Noon at Tiffany's (16 page)

“Go ahead and shock me,” Alice said eagerly. “What do they charge for rent?”

“Somewhere around seven thousand dollars a year, plus another six dollars a week per person for meals. I don’t know how Mr. Driscoll affords it, and he doesn’t tell me. The one thing he’s adamant about is that we never discuss finances.

“He’s given us free rein to furnish the rooms as we see fit. If truth be told, I’m more excited about arranging the suite than I am about getting married.” Clara started to laugh and then checked herself. “Don’t think me ungrateful. I’m well aware that not many unmarried women over the age of twenty-five are likely to find a respectable wealthy gentleman, who will wed them, whisk them off on exotic travels, put them up in expensive hotel suites
and
provide for their family.”

“I don’t think of you as ungrateful in the least,” Alice said, all trace of amusement gone. “My view of the arrangement is that it isn’t an equal exchange, but rather a socially condoned robbery. Some great wrong has been done to our sex, so that we are continually forced into accepting these unsuitable situations.” She shook her head in disappointment. “And I was so sure Mr. Belknap would propose.”

“Henry and I might have made a better match of temperaments, but his mother would never have allowed it. Besides,” Clara gave Alice a meaningful glance, “you’ve been part of the art community long enough to know there are men who are happier in the company of other men.” She paused before adding, “He’s asked George to move in.”

“You mean
with
him?”

“Of course I mean
with
him.”

They linked arms and resumed walking toward the trolley.

“I want to hear all about your gown,” Alice said.

“You’re going to do more than hear about it. You’ve been chosen to make a hat for my wedding trip. And when you finish that, I’m locking you in with Kate and Emily until those absurd announcements are finished.”

Thanksgiving, November 28, 1889

Bathed in the flickering light of a multitude of candles, Clara stood alone in the vestibule, while her mother was in the choir loft conferring with the violinists.

She caught sight of a regal-looking bride reflected in the beveled windows and raised her bouquet of white chrysanthemums to make sure it was really her reflection. Through the filmy veil, her face appeared serene and flawless, like that of a porcelain doll.

The gown had been made especially for her at Mr. Driscoll’s insistence and expense. The cream silk brocade that made up the bodice and draped skirts flowed from a yoke of Brussels lace that extended shoulder to shoulder. From the circlet of orange blossoms that crowned her head, a fine tulle veil cascaded over her shoulders to the floor.

The heady fragrance of the orange blossoms mingled with the scent of burning candles to create an intoxicating perfume that made her dizzy. She peered through the crack between the nave doors. Kate, Emily and Josie, each in her best gown, stood on the steps of the altar. Opposite them, Mr. Hulse, the groom’s best man and business partner, was checking his pocket watch, while Mr. Driscoll looked on. In contrast to her sisters, who fairly sparkled in their wedding party euphoria, the two older men looked positively mournful.

She located Alice by the tall branches of holly berry shooting up from her hat. Next to Alice, George chattered away to Henry, who was turned in his seat staring expectantly at the nave doors. In the last row sat several of her girls.

She would have liked to be with them, at someone else’s wedding, gossiping about Mr. Tiffany’s latest Cane Criticism and Destruction. The thought made her smile, Mr. Tiffany’s cane and Mr. Mitchell’s thumb-screwing notwithstanding.

A gust of cold wind sliced through the church doors, wrapping the veil around her face like a shroud. An overwhelming panic seized her, as she frantically plucked at the suffocating veil. The future awaiting her at the end of the aisle was not hers. How could she have allowed it to go this far? Whirling around, she tore blindly at the church door handles, sure she would die if she didn’t get away.

“Clara?” Her mother’s quiet voice cut through her terror.

Before she could turn, Fannie gently pulled her back from the door and searched her daughter’s eyes through the veil. “What is it, my darling? You’re trembling.”

