by Echo Heron
“But I might not even be hired for the position,” she said, desperate to convince him.
“That isn’t the point! You’ve again placed me second in line for your attentions. I want you to love me as I love you. Each night I come here and watch you work yourself into exhaustion, all so that you can have the opportunity to work yourself to exhaustion forevermore. This is an inarguably magnificent piece, but I doubt you are even capable of designing anything less than perfection.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, dearest, but I can’t spend another year or another twenty years watching you kill yourself. I don’t want to share you with Victor Stillwell, who, like Louis Tiffany, will undoubtedly get the lion’s portion of you.
“Working yourself into rack and ruin isn’t what life’s about. We need to enjoy life while we’re here.”
“We do that now, don’t we?” she whispered. “Can’t we just go on as we always have?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to go on being boardinghouse cronies with the woman I love. We’ll be happier as husband and wife, with you in your own enterprises earning your own money and making a name for yourself.
“Forget about Tiffany and Stillwell—they’re your past. Let me be part of your future.” He bent his head and caught her eyes. “Please, Clara.”
She saw the love in his eyes, and shifted her gaze back to the nearly completed lamp. She was wretched, not wanting to make a choice, and not wanting to lose him. “I beg you not to give up on me, Edward. I’m so close to having what I’ve wanted all my life. Give me one more year and then I’ll—”
His withdrawal from their intimacy was like a curtain falling between them.
Shaking his head, he picked up his coat. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll change lodgings at the end of next week. I’ll room with Dudley until I find something else.”
“You can’t mean this.”
“I’m afraid I do, dearest. There comes a time when someone has to get off the carousel and get on with life. I’m going back to Irving Place. I’ll return at ten to escort you home.”
Stunned, Clara watched him go, wanting to run after him and beg him not to leave her. If she hurried she could catch him before he got to his bicycle. She took a step in the direction of the door, when a piece of iridescent blue caught her eye. She squinted and tilted her head. The piece was a fraction too low—it would have to be reset if perfect balance were to be achieved.
She looked after Edward once again, and then, without thinking, took up her grozing pliers and bent to her work.
August 17, 1909
Clara hurried down Fifth Avenue toward Stillwell’s in a confusion of excitement and misery. The sight of Edward’s belongs loaded onto a wagon made her want to weep.
His wooden trunk, his books, the oak desk he’d made with his own hands. All his things that she’d found comforting within the confines of his neat and orderly room, looked forlorn, like orphans ripped from their natural home.
She wanted to go to him and tell him she loved him and that she was the happiest when she was with him. She wanted to say she would marry him tomorrow.
But she didn’t.
Mr. Lifton had sent her a note saying her lamp base was finished and fitted to her shade, and that she was to meet with Mr. Stillwell at the end of the week. Too excited to wait, she’d decided to go in early to examine every inch of the piece for flaws.
She let herself into the metal shop and headed straight for Mr. Lifton’s office, cheerfully greeting each man she passed by name. Many of them returned the greeting, but averted their eyes. Immediately, she sensed an undercurrent of alarm.
The youngest of the metal workers, an excitable man the others called Jumping John, ran ahead of her into Mr. Lifton’s office and slammed the door shut behind him.
She quickened her step, entering the office at the same instant Mr. Lifton closed the closet door. Both men’s expressions were like that of schoolboys caught at stealing apples from the town grocer.
“Ah, Mrs. Driscoll,” said Mr. Lifton, “we didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“I know,” she said, removing her gloves. “I came early to check over the finished piece to make sure it’s perfect for the showing tomorrow.”
Mr. Lifton composed his features into an expression of suitable solemnity and shook his head. “It isn’t here. It’s … it’s …”
Ignoring him, she opened the closet and brought out the lamp that was wrapped in a velvet drape. She set it carefully on his desk. “Is this my lamp?”
The color came to his face. “Yes, but Mr. Stillwell has given strict orders that I’m not to release it to anyone—not even you, ma’am.”
