Noon at Tiffany's (12 page)

Don’t worry anymore about the broken harness, Mama. Bring it to the blacksmith without delay, and tell him to send me his bill.

I must leave off here to make myself presentable. I try to follow Mr. Belknap’s example of good grooming, although I stop short of manicured nails. My hands are put to hard use in this workplace, so I doubt I shall ever have the luxury of having pretty hands.

How lovely that Rev. Cutler painted the parlor and all three bedrooms, and in just two days! Thank him for us and give him our best regards.

Love to all, Clara

P.S. Mama: I haven’t forgotten to have my photos taken—I’m just waiting to be better looking.

C
LARA SWAYED, GRIPPING
the edge of Louis Tiffany’s desk for support. She was having difficulty keeping her voice steady. “I don’t understand. People are certain to notice my lamps. I thought that was what you wanted.”

“Miss Wolcott,” Louis began, regret lacing his voice, “There is no question that these designs would draw attention, if displayed. Unfortunately, the board has determined that Tiffany’s cannot justify spending money on a new project at this time. That’s not to say we won’t reconsider these and similar designs in the future.”

He put his arm gently about her shoulders. “Please, sit down. You look unwell.” Lowering her into the chair, he did not let go right away. Even with the disappointment still settling inside her, she was acutely aware of his face being so near that she was able to make out the small white striations that lined the blue of his eyes. She gave him a questioning glance that sent him back to his desk.

“I’m sorry for your disappointment, but you mustn’t take this personally, Miss Wolcott—it’s business. As soon as the company is stable, we’ll review the lamp designs again, but for now I must ask that you return to your work in the window department.”

Without stopping to consider what she was doing, she got to her feet, glaring at him. “How could you allow this? Are you not the owner of this company? Surely you can order—”

“No, I cannot!” he shouted. “The board has made its decision, and I refuse to second-guess them on your account.”

She drew back as if jerked by a rope, a deep blush replacing her pallid complexion. “In that case, I must ask … no, I
insist
on an increase in my salary.”

From his astonished expression, she guessed no other female employee had ever spoken to him in such a manner. “I appreciate my employment here, but I’m barely able to afford room and board. Considering the quality of my work, I think I deserve a higher wage.”

“If I give in to your request, how long will it be before you insist on another increase?” Louis said between clenched teeth. “I can just imagine the idea spreading like influenza among the other girls. Within no time there would be a line of women outside my office door, demanding their due, as if Tiffany Glass were a charity instead of a business.”

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and slammed it down. “The
rest of the board would never grant such a request. It’s out of the question.”

The thought of the thousands of hours she’d worked to oblige his demands filled her with despair and anger. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Tiffany, but my responsibilities and contributions to this company far outweigh those of the men. Yet, for all my efforts, I receive less than half what they are paid. And, while I appreciate being appointed assistant manager, as near as I can tell, I am the
only
manager.”

Louis jumped to his feet, the veins in his neck standing out. “How dare you! I will not tolerate your attempts to erode my authority, Miss Wolcott.” He paused and swallowed. “You are a talented employee, and there may be some merit to your boldness, but you’ve far overstepped your boundaries. For as much as I’d like to help you, I don’t have the authority to raise your salary or your status. You’ll have to take up those matters with Mr. Mitchell.”

He flung open the door. “You have tried my patience to the limit. If you’ll excuse me, I have other business to which I must attend.”

She picked up her drawings and the lamp and turned to leave.

“I’ll retain the design sketches and the lamp, Miss Wolcott. Leave them.”

At a loss to understand, she looked from him to the things in her hands. They were her creations; they belonged to her as surely as a child belongs to his mother. “But … they’re mine. I made them. You can’t—”

Louis brought the heavy ebony cane against the door with such force as to split the wood. The piercing noise was like the retort of a pistol shot. He poised the cane for a second strike. “That lamp and every one of those drawings belong to me! You were paid to create them. Return them to my desk immediately!”

Mindful of his cane, she obeyed.

Louis forced a smile. “You shall see them in due time, when the company is ready for them. Now if you would be so kind.” He made a stiff sweeping gesture toward the hall.

Mustering as much dignity as she could, she strode out of his office. The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the hall windows.

She stood motionless, then crouched down to run her fingers over the spoiled wood. Disappointment and frustration gathered in her throat like stones. When the tears came, she rose and walked away without a backward glance.

With the exception of the violence Louis Tiffany had inflicted on his office door, Clara left out nothing when relating the details of their meeting to Josie.

By turns, Josie received the news with dismay, disgust, and finally, indignation. “What a wretched man! He’s no better than a thief.”

“It’s done and forgotten,” Clara sighed. “I’ll consider myself lucky if I still have a position by tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes,” Josie cried, a tinge of hysteria to her voice, “a position in which you slave long after everyone else has gone home, a job that uses up every last drop of your energy and time and pays so little you can’t even afford a new hat!” The pillow she threw across the room missed the wall and sailed out the open window.

Clara grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t! The doctor said—”

“I don’t care what the doctor said! If this means I have to go home to Tallmadge, I’ll die. I’m not like Kate. It’s all well and good for her to be cooped up on the farm with nothing to do but fret with Mama over what color the wallpaper print should be or how many jars of peaches to put up. If it’s Emily they want me to emulate, they should give up now. The way she always has her nose in some boring math book, she barely knows what day it is.

“I hate Tallmadge! I hate the way Mama hovers over me day and night, telling me what to wear, what to eat, when to sleep. My only worth is in fashion design. It’s essential I live in New York.”

