by Echo Heron
May 10, 1908
44 Irving Place
She was singing Sweet Adeline and clearing away the cobwebs that had accumulated in the corners over her bed, when a man’s voice joined hers in perfect harmony. Thinking it was Edward come back to search for some lost article, she didn’t bother turning around. “What did you forget this time?”
“Certainly not you, Clara. I could never forget you.”
Whirling around, she gave a cry of pleasure. “Philip! What are you doing here?” She came down from the ladder, removing her scarf, at the same time tucking escaped strands of hair back into the thick coil of her braid.
He met her with arms outstretched. “I’ve missed you more than you know.”
She smiled, truly glad to see him, but didn’t linger in his embrace. Should Edward find them alone in her room, it would undoubtedly bring up painful memories that were best forgotten.
“Come down to the parlor,” she said, already heading for the door. “We’ll have a cup of tea.”
In the full light of the parlor windows, his sickly pallor became apparent. She touched his forehead and drew back. “You’re burning with fever!”
He caught her hand and held it against his chest. Through his thin jacket, she could feel him shivering.
“It’s a guilty conscience,” he said, flopping down onto the sofa. “I had to see you. I started a letter, but it seemed a coward’s way out.” He stopped to get his breath and began again, his voice rising and falling with each burst of words. “I’ve come to make things right between us. I should have told you the truth long ago.”
She watched his eyes, sunken and ringed with shadow, and grew frightened. There was no one to help her get him to a doctor as everyone was either at church or out enjoying the warm day.
“Let me call the doctor,” she said, getting up from the sofa. “He’s only a few blocks away and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind …”
He reached for her hand. “Please, Clara, hear what I have to say. I can’t rest until you do.”
Not wanting to upset him further, she took her seat.
“I should have been honest with you. I should have told you about—”
“That’s all over now. You’re married and I’m happy for you.”
“You don’t understand. I’m talking about Tiffany and what he’s done.”
“Mr. Tiffany? I doubt there’s much you could tell me about him that I don’t already know.”
Philip raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you know this."
She stared at him, startled by his bitter tone.
“At the Paris Exposition,” he began, “Tiffany bribed the reporters and the owners of the papers they worked for.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he do such a thing?”
“To make sure the names of the artisans whose designs won were kept out of the papers. Tiffany insisted on being the only one who received recognition in the press.”
His voice dropped. “Do you remember the article in the Daily News that printed your name under the rendering of your dragonfly lamp?”
“Of course. I was thrilled. But obviously if Mr. Tiffany didn’t mind about that, why would he need to bribe—”
“Because that article was supposed to be about Tiffany, and only Tiffany. Henry Belknap arranged with one of the reporters to have your name appear. The reporter was fired the next day, and there isn’t a paper in the state of New York that will hire him. Tiffany made sure of that.”
“Mr. Tiffany wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“Yes, he would—and much lower.” Philip rested his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through his hair. “Did you know that he cheated John LaFarge out of his due for opalescent glass?”
“That was just hearsay,” she said. “Mr. Tiffany said that LaFarge started that rumor because he was jealous.”
“It was no rumor. After I learned about Tiffany buying off the press, I began going through legal records and public accounts. I found that by the time Tiffany met him, John LaFarge had already developed methods and formulas for making opalescent glass suitable for colored windows.
“Eight months after LaFarge was granted a patent, Charles, acting on Louis’s behalf, approached LaFarge, suggesting a partnership between him and Louis for the purpose of producing stained glass windows under LaFarge’s patent.
“Lafarge was destitute at the time, so thinking only of the monetary advantages a partnership with Tiffany’s would give him, he readily agreed. Charles seized the moment and asked LaFarge for permission to use his formulas for making and plating glass while the Tiffany attorneys drew up the partnership papers. Foolishly, LaFarge gave his consent.
Once Tiffany had the technical information and permission they needed from LaFarge, they never followed through with the partnership. Louis walked away scot-free with LaFarge’s work and never once acknowledged or compensated the man. Ten years later, he did nearly the same thing to Arthur Nash.”
Unnerved, Clara took her time about replying. “Surely these are exaggerated accounts. You know better than anyone how these stories can get twisted around.”
“It’s fact, not fiction, Clara. Tiffany may pay you well enough, but he’s robbed you and all his artisans in the same manner he has cheated these men. You and your designs are the Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company. Leave that place and watch how soon it crumbles to nothing.”
Not wanting to hear more, she came to her feet. “You’re ill, Philip. Edward and Mr. Yorke will be here any moment. They can settle you in one of the vacant rooms upstairs. I’m going to telephone for the doctor.”
“I don’t want a doctor,” he said. “I only came to clear my conscience. I should have told you this a long time ago.” He got wearily to his feet and managed his way to the same foyer where they’d first met. “I’ve been a weak coward. I hurt so many by not saying what I knew to be the truth.”
He took her by the shoulders. “I want you to know that I did love you. I still do.”
She stared after him until he disappeared from sight. She thought of what he’d told her, and wished he hadn’t. The gnawing fear that she had somehow wasted her life began in the pit of her stomach and showed no signs of going away.
