed, subdued and not at all what he used to be. He was attentive, but depressed despite all our efforts to get him out of himself.
Edward and Mr. Yorke took me to the Hippodrome—New York’s glorified circus. The stage is enormous and the scenic effects spectacular. Although I hate circuses on general principle, I saw the most fantastic ballet with little sea horses and immense crabs swimming in the dance.
Now I must swim back to work.
Much love, Clara
1908 ~ 1933
~ 27 ~
Noon at Tiffany’s
February 14, 1908
Dearest Alice,
I’m designing more jewelry for Mr. Tiffany, specifically necklaces. My salary doesn’t increase, but I assure you, with the rate and price at which my necklaces are selling, Mr. Tiffany’s income certainly does.
Enclosed you will find several quick sketches of the finished products. I am also sending along photographs of Edward and me on our bicycles, and another of us from last summer on the cabin porch. It would seem that somewhere along the way, I have fallen in love with this wonder of a man. The only thing that amazes me is how I managed not to recognize it years ago.
At the prospect of seeing you in July, Dudley has broken his resolve to never set foot in the ‘dangerous wilderness’ of Pt. Pleasant. He has sworn to brave the horrors of snakes, mosquitoes, ants and man-eating plants that reside outside of the city. I’m looking forward to watching him squirm at the sight of Edward scaling and gutting his dinner.
I’ve heard rumors that Mr. Tiffany’s daughter, Hilda, is dying of consumption in a sanatorium in Saranac Lake, with but a few months to live. He has scheduled a long trip up the Nile or some such place far away from here. Some might think him heartless to leave his daughter in her time of need, but I don’t think he’s strong enough to watch another of his children perish.
I pray some good-hearted woman will sweep him off his feet before I ask him again about having my mark on things, or at the very least, on the necklaces, where it will be so small as not to be seen without a magnifying glass. After twenty years of asking, my patience has finally worn through on this subject.
Daniel Bracey stands in my doorway looking exasperated, so I need to see what the matter is. I suspect it has something to do with not receiving the glass we ordered from Corona two months ago.
How I miss you. I hope July comes early this year.
Yours always, Clara
SHE WAS INURED to Louis’s furies now, although there were moments when she was sure he was going to forget himself and do her bodily harm. He’d not yet forgiven her for r
efusing him, and each day he made his resentment known either in his criticisms—which bordered on mad ranting—or in his general lack of civility. That his feelings went from professed love to anger did not surprise her; as her mother was fond of saying, fevered love is just a stone’s throw away from hate on a cold day.
He barely glanced at her when she entered his office. “What is it? I’m busy.”
Clara debated whether or not to sit down, and decided against it. “Mr. Tiffany, for the last time I’m appealing to you to have my name, or at least my mark, imprinted on some of my designs.”
He stared at her with a resentment that chilled her from the inside out.
“No, and I warn you, do not ask again.” He came around the desk, stopping inches from her. “I’ve already told you the only way you’ll get to have your mark on the pieces you design.”
“My mark? You mean your name. Tiffany will be on each of my designs, just as it is now. The Clara Wolcott part of it will be sure to disappear. I’ve given my reasons for not marrying you, and if you had any common sense, you’d give up that ridiculous notion once and for all.”
“In that case, Mrs. Driscoll, you may not have your name or your mark on anything that goes out of my company.”
She swung open the door, intending to leave without parting words, when he held her arm in a claw-like grip. Her eyes went to his fingers. “You’re hurting me.”
“Not nearly as much as your cruelty has wounded me.”
“I never had any desire to cause you misery. Think this through with common sense, Mr. Tiffany. We’re both stubborn, independent and strong-willed. What possible joy could ever come from a union between two people like that? It’s precisely because I do care for you, that I have refused you.”
His eyes narrowed “Is there someone else? Just tell me that much.”
She sighed; she may as well have been talking to a rock. “Mr. Tiffany, it shouldn’t matter whether there is or isn’t someone else. What does matter is that it will never be you.”