She pushed down the urge to scream and sat calmly in the chair next to the shrouded lamp. “In that case, Mr. Lifton, I suggest you send this young man to fetch Mr. Stillwell, because I’m not leaving here without seeing my lamp.”
“Mr. Stillwell isn’t here,” Mr. Lifton said in a way that told her he wasn’t used to lying and didn’t like it much.
She leveled her gaze. “Either bring Mr. Stillwell to me at once, or I’ll cause such a ruckus, you’ll wish you had.”
A quick nod from Lifton sent Jumping John running.
Mr. Lifton rubbed the back of his neck with his handkerchief. “This is going to get me in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Driscoll.”
“Not as much trouble as I would have caused had you not sent for the man,” she assured him.
They waited, Mr. Lifton standing in front of the lamp, arms crossed over his chest, while she tried to stare through the sheet. When she tired of that pointless exercise, she walked to the window and pried it open. There wasn’t much air to be had, the way the neighboring buildings crowded up close. The narrow alley below didn’t seem to have any exit or entrance. At least, she thought, Tiffany’s had a view of the street.
Victor Stillwell barged in, his face scarlet. “What’s going on here?”
“Mrs. Driscoll came early so she could preview the lamp for mistakes,” Mr. Lifton said, perspiration beading his face. “I’ve explained to her that no one is to see the piece, but she insists on looking it over for flaws.”
Mr. Stillwell’s smile was so forced as to look like a grimace of pain. “You mustn’t worry about that, Mrs. Driscoll. I’ve not seen the lamp yet myself, but I’m sure it’s perfect in every way. When you come back tomorrow as planned, you will see the lamp as it’s being presented to the board.”
He took her by the elbow and led her to the door. “Why don’t you come up to my office? You’ll need to sign several agreements—nothing important, but it helps to get the formalities out of the way.”
Clara pulled her arm out of his grip. “I’m not going anywhere or signing anything until I’ve had a chance to go over my lamp. It’s not done any other way—at least not by me.”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to see it.” Mr. Stillwell lay hold of her arm again. This time his grip was not so gentle as he pulled her toward the door. “You mustn’t worry, Mrs. Driscoll, I’ll—”
She threw his hand off and spun around. “I will see it, Mr. Stillwell, and I’ll see it now!”
Before he could stop her, she marched back into Lifton’s office and unwound the sheet from the lamp. The instant it fell away, Victor Stillwell drew in a sharp breath, his hand going to his chest. Jumping John gave a low whistle. Even she couldn’t suppress a cry of delight.
Thin gold blades of prairie grass in various hues, intersected and entwined into a delicate lace that stretched up and disappeared under a cornflower of rich iridescent blue. Hundreds of glass petals, their lancet tips layered one over the other, ascended from the irregular rim toward a central top cluster of curving purple stamen each tipped by a deep yellow pollen bead
Carefully, she lifted the lamp, searching the underside. Both her name and mark had been buffed out and replaced with Victor Stillwell’s signature and his company’s mark.
Her eyes narrowed. “Where are my sign
ature and mark?”
“You need to be reasonable about this, Mrs. Driscoll. I thought it best to keep the name Stillwell on our things so as not to confuse the customers who depend on the Stillwell signature as an assurance of quality.”
“This lamp is not yours,” she said, hardly able to breathe around her fury. “If I’m not mistaken, besides being in blatant disregard of our agreement, your signature on my work constitutes fraud!”
Mr. Stillwell gave a nervous laugh. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Driscoll. I see no need for hysteria. The Stillwell name is synonymous with quality. If the customers see a name they don’t recognize, the piece won’t sell. Now, perhaps after, let’s say, another ten of this caliber design, we might begin engraving your mark on a select few …”
She stopped listening, suddenly aware that the lamp was growing heavier in her trembling hands. Without hesitation, she crossed the room, gazed one last time at the lamp and dropped it out the window.
The explosion of metal and glass was enough to drown out Victor Stillwell’s outraged scream.
