Noon at Tiffany's (2 page)

Josie came to stand next to her. Both women were considered attractive by current standards, though they were of a completely different cast of features. Clara’s hazel eyes, prominent cheekbones and sensuous mouth gave her a marked exotic appearance, contrasting sharply with Josie’s girlish, wholesome mien.

She glanced at the lobby clock and grabbed Josie’s hand. “We have to hurry!”

Three steps into the climb, she spied an unattended elevator cage and did an about face. “Let’s use the lift.”

Josie stopped short. “I won’t ride in that contraption. We’ll plummet to our deaths.”

“Don’t be silly. Elevators are a modern marvel. We’ll shoot up three stories in a matter of seconds and emerge looking as fresh as if we had stepped out of a bandbox.”

Josie blotted her face and neck with a hanky she pulled from her sleeve. “I’d rather rush and look like a beggar than risk my life in that mechanical deathtrap.”

Privately thankful she didn’t have to demonstrate her ignorance of how to actually operate the machine, Clara nonetheless gave an exasperated sigh before following her sister up the stairs.

Clara had just raised a hand to knock on the door displaying the name
Louis C. Tiffany
in gold script when a rush of raw panic overtook her. Closing her eyes, she did a quick review of her work. Surely, it was as good as any she’d seen in the galleries, and, despite his great wealth and notoriety, Louis Tiffany couldn’t help but recognize that. After all, he was
a fellow artist—though, in her private estimation, his paintings and stained glass lacked passion and confidence. It was her belief that his true talent lay in his innovative and flamboyant architectural designs.

As she lifted her hand again, a strikingly handsome gentleman in a beige pongee suit opened the door. He made no attempt to greet them, but rather stared at Clara as if he were seeing a ghost. The moment might have been awkward had she not also been rendered speechless by the physical reality of Louis Tiffany. The slim, elegantly groomed gentleman before her did not conform to the fat and jowly exterior she’d imagined. Unsure of what to say or do, she smiled.

He reanimated at once. “Forgive me. Please come in. I am Louis Tiffany.”

Clara breached the rules of genteel feminine conduct and extended her hand before he did. “I am Miss Clara Wolcott, and this is my sister, Miss Josephine Wolcott.”

“You’re directly on time,” he said shaking her hand. “A few seconds early in fact. I assume you had no trouble finding your way?”

“I’m quite familiar with this part of the city,” she replied, remedying the quiver in her voice by clearing her throat. “And I do try to be punctual, despite carriage drivers’ consistent attempts to run me over.”

He didn’t appear to be listening, nor had he given up her hand. Rather, he was again absorbed in studying her. Unable to restrain herself, Clara openly examined him in return. He was inarguably good-looking, a man who could easily turn women’s heads. His careless dark curls looked tossed about, as if he’d been caught in a windstorm—a contrast to the neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His broad forehead, wide mouth and straight nose were perfectly formed, but it was his eyes that commanded attention. Large and brilliant blue, they had a sharp, penetrating quality, like that of a bird of prey. They gave her the eerie feeling he could look inside her and know her thoughts.

A man standing half-hidden in the darkest corner coughed and stepped forward.

Tiffany dropped her hand at once. “May I introduce Mr. Henry Wyckoff Belknap, the artistic director here at Tiffany Glass,” he paused and then added, “… second to myself, of course.”

The diminutive, impeccably dressed gentleman stepped out of the shadows, greeting them with a bow and a kind smile. He was so slender
and youthful looking, he could easily have passed as a young boy.

“Please sit down, ladies.” Mr. Tiffany gestured toward the two chairs that faced his desk. He placed himself directly in front of them, adjusted his pince-nez and commenced reading a document she recognized as her resumé.

Blinded by the glare from the window behind him, she dug her heels into the rug and tried unsuccessfully to push back the heavy chair. Not to be deterred, she positioned herself in Tiffany’s shadow in order to judge his reactions.

“I see here that after high school you taught for a short time?”

Relieved that he hadn’t started with a more challenging line of inquiry, Clara nodded. “Yes, I took a position teaching in a private girls’ school, but didn’t care for the work. My aim in life has always been to be a designer.”

She pulled her portfolio onto her lap and began unfastening the straps. “As I mentioned in my letter, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing some of my—”

“After you gave up your teaching position, you enrolled in the Western Reserve School of Design for Women where you graduated first in your class with honors. Is this correct?”

“Yes. While I was in—”

He fixed her with a look. “When did you discover your path as an artist, and, how did you end up here in my office?”

She took his direct manner as an invitation to answer in kind. “It was my mother who recognized my talent early on and sent me to Cleveland. While there, I soon learned of the exalted role the arts play in New York City. After that, there was no question that New York was where I wanted to be.

“A few years later, my closest friend, Alice Gouvy, proposed we move here and attend the Art Students’ League together. To help cover expenses, I took a position modeling for Mr. Waldo’s illustration classes; he’s the gentleman who told me Tiffany’s was looking for women artists with experience in—”

“You also write that you are in excellent health, take daily exercise, and enjoy opera and the theater?”

Momentarily perplexed by the sudden turn of the interview’s focus, she recalled George Waldo’s warning that Tiffany had a reputation for being eccentric and that she shouldn’t worry if he had a sudden turn to the fanciful.

“I walk a great deal, and when I’m able to afford the theater, I like—”

“Ah, the theater, one of my favorite entertainments.” Tiffany regarded her with unconcealed amusement. “Whom do you consider to be the greatest actors on the stage today, Miss Wolcott?”

She thought for a moment. “Without doubt I would say Sarah Bernhardt and, of course, Mr. Booth. He is by far the greatest tragedian of our age, and Miss Bernhardt has a most eloquent manner of speech. I believe she—”

“But Mr. Booth is the brother of John Wilkes Booth, the man who assassinated President Lincoln, is he not?”

