Noon at Tiffany's (17 page)

“When dealing with wealthy clients in a city where real estate is the supreme business trade, Sunday is the same as any other day of the week,” Mr. Driscoll said. “The sad truth be told, there are entire weeks when I am away so often, I don’t see my wife and sister-in-law at all.”

Alarmed, Mrs. Price swiveled around to Clara. “Gracious, however do you and Josie manage here alone?”

“In light of the number of visitors we receive each day, we can scarcely claim to be alone,” Clara replied.

“I can vouch for that,” Alice laughed. “We all visit so often, the housemaids think we live here.”

Josie poured another round of tea. “We have much to keep us busy, what with theater events, galleries to visit and lectures to attend, and there’s always our studio, which we share with our friends.”

“A wonderful studio it is, too,” Mr. McBride added. “It’s been the site for many an interesting and informative conversation, particularly when our literary friends join us. Take, for example, Mrs. Dennison here. She’s traveled extensively throughout Africa and has authored a fascinating book about the various tribes.”

Mrs. Price made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s all very interesting, but while this sort of frivolity might be all well and good for unmarried women, Clara has a husband to consider.” She looked imploringly to Mr. Driscoll. “For goodness sake, sir, whatever must you think of your wife’s …” she searched for an acceptable word that wasn’t open to misunderstanding, “outside activities?”

Mr. Driscoll lowered his head to hide his smile. “Well, I think of them in the same manner any sensible man would, Mrs. Price—with great interest. My wife and sister-in-law derive as much pleasure from their artwork and outside activities as I do from my business. It’s important that they expand their thinking in any way they find enjoyable.”

Edwin Waldo cleared his throat. “Consider, Madam, that the knowledge and experience these women gain through their explorations of the world beyond their doorstep, they share with the rest of us. Thus, we are all enriched. It seems a much more enlightened way to live than being confined in one place everyday with little or no exposure to anything more than a variety of embroidery stitches. Don’t you agree?” His radiant smile was so astonishingly attractive and genial that for a moment they all stared, spellbound by his dramatic transformation.

Mrs. Price frowned. “But surely,” she said, her voice growing tight with annoyance, “once you begin your family, you won’t have time for—”

Alice rapidly picked up a plate of cakes and held it so that it blocked eye contact between Mrs. Price and Clara. “You must ask Clara about their next trip to Europe.”

“Yes,” Clara said, joining in the effort to stay clear of subjects that would prove incendiary, “Mr. Driscoll, Josie and I hope to visit the House of Worth in Paris, where Jo is to submit her designs for critique. After that, we’ll proceed to London to attend the conference on women’s rights.”

“Women’s rights?” Mrs. Price picked at her black fichu, as if the silk were strangling her. Glancing around at their grinning faces, she set her cup down, a sheep among wolves. “Violet and I really must be going,” she said, brushing crumbs from her bodice. “I don’t want to be late for dinner.”

As discretely as possible for a woman of her size, she began rocking, in order to gain purchase so that she might rise from the couch. With an exasperated sigh, Miss Price finally gave her mother’s rump a shove that catapulted her to her feet.

Mrs. Dennison, posing as Annie Oakley, held a toy rifle at the ready, her wide-brimmed hat pushed back on her head. As they sketched, Clara listened to the tides of conversation flow and ebb, and then began all over again with new thoughts. The openness of their talk made her feel she was part of a remarkable and loyal family.

Mr. McBride exchanged his inkpen for a watercolor brush. “I understand Mr. Tiffany has crossed over from the Moorish influence to the art nouveau style.”

“Art nouveau is more than a mere style, dear man,” George said. “It’s the art of the future. Lalique, Beardsley, Galle, even Toulouse-Lautrec are using it now.”

Mrs. Dennison lowered her rifle. “Art nouveau?”

“New art,” Josie said without looking up from her drawing. “It’s a modern style of incorporating nature into decoration and architectural design-curling vines, flowers and such. Clara has been using it for years in most of her designs, long before it became the trend.”

“By the way, I ran into Mr. Tiffany yesterday,” Clara said. “He’s searching for new designs for his showroom.”

They stopped what they were doing and stared, waiting for something more—something scandalous. “That was all he said?” Alice asked. “That he wants new designs? Nothing more personal?”

Clara returned their stares. “For goodness sakes, what did you expect; some tawdry tale of illicit romance? I was only an employee, not his lost love.”

“You were Mr. Tiffany’s best designer,” Josie reminded her in a spiky tone. She had never forgiven him for turning down the lamp designs. “I suspect he would give his eyeteeth to have you back.”

George wore the grin of a true gossipmonger. “I wouldn’t be too sure about not being his lost love either. From what Henry tells me, Tiffany frequently asks after you. He’s even working on trying to change the company policy that bans married women from working there.”

Though the news pleased her more than she was willing to let on, she scoffed at the idea. “Mr. Tiffany can talk about changing policies all he wants, but his father will never allow it. Now, Mrs. Dennison, if you would be so kind as to tell us another of your adventures?”

While the woman spun another yarn, Clara began sketching out a new design for a snapdragon tea screen made of glass.

The Briars

September 28, 1891

Havermeyer continues to criticize my plans for the renovation of his home. The clod knows nothing about architectural design. Were it not for the generous commission, I would have walked away from this project months ago.

Louise and the children will soon return to Lenox Hill for her confinement. If this one is a girl, we must relinquish all hope of having a son, as the doctor feels it would be too perilous for her to conceive another child. I have advised Lou that it’s her responsibility to make sure there are no further confinements. I weary of my wife’s long retreats from social entertainments. On the other hand, it leaves me free to attend the theater and other amusements as often as I like. Stanford White has proven to be a much more amusing companion.