She snatched her design sketches from Mr. Lifton’s desk and tucked them into her leather case.
“Have you gone mad?” Mr. Stillwell shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I am neither crazy, nor am I an imbecile, Mr. Stillwell,” she said, calmly pulling on her gloves. “The lamp was mine. I would rather see it smashed in an alley than to see someone else’s name on my work—someone who will gain all the profit and take the glory besides. I warned you the day we met that I’d had quite enough of that. I’m sorry you didn’t take heed.”
Halfway to the door she paused. “As I am in the habit of keeping track of materials and labor, I know to the penny what I owe Stillwell’s. I’ll send you a bank check.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake, Mr. Stillwell. Hopefully, you will learn from it. I bid you good-day gentlemen.”
Eyes bright with admiration, Jumping John opened the door with a flourish and bowed as she passed.
“Hello? Hello? Is that you, Miss Owens?” Clara pushed the earpiece against the flesh of her ear. “No, no—nothing’s wrong. Is Mr. Booth still there, or has he already gone on to Dudley’s?
“Oh? When did he say he would come back for his bicycle? Wonderful. Would you please give him a message? All right, I’ll wait.”
While she waited for Miss Owens to find her glasses and something to write with, Clara glanced around her workroom, looking for any of her personal belongings she may have missed. The Tiffany Girls were gathering outside her office, looking at her through the glass. She waved and smiled as the phone crackled to life.
“Yes, Miss Owens, I’m still here. Please tell Mr. Booth to meet me at the bench in Gramercy Park at five p.m. If I’m not already there, tell him to wait. Tell him … tell him the carousel is slowing down.”
They gathered around her, nervously glancing at the crates holding her personal effects.
“I’m one of the luckiest women in this city to have had the chance to work with you,” Clara began in a tremulous voice. “I’m so thankful to you. We’ve created thousands of beautiful things together, and that alone binds us for the rest of our lives.”
She swallowed and waited for the lump in her throat to ease. “I’m leaving Tiffany’s and I’m going to miss you more than I—” Her voice broke.
At once, Lillian and Marion Palmié took her hands. Miss Ring and Miss Griffin stepped up to embrace her, and then Joseph, Frank, and Miss Northrop. And so it went in gentle waves, until every one of them had had a chance to touch her and say good-bye.
Daniel Bracey was last to shake her hand. “God bless ya, Miss. Me an’ the Missus will be sayin’ a prayer for ya each mornin’.” He lowered his head. “What in the name of God are we gonna do without ya?”
“You will continue making exquisitely beautiful things,” she said finally. “It’s who you are.”
The metallic clatter of the lift doors put her in mind of being locked into a dungeon. The car lurched once, twice, and began its ascent. She slipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, already feeling her time at Tiffany’s was long ago.
It was pure vanity, of course, but she felt a twinge of regret to think that, outside of her family, the Tiffany Girls and a half dozen Europeans, no one would ever know it was she who designed the hundreds of pieces that made Louis Tiffany’s reputation.
The lift bumped to a stop. She brought her fist down on the lever and yanked the door open hard enough to make it bounce. Wiping away tears, she swore under her breath. “Damn you, Mr. Tiffany! Damn you straight to Hell.”
“What did you say?” Louis Tiffany looked up from his work.
“I said I’m leaving my position. Mr. Briggs and Miss Northrop are prepared to take over my duties. The Tiffany Girls know what is expected of them and are quite capable of carrying on. The Mexico curtain is on schedule, the new autumn lamps are in the works, and the bookkeeping is up to date. All in all, my leaving shouldn’t interfere with the production schedule one bit.”
Louis frowned, and then started to laugh. “Very amusing Clara, but I’m busy now, so what’s the real purpose of your visit?”
“I don’t mean to be amusing,” she said bluntly. “I’m leaving your employ. I’ve already packed my personal things and made the announcement to my department. I’ll come in next week to review things once more with Mr. Briggs and Miss Northrop, and to tender my formal resignation to Mr. Thomas.”