Point Pleasant, N.J.
May 27, 1908
Dearest Robinites Emily and Alice,
That lovely blue hydrangea bush that was by the cabin’s back door—the one we dump our dishwater on—has been ripped out. They may as well have set fire to the place and let it go to the Devil, for that bush was without doubt the prettiest thing here.
I’m writing this out on the roof, where I can smell the ocean, yet be shaded from the sun. When I close my eyes, it’s as if time stops here, and I can’t tell one year to the next, for the sea is constant and the sky, though ever-changing, is the same in its beauty.
Philip Loring Allen died yesterday, the spark of his life snuffed out by that diabolic assassin, typhoid. All that talent and life gone in an instant. Yes, I know—life is fleeting, but still, I’ll never get used to this idea that someone so full of spirit and intelligence and humor can be here one moment, and gone the next. His obituary in the Times from the trustees of the Post made me weep. It does him no good now.
It’s all I can do to keep ahead and do my work. Short of standing on his head and spitting wooden nickels, poor Edward has done everything he can think of to take me out of my gloom. I think I would perish without him.
With all my love, Clara
June 30, 1908
Corona, N.Y.
Walking from the train, Clara nervously approached the Corona Glass factory resolved to go through with her plan.
For a time after she entered the metal shop, she watched the men do their magic with hammers and pinchers and blowpipes. The ordinary sights and sounds of their work lightened her mood. The metal foreman took her around to see all her metal designs in progress, and then handed her off to Mr. Logan, whom the men jokingly referred to as ‘Mrs. Driscoll’s Lampshade Man.’
“The Pineapple lamps have been selling well,” Mr. Logan said. “The Belted Dogwood isn’t far behind, but Mr. Tiffany wants to phase out the peony.” He leaned back in his chair, making it squeak. “I don’t agree with him on that, but once he gets on about something, there’s no talking him off of it.” He gave her a rueful look “As I’m sure you know.”
Without comment, Clara got up and closed the office door.
“You must have something on your mind,” Mr. Logan said, picking out a thick wedge of chocolate.
“I do, however it’s a task that carries with it a fair amount of risk.”
“Short of robbing a bank, I guess I don’t mind taking a few chances.”
“Good, because this will be a risk that could cost you your job. That being said, I promise that should it come down to it, I’ll do everything in my power, including lying, to make sure you’re held blameless.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “Tell me what you need done.”
“I want you to start printing my name on the invoices for those items that are my design. I want it kept before the public that Clara Wolcott Driscoll is the designer of those pieces and not Louis Tiffany. And when you order my lamps, instead of saying ‘we need another ten of number nine-four-zero-seven,’ I’d like you to say you want ten of those lamps that Mrs. Driscoll designed.”
“Had enough of His Lordship putting his name on your things, is that it?”
“I think, Mr. Logan, it’s more that I feel I have to get up a commercial reputation as well as an artistic one before I’m too old. This has been long in the coming, and if I don’t go after it now, it will be too late.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. “As of today, your name goes on the invoices. I don’t think we need to worry about his finding out, either. I know for a fact Tiffany never looks at them.”
She rose, feeling like the cat that ate the canary. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”
“Sure I do,” he said, “I just don’t know why you didn’t ask long before this.”
“I’ve been waiting,” she said, “But now I think I’ve waited long enough.”
July 15, 1908
Dear Clara,
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this new scheme of painting your flower designs on silk is a very marketable idea. If you combine that with your necklaces, you’ll be set for success.
For someone who thinks she is dull and boring, you certainly lead a most exciting existence. And to think that Edward manages to add to all that. I stand in awe of you both. As of late, I’m more convinced that we aren’t meant to be alone, but rather paired. It makes me question whether I was wrong all these years to turn Dudley away.
As to the invoices and the like, it seems so harmless a way to get your name known, and yet with Mr. Tiffany’s present mood, I pray he will see it in the same way—should he ever see it at all.
I’ve got to go. I’m making two hats, one for Mother to wear in church, and one for sister Aline to wear to her Women’s Freedom League meetings. I’m using real maple leaves on both. They will be quite stunning—at least until the foliage dries out or is attacked by an infestation of caterpillars.
Much love, Alice
Dreamland Ballroom, Coney Island
For the last in the 1908 summer series of ‘Taking Clara to Places She Has Never Visited,’ Edward chose the Dreamland Ballroom. Built on the end of Dreamland’s Steel Pier, the two-storey, 25,000 square foot structure was, by all accounts, the largest ballroom in the world, a fact Clara found thrilling.
Bathed in the soft light that filled the mammoth room, they made a stunning sight. Clara, in her best silk dress and Alice’s magnificent hat, and Edward in his spotless linen suit, waltzed effortlessly around the ballroom floor. The elegant lift of their heads and their continuous, fluid turns, drew applause from the other dancers and bystanders.