Better than anyone, Clara understood how her sister felt. “All right, Jo. I’ll try to find a way to keep you here. Mr. Mitchell’s father is an editor at
Hearth and Home.
Perhaps Mr. Belknap could speak to him about looking at your portfolio. But, for now, we’ll continue on as we are for as long as we can. After that, we’ll just take it one catastrophe at a time.”

Lenox Hill

September 30, 1889

I keep thinking of one of the proverbs stenciled on the gable beams of this House—‘Good folks are scarce, take care of me’—and I am like a marble rolling between wrath and regret. I’ve written two notes of apology
to the lady and discarded both. I can’t seem to think straight around her.

Today, in the graceful line of her neck where the pulse is visible, I saw a mark of the palest tan. I wanted to touch that warm flesh more than I have ever wanted to touch any woman in my life.

I read these words and think I must be losing my mind. She is only a hired artisan. I must keep my attention on business and the money. L.C.T.

October 2, 1889

Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse

T
HE MORNING BROUGHT
with it perfect autumn weather, which added to Josie’s euphoria over putting her plan into motion. The moment Clara left for work, she was on her feet and tiptoeing the length of the halls, listening for anyone who might still be milling around. The usual sounds of the servants clearing away the breakfast things were a good indication most of the boarders had gone for the day.

She paused in front of Julia Alling’s room and set her ear against the door. While she liked the young woman in general, Miss Alling’s tendency toward long-winded gossip was off-putting. Should she suspect there was a covert scheme in the works, she would spoil everything by telling anyone who would listen all about it.

Settling in with a copy of the
Times,
Josie went through the advertisements. The majority of situations for women called for wet nurses, cooks, maids, washerwomen or factory workers. She considered an ad for governess, but the employer required that the applicant speak fluent French. She was about to give up, when her eye fell on an ad misplaced on the Public Notices page.

WANTED: Refined woman of good breeding. Must be well-spoken, possess tact, and have a good memory for detail. A neat and legible hand preferred.

Call at side entrance of Chatham House, #11 E 66th St. no later than 5 p.m. on October 2nd.

Josie’s mood lifted at once. It would be easy finding her way to the Broadway trolley, and the conductor could direct her to Chatham House from there. If she started at once, she’d be back before anyone knew she was gone. She pinned her hat into place and folded the three remaining dollars of her Tiffany earnings into her purse. It was more than she’d need, but in Manhattan, you never knew when there would be an extra expense.

She paused. There were dangers to venturing out alone; the papers were full of accounts of women who were murdered in unspeakable ways. She shook off the thought—surely in the light of day she wouldn’t have to worry about such things.

By the time she boarded the Broadway Trolley, the weather had turned uncomfortably warm. Seeking a cooling breeze, Josie stuck her head out the window and immediately her hat sailed over the tracks and out of sight.

She made unsuccessful efforts to extricate herself from the grasp of several gentlemen, who made it their business to restrain her from jumping out. The moment the trolley stopped, she left the car and ran in the direction of where she had last seen her hat.

At the corner of Leonard Street and Broadway, the reek of urine, mixed with the decaying flesh of a horse carcass left in the street to rot made her sick. She pressed her handkerchief over her nose and mouth and quickly moved on.

In front of her, a street hawker with pans and a pile of old clothes clattered over the uneven cobblestones, shouting out his wares in a shrill voice that stabbed her ears. She was about to ask him for directions, when she caught a glimpse of her hat in the soiled hands of a street urchin. Dodging people and costermonger carts, she caught the child by the shoulder. “Excuse me, but that’s my hat. Give it to me at once.”

The girl whirled about and regarded her with such fear that Josie took a step back. She raised a hand to reassure the girl that she meant no harm, but the child ran. Josie dashed after her, doing her best to catch up, despite the effort it took to breathe. They turned a corner and then another. The waif looked over her shoulder to gauge the distance between them, tripped over a discarded crate and went sprawling. Stunned by her fall, she sobbed where she lay.

Josie wrenched the hat out of her hand and hastily pinned it onto her head. “Why did you run away?” she asked, surveying the child more
closely. Under the clothes that were scarcely more than rags tied together, the girl was pitifully thin. Josie knelt and gently wiped away the girl’s tears. With a few months of proper food, baths and clean clothes, she could see that the child might prove to be quite pretty.

The youngster scrambled to her feet. “I ain’t got no hat. Yer a rich lady; you got plenty. You gunta call the coppers to throw me in the Tombs?”

“Of course not. What’s your name?”

“Pearl.”

“Have you eaten today?”

Pearl shook her head.

Josie took a toffee from her pocket and held it out. “Are you hungry?”

Nodding shyly, Pearl snatched the sweet and popped it into her mouth, still wrapped. Before Josie could protest, she’d chewed through the paper and swallowed it.

“We always hungry,” Pearl said matter-of-factly. “We don’t get nothin’ to eat ’cept what we steal off carts. Sometimes me and my brothers sneak uptown and find good eats in them fancy hotel garbages. Once we got us a hunk a ham and some old butter, but the rats got us so bad, Mam say we can’t go there no more.”

The image of children fighting rats for food made Josie shudder. “Don’t you have any food at home?”

“Sometimes Mam take me with her to the butcher for scrap soup bones when we got money, which ain’t hardly ever. That’s when we gotta beg or go to the garbages.”

Josie took a dollar from her pocket and placed it securely in the girl’s hand.

Pearl stared at the bill in disbelief before closing her fist around it. “What I got to do fer this?”