All signs of joviality faded from his expression. “Don’t be absurd. You can’t leave—you have the Mexico curtain to finish.”
“Mr. Briggs has taken charge of that.”
“You’re just tired,” he said, real concern creeping into his voice. A small muscle under the pale skin near his eye twitched. “Take some time away. Perhaps you should tour Europe again, or visit the Near East? Morocco and the Nile are exciting in autumn. I’ll pay for your tickets. You could invite your sister or Miss Gouvy to accompany you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tiffany, but I am leaving—today.”
“No!” Panicked, he came around the desk. “You can’t just up and leave without my permission. You haven’t discussed this with me.”
“I’m discussing it with you now. I’ve made up my mind to go out on my own.”
“You can’t do that! I won’t allow it.” A bead of sweat rolled off his forehead and disappeared in the thatch of his beard. “What about everything you’ve worked for?”
“Everything I’ve worked for,” she repeated in a flat voice, “has been stolen by you. Besides building your reputation and fortune, what, exactly, is the ‘everything’ I’ve worked for?”
“For God’s sake, why are you doing this?” he cried, coming toward her, his hands stretched toward her.
She swung around, and this time there was fierceness in her voice. “Because I want my life back. Just once I want to own what is mine.”
The sharp slap of his hand against the surface of the table had no effect on her. “After all I’ve done for you? No! You will not walk out on me!”
“After all you’ve done for me? I was under the impression that it was my designs that made your company successful. My lamps! My windows! My mosaics!
“Or perhaps you’re referring to the position of manager you so kindly bestowed upon me? I’ll admit I was flattered, that is until I realized that my being a manager meant taking on four times the amount of work that was required of your other managers.”
“You took the money easily enough,” he said, quieter now. “No other woman receives the salary you earn.”
“Thirty-five dollars a week! Forty-five cents an hour to ruin my eyes, forty-five cents an hour to produce thousands of original works of art, each of which you sell for an amount equal to half my yearly salary? Forty-five cents and years of my life so that your name could be etched into my work.”
Pulling open his office door, she pointed to the deep groove that now resembled an old scar. When she spoke again, her voice was
low and even, the fire gone. “Do you remember the day you did this with your cane? It was the day you told me that my designs were not mine. That’s the day I should have gone elsewhere. I should have known then that you would continue to rob me of what was rightfully mine.”
She stepped into the hall, the pure joy of freedom filling her until there was nothing else. Turning her back on him, she simply walked away.
“How dare you!” he thundered after her. “Come back here this instant. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Of course I do,” she called back. “I’ve finally come to my senses.”
Clara spotted him on the other side of Gramercy Park. Elegant in his linen suit and straw hat, Edward sat with one arm casually draped over the back of the bench, staring up into the trees. He was tracking the wind, searching among the branches for birds and butterflies, naming them to himself. When he greeted her he would point out some bird or insect she’d never seen or heard of before, and then wait patiently while she made sketches to use in her work.
She slowed, never taking her eyes from him. In that moment the park, the city, the world, belonged to just the two of them and the possibilities for their future seemed limitless.
Edward caught sight of her and raised his hand in greeting, an uncertain smile beginning at the corners of his mouth.
Striding toward him, Clara began to laugh.
~ 29 ~
June 21, 1930
Point Pleasant, N.J.
CLARA MANEUVERED THE Model A onto the bare dirt patch that was their lawn and cut the motor. Made drowsy from the heat, she rested her head against the seat and peered up at the sun filtering through the leaves of the surrounding trees. It gave the illusion of a canopy of green lace held against the vibrant blue of a midday sky—a perfect motif for her next series of silk scarves.
The heavy scent of lilac drew her attention to the back of the bungalow, where a harmony of flowers and trees covered every inch of ground. She’d planned out the whole garden during the dark months of nineteen twenty-two while she’d looked after Alice.