As of late, she’d started to notice how other women looked at Edward when they thought no one was watching. Looking at him now, she didn’t think she’d ever seen a face more alive. The intelligent gray eyes that appeared violet in certain light, and the sculpted nose and mouth all went toward giving him an overall refined countenance. Added to all of that, he owned a certain poise that other men did not.
He waltzed her to the side of the orchestra pit and off the dance floor. “Shall we walk along the pier? We have a waning moon, but still, the sight should be spectacular.”
“Do you recall the first time we ever spoke?” he asked, looking out over the water.
“I do; it was the night you loaned me your collections. You suggested I use the dragonfly instead of a moth as the motif for my lamp. You were so gracious, and such a gentleman.”
“And I thought you were … are … in possession of a most beautiful and fearless soul.”
“I would have thought you divested yourself of that notion some time ago,” she said laughing.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, listening to the faint strains of the orchestra drifting down from the ballroom.
“Have you noticed how people have been pairing us in their speech lately?” he said, putting his arm around her waist. “As in, ‘Edward and Clara, why don’t you sit over here’, or, ‘Edward and Clara like their coffee with milk’, or—”
“Or, Edward and Clara won’t like that hideous rug in the parlor,” she added.
“Or, Clara and Edward just set the parlor rug on fire with their shenanigans.”
“Or, Clara and Edward have run off and joined the circus—no surprise there.”
“Or Edward and Clara are going to be married.”
“Or, Clara and Edward will—” A startled smile came to her lips. “What did you say?”
“Well, we are, aren’t we? We’re happiest when together. Of course, if happiness isn’t enough, then I suppose we might consider the practical benefits of such a match. We’ll be millionaires with all the money we’ll save by halving our rent and combining our resources. Not to mention that we love each other and get on famously, as long as I do the budget, the housekeeping, the cooking and refrain from telling you how to do anything else.”
She bit her lower lip, trying not to laugh. “I can see you’ve thought this through. I suspect you’ve already picked out the venue for the wedding.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Then you already know that we’re to be wed on our bicycles in front of Grant’s Tomb.”
“In that case, Alice will have to make me a bicycle wedding ensemble and a hat to match with toy bicycles all over the brim and—”
He stopped her with a kiss. “Just say yes.”
She drew him to her again, kissing him tenderly at first, and then with the force of her desire. He eagerly reciprocated, until they remembered where they were and broke apart.
She met his expectant gaze. “Will you wait a year?”
He hung his head and let out a long sigh. After a moment he spread his hands. “I’ve waited this long, I suppose waiting another year won’t kill me, as long as there isn’t another Mr. Allen in the works.”
“It’s nothing like that. It’s just that I need to make one more effort at Tiffany’s. I know something is going to happen with these new designs. I can feel it.”
She saw the gladness go out of him, but when he bent to kiss her again, the smile returned to his face. “All right, have your year to become famous or infamous, whichever comes first.”
December 23, 1908
Clara wanted to give the Tiffany Girls a wonderful Christmas party. It seemed the right thing to do, since Christmas came but once a year and youth but once a lifetime.
Going alphabetically, she carefully considered each person—what they did, their overall personality, and what they liked. She trudged through three-foot snowdrifts to Vantine’s and Woolworth’s shopping for trinkets she knew would mean the world to them. Every gift was ac
companied with a poem written specifically for and about the recipient. It took effort and time, but she was more than repaid by the pleasure it gave them.
Following the quick demolition of cake and ice cream, she stood before the Christmas tree and called Daniel Bracey and Joseph to the front of the workroom. “I’ve saved the best for last, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Bracey and Mr. Briggs have agreed to provide us with some lively dancing music on the tin whistle and concertina.”
The two men shouldered their way to the makeshift stage with their instruments as the rest of Clara’s crew pushed the worktables off to the side in order to give themselves plenty of room for dancing.
Louis drank off the last of the brandy and stumbled to the window. He was drunk, but not so much that he couldn’t still feel the misery that was his constant companion—no amount of brandy could banish that.
In his reflection, it appeared as though the snow were falling through him. With a grunt he threw open the sash, scooped a handful of snow off the ledge, and rubbed it into his face and neck, letting the icy slush run down inside his shirt.
From somewhere nearby the sound of music and laughter reached his ears.
He climbed onto the sill slowly, first one knee, and then the other, and inched out onto the ledge. He listened, trying to locate the source of the gaiety and leaned out until he could see the street below.
It would be easy to let go, he thought, and wondered if he would still be conscious when he hit the ground. Imagining his obituary as reported by the Times, he began to weep. His children wouldn’t mourn him, but would be glad of his money. His friends would shake their heads, gather together for dinner, make a toast and smoke a cigar in his honor.
Testing fate, he pushed out a fraction more, thrilling to the combined sensations of power and fear. He wondered if Clara would mourn him and dismissed the notion with a contemptuous bark of laughter that knocked him off balance. For one fierce, terrifying second, he was falling.
Arms flying, he made a desperate grab for the heavy curtain, just catching it as the upper half of him swung out over the street. His muscles strained to their limit in his effort to pull himself to safety, Louis only just managed to catch the ledge with his foot and pull himself over the sill.