“Yes,” she replied hesitantly, “though the relation does not appear to have affected his acting abilities. Indeed, from what I’ve read, all three Booth brothers have proved themselves to be highly talented thespians, irrespective of any wayward political beliefs they may have held.”

“I see.” Tiffany pinched the corners of his mouth and resumed reading. A moment later, his eyes lit up with a modicum of excitement. “You held a managerial position with Ransom and Company in Cleveland designing Moorish-style fretwork and furniture?”

Happy to be returned to the safe ground of her resumé, she brightened. “Yes, I was head designer there for two years and managed fifteen workers who—”

“I have a great fondness for that style,” Tiffany cut in. “I employ the Moorish influence in many of my own architectural endeavors, in both interiors and exteriors.”

“While I agree Moorish design is intriguing,” she said, not at all convinced that giving her unsolicited opinion was in her best interest, especially since it didn’t entirely agree with his ideas, “and the Moorish influence is fine for broad use in architecture, as you have brilliantly demonstrated in your building on Lenox Hill, my own tastes and interests lean toward Oriental simplicity for interiors. It seems much more suited to decorative elegance and personal comfort. The Japanese style of minimal decoration and clean lines is, in my estimation, the most—”

In the corner, Mr. Belknap lapsed into a fit of coughing that scarcely disguised his laughter. She left off at once, afraid that Tiffany might have taken umbrage at her having voiced her thoughts so freely. Except, instead of a scowl, Tiffany was beaming. At a loss to understand why, she entertained the idea that he might be toying with her.

Tiffany returned his attention to her resumé. “After Ransom’s you came to New York and studied at the Metropolitan Museum Art School? Your emphasis was on—”

“Yes,” she replied, only dimly aware of having cut him off mid-sentence. “What I wanted to do was—”

He shot her a look. Eyebrows raised, Tiffany smiled so broadly, she could see his back teeth. Briefly, both Wolcott sisters unconsciously mimicked his expression.

“This is most satisfactory, Miss Wolcott!” He tapped the paper. “You say here that you studied architectural decoration?”

“Clara was the only woman in the entire architectural decoration division,” Josie broke in. “She graduated first in her class.”

“What my sister has neglected to say is that I had a great deal of help from the other students. I assure you, they were as qualified as I—”

Mr. Tiffany thrust his hand toward her. Momentarily confused, she thought perhaps a handshake was his way of terminating the interview. She was about to extend her hand when she realized he merely wished to see her portfolio.

He placed the leather case on his desk and opened it with a reverence she would not have expected of him. Mr. Belknap stepped closer, and for what seemed an extensive amount of time, the two men stood side by side, silently considering her work. It pleased her to see they didn’t rush through the watercolors and sketches, but rather spent whole minutes examining each image. Mr. Belknap picked out several watercolors, pouring over each one with the excitement a child might have experienced upon seeing a long-awaited gift.

Tiffany lowered the best of her hummingbird illustrations and regarded her with a respect that had not been there before, as if he’d seen her soul though her art. Remaining perfectly still, she held her breath.

“First rate work, Miss Wolcott,” he said quietly. “You have an excellent eye for color and detail. We are of a similar artistic leaning. Like you, I find my muse in nature. You’ve hit upon exactly the sort of thing I’m looking for in an artisan.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I have other examples of my work, including my designs from Ransom’s. If you’d like, I’ll bring the rest around tomorrow.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, handing back her case. “What you have here is more than acceptable. I need no further proof of your capabilities.”

He seemed to retreat into deeper thought, fixing on something she couldn’t even guess at. Within the space of a single breath, he’d put a distance between himself and everyone in the room. It crossed her mind that he might be trying to find the words to tell her that her capabilities, though ‘first rate,’ weren’t quite good enough for Tiffany’s, when he motioned to Mr. Belknap.

“After I’ve finished writing out instructions, I’d like you to escort the ladies downstairs and introduce them to Mr. Bracey.” He turned abruptly to Josie. “Where are you and your sister residing at present, Miss Wolcott?”

Stricken, Josie looked to Clara, who answered for her. “My sister and I are living at Miss Todd’s boardinghouse near Fort Greene Park in Brooklyn. Perhaps you know of the place?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Clara wanted to call them back. It was not likely Louis Tiffany would be on familiar terms with boardinghouses, let alone the people who inhabited them.

Tiffany pointedly ignored her, never taking his eyes off Josie. “You write in your application letter that you’ve registered for the fall session at the Art Students’ League, yet you also wish to have an apprenticeship at Tiffany’s?”

Josie answered so softly he was required to lean close. “I, well, we, meaning my mother and sisters, thought it best if I were to have some practical experience along with my studies.”

He regarded her for a long while before resuming in a gentler tone. “You’re seventeen, Miss Wolcott, a most tender age. I’m afraid having a position here, plus studying at the League will be a strain on your health.”

“I assure you it won’t,” she said. “As you say, I’m young, which provides me with the strength I’ll need for a demanding schedule.”

He gave her a last searching look and took his seat behind the massive desk. Absently he stroked his beard, then set to writing. For several minutes, the only sounds were the creak of his chair and the scratch of his pen.

A quarter of an hour later, the sisters stole a questioning glance at one another. Clara was about to clear her throat, when he put down his pen and folded the sheaf of papers.

“Daniel Bracey, our head man in the glass department, will show you around the workroom and answer any questions you might have.”

Clara rose from her chair, but Tiffany motioned for her to remain seated. “Your duties as artisan-designer in my stained-glass window and mosaic department are fairly straightforward. When the orders come in, I’ll meet with you to explain what the client wants. Mostly, you’ll be designing ecclesiastical windows, though of late we are acquiring quite a few private clients who want specially designed windows for their homes.