Clara let go of the bouquet and buried her face in the stiff silk of her mother’s dress. “I don’t know, Mama. I … I’m …”

Fannie cradled her until she stopped trembling. Clara pulled back and looked into her mother’s eyes. In them she found the love and strength that had been the ultimate saving graces of her life. The strangling hysteria loosened its grip and receded. “I’m sorry,” she shifted her attention to the floor. “I’ve lost one of my pearl buttons. I thought I’d look for it on the steps.”

Fannie lifted Clara’s arms and examined the line of tiny pearl buttons that ran the length of each tapering sleeve. “You are mistaken, dear. You see? Every pearl is in place. Your vision must have been clouded by your veil.”

She stared intently into her daughter’s eyes, speaking in a low voice. “Now listen to me. You are my firstborn, and I know the concerns of your heart as if they were mine. This is not the end of your life. You
will
rise to your dream, because it comes from a source that is greater than yourself. Your purpose has been clear since the day you were born. Right now, you might feel like a midnight traveler, not knowing which way to go, but have faith that some day you will be free to show the world who you are. Whatever fears haunt your dreams, remember that you are made of sturdier stuff—you have already proven it so.”

She knelt to pick up the bouquet that lay at their feet and placed it back in Clara’s hand. Straightening the bridal veil, Fannie kissed her just as the first exquisite notes of Vivaldi’s “Largo” sounded high and clear throughout the church. On cue, the doors to the nave opened.

Fannie linked her arm through Clara’s and, with great majesty, walked her to the altar.

Lenox Hill

November 28, 1889

Could there be a day more clouded? It is done—Clara married. Nothing to be thankful for
this
day. L.C.T.

Hotel San Remo

September 26, 1891

Dearest Mama,

The wedding photograph of you and of Reverend Cutler came this morning. How beautiful you look! It’s a comfort knowing you are both happy in this union.

Considering the ease with which I’ve taken to married life, my previous fears now seem foolish. Mr. Driscoll and I arrived home last week, and as we sailed into New York Harbor, I was reminded of how alive and beautiful this city is in its ever-changing glory. Like the loyal darlings they are, Alice and Dudley
were
there to welcome the SS Normannia and escort us back to the San Remo.

It’s a relief to pick up life where we left it, me to my little atelier and Mr. Driscoll to his business. Alice and I will meet Josie at the train tomorrow. You can be sure I’ll make her recite every detail of your wedding party, so I can at least imagine I was there.

Next Sunday, I’ll resume our weekly gatherings (my version of a salon). One of the San Remo’s young Irish housemaids has agreed to pose for the group. This child has a glorious mane of thick red hair that I would kill puppies to have. Honestly, she about knocks your eyes out with her beauty. As far as I can tell, she’s the only female who can pry Dudley’s eyes away from Alice.

Mama, I’m sending two sturdy binders, which you can use to
preserve all our round robins. Who knows, someday they may be of value to someone.

Love to all, C.

C
LARA WIPED HER
sculpting tools free of clay, while studying the people assembled in her studio. Alice and Dudley sketched the red-haired maid, as she peeled the dinner potatoes. George and his brother, Edwin, concentrated on Mr. Driscoll, who posed with a briar pipe as the ideal salty sea dog. Off to the side, Mr. McBride sketched the well-traveled and adventurous Mrs. Dennison, while she astounded them with her firsthand accounts of life and death on the Ogowe River in the French Congo.

Clara let her eyes wander back to Edwin Waldo. Tall and slender, with dark shadowed eyes that never quite met anyone’s gaze, he was George’s polar opposite in more ways than physical appearance. He rarely spoke, and, as near as any of them could tell, he never smiled. He did appear to be reasonably intelligent and his drawings were surprisingly good, but other than the fact he had moved from New Jersey to take a position at the University Settlement House on the Lower East Side, he’d offered little information about himself.

Still, he intrigued her, though she wasn’t at all sure why.

He caught her staring and quickly moved out of her line of view. Blushing, she returned her attention to the clay bust. They were still under Mrs. Dennison’s spell, when a maid appeared in the studio doorway holding a calling card.