I met the Francis Driscolls at the Women’s Infirmary Charity Ball. One might easily mistake the gentleman for Clara’s grandfather rather than her husband. He’s decent enough, but obviously suffering from poor health and a slowing of the mind.

I was glad to find she and I are still friendly. She spoke of her numerous ideas for high-scale decorative glass items, and I was like a man dying of thirst, unable to reach the river only inches from my mouth.

Annie, my effervescent sprite, sits at my feet, while the rest of my children occupy themselves nearby. It is a pretty sight. I leave off and go collect my paints and canvas to capture the moment. L.C.T.

Lenox Hill

October 11, 1891

A girl delivered this day. Father tried his best to appear happy for Lou’s sake, but I recognized that spasm of disapproval on the right side of his mouth. Lou and I make no such pretenses—we are sorely disappointed.

We’ve left the obligation of naming the child to May-May, who has chosen for her stepsister the silly name of Dorothy Trimble: Trimble for our dear friend, Mrs. Trimble, and Dorothy after some heroine in one of those vulgar romance novels she is so fond of reading.

I suspect father sees my inability to produce large numbers of male heirs to the throne as another of my many failures. There is nothing to be done about it now.

The commotion drives me to The Garden Theater to see the lovely Miss Lillian Russell in rehearsal. Perhaps she will agree to share a late dinner with me. L.C.T.

February 18, 1892

Hotel San Remo

C
LARA STUDIED THE
bust of Mr. Driscoll with a critical eye. “I never appreciated what a handsome man Mr. Driscoll is until I started this sculpture.”

“It’s his patient nature that makes him attractive,” Alice said, closing her book. “What other man would allow a constant invasion of his home by a crowd of possessed artists? The poor man is forever being called upon to pose in foolish costumes, and the patience he shows George is positively saintly.”

Clara let her thumb and fingers find their natural place on the sculpting tool. Setting the wire against the soft clay, she removed a thin strip. She leaned back, amazed as always at how the smallest alteration transformed the whole. “I remember when Josie was still having her Five Points nightmares, Mr. Driscoll was the only one who could calm her. He’d lull her to sleep with stories he made up as he went.”

Putting away her tools, she sank down onto the couch next to Alice and waited for the muscles in her neck and shoulders to relax. “He was so tender with her, I almost wished I could love him in the way other wives love their husbands.”

“Do you think he ever regrets not having a conventional marriage?”

“I’ve wondered, although he seems perfectly content to remain as we are.” She wound a lock of hair around her finger. “He’s not well, Alice.
Between him and Josie competing to see who can be the most short of breath and still be alive, I sometimes feel as though I live in a hospital.”

She rose and went to the window. The moon was over Central Park, coating every tree with silver. She opened her locket watch and felt a brief stab of concern—it was nearly an hour past the time Mr. Driscoll promised to be home.

“He insists he’s healthy as an ox, but I think his mind is failing. Twice this week, he took the wrong train and left his case with all his important papers in a cab. Then yesterday, he overlooked his appointment with the dentist.”

“Failing to remember an appointment with the dentist isn’t a matter of forgetfulness,” Alice said wryly, “it’s a matter of survival. Why don’t you simply tell him your concerns?”

“It does no good. He changes the subject or speaks in vague terms and then abandons the topic altogether. For the last year, he’s been promising to purchase a building where Josie and I might start up a gallery shop, but then he forgets all about it until I bring it up again. I hate pressing him on the matter, but I need to work, and I want to earn my own money. Occupying my time by going to the theater and galleries is amusing for only so long. I need to do something useful. Every sketch and sculpture I’ve created sits in this room unseen.

“I’m restless. This summer I was so desperate I almost …” She glanced over at Alice, considering how much to disclose. Alice wasn’t likely to judge her, but still, she needed to be prudent. “Do you remember last August when George and I were supposed to go on a sketching trip around the city, but he had one of his fits?”

“How could I forget? He cut his head on the corner of your hall table, and Dr. Hydecker had to sew him up. George was more upset that he’d kept you from going than he was about his wound.”

“But I did go—with Edwin Waldo. After everyone left, the two of us went out alone.” She searched Alice’s face for signs of disapproval.

Alice looked blank. “I’m sorry, were you expecting me to be shocked? You were two artists in search of a subject in broad daylight. I see nothing improper in that.”

“He … he took me into Chinatown, so we could draw scenes from what he called ‘real life.’”

The slight twitch of concern between Alice’s eyes warned her against
saying more. Edwin had not only taken her to the Chinatown markets, where people sometimes went to purchase rugs or other oriental goods, he’d dared to lead her into the seamy heart of the place.

‘Real life’ was like walking into another world. There was a danger there that excited her. It was a feast for the senses, with its exotic sights and smells—not all of them pleasant. She’d seen men and women coupling in doorways and stepped over bodies lying in the street. She thrilled to the vivid array of colors—reds mixed with purples and gold, and pastels of every hue. In the first hour she’d used up an entire sketchpad and depleted every color in her paint box. It was the first time since her marriage that she’d felt truly alive.

“Surely, as soon as you knew where you were, you made him take you away from there?” It wasn’t a question, but rather an assumption.

“Of course,” Clara lied, “but I was tempted to stay.” She looked aimlessly around the room. “I hate being cooped up for months on end! I wish I could just go off on my own.”

“Perhaps we should have Mr. McBride write another play,” Alice suggested, “one in which you can play the villain. That should liven you up a little.”

“I don’t want to act in some silly play, Alice. I want to be doing something that has real meaning.” She checked her watch again. “I hope Mr. Driscoll hasn’t forgotten that he’s reading the final chapter of
Treasure Island
tonight. The residents have already moved chairs into the ballroom; it promises to be a full house.”