“Mrs. and Miss Price are callin’ downstairs, Ma’am. Shall I say ya aren’t at home, or do ya want I should bring ’em up?”

Alice paused in her drawing. “Isn’t Mrs. Price the woman who owns the farmstead next to your mother’s?”

Clara nodded. “She wrote last week saying she and her daughter would be in New York visiting relatives.” She turned back to the maid. “Please tell them we aren’t at home. I’ll call on them tomorrow.”

“Oh, let them come up,” Mr. Driscoll urged. “If we don’t receive them now, Mrs. Price will waste no time telling everyone in Tallmadge about the deterioration in our manners. She’ll no doubt blame me, saying I’m a discourteous lout.”

“Go ahead, Clara,” Mr. McBride said, setting down his pencil. “Mrs.
Dennison can finish her tale after your callers have left. We were ready for refreshments anyway.”

Mrs. Dennison got to her feet and stretched. “Personally, I could use a good cup of tea. My throat is dry as a bone from talking your ears off.”

George jumped up, waving his hands. “Wait! I won’t be able to think of anything else until I know what happened to the natives of that last village after the Fang Tribe captured them.”

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Dennison, “The Fang ate them, of course.” She looked off dreamily. “I must say I did enjoy the Fang—they were so full of fire and go!”

Clara was arranging cups alongside the samovar, when the expansive girth of Mrs. Price entered the parlor. By the time the older woman’s requirements for a footstool and extra pillows were fulfilled, introductions made and refreshments served, mother and daughter were comfortably settled in on the sofa.

There followed the usual exchange of pleasantries about the weather, and then the long-winded report on Tallmadge births, deaths, marriages and disgraces. Throughout the discourse, Mrs. Price moved a steady steam of sandwiches and teacakes from plate to mouth.

Mr. McBride and George listened in quiet amusement, lips pursed, as if digesting each piece of gossip for future use in blackmail.

“Your rooms are so spacious.” Mrs. Price shifted the bulk of her upper body about in order to scrutinize the parlor. “A bit bare, but you’ve arranged everything so well, one would hardly notice the … lack of things.”

“Thank you,” Clara smiled, “I’ve abandoned the smothering clutter style and adopted the modern minimalist approach in order to promote relaxation to both mind and body.” She hesitated, and then added, “There’s so much less to dust that way.”

Failing to grasp what the others found so amusing, Mrs. Price craned her neck in order to see what lay beyond the archway that led to the rear of the fiat. “How many rooms do you have here?”

“Besides the parlor, there are three bedrooms, a modern bathroom and a kitchenette,” Josie replied. “Then, there’s Clara’s and my studio, and the sun porch at the back. Mr. Driscoll calls that his ‘phrontistery.’”

Miss Violet Price let out a startling, high-pitched whinny. “Did you hear that, Mother? A phrontistery!”

All eyes went to the thin, anemic woman outlandishly attired in a blue serge sailor suit, trimmed with a surfeit of red and white ribbons. A too-narrow face and prominent overbite marred any beauty she might have had, but in her eyes was a look of innocence that held a certain appeal.

“A phrontistery!” Miss Price screeched, her ringlets bouncing like carriage springs. “It sounds like a place where monks go to pray and grow ferns.”

George, a look of mischief in his eye, opened his mouth to remark, when Clara shot him a warning glance. Looking disappointed, he sank back into his chair.

“Clara’s mother declares you’re a living saint, Mr. Driscoll,” Mrs. Price said, ignoring her daughter’s outburst.

Mr. Driscoll gave a wry smile. “Mrs. Cutler is as kind as she is misguided about my sainthood. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid I must tarnish my halo and abandon this pleasant company within the hour. I’ve been called to my office by an important client who insists on discussing business matters today.”

A look of shock and disbelief crossed Mrs. Price’s face as she reached for another sandwich. “But surely no business is carried out on
Sunday
.”