Noon at Tiffany's (30 page)

Pringle Mitchell stared at the bare globe, deliberating. “I like autumn leaves,” he said quietly. “I find the colors soothing, especially the reds, but the oranges and yellows are pretty, too. They remind me of happier times—when I was a schoolboy.”

Clara and Louis exchanged glances. Never would she have guessed the man had a sensitive, color-conscious thought in his head.

Catching the look, Mr. Mitchell smiled. “You both think I’m a lump of coal, but I assure you I was once a passionate and wild young man.”

“Well then,” Clara said carefully, “I think autumn leaves would make a lovely design. If you and Mr. Tiffany like it, perhaps we’ll make several more for the fall display. We’ll call it ‘Mr. Mitchell’s Autumn Lamp.’”

“Most generous of you, Mrs. Driscoll,” Louis said, “but I want that primrose butterfly lamp done first, and then the lotus.”

She gathered up her drawings. “I should get back to the workshop, so I can warn the women of the impending storm. If it’s agreeable to Mr. Mitchell, I’d like to take on three extra cutters and two more selectors.”

Mr. Mitchell fanned himself with a newspaper. “I can’t fight the two of you. Do as you wish, but I suspect the board may have something to say about the extra expense. I don’t even want to think about how the men’s department is going to take this.”

Louis took an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “I almost forgot. Mrs. Tiffany and I are having a reception tomorrow night from five until eight. We’d like you to attend.”

Instantly, Clara’s mind got tangled in all the things she needed to finish at work and then the complications of going home, dressing her hair, changing into a nice gown, and making her way to Lenox Hill. Furthermore, Wednesdays were always her busiest day, with the rush of repairing Mr. Tiffany’s cane criticisms and now, there would be chaos getting out his newest flood of orders. A social visit was completely and utterly out of the question. She would simply have to refuse.

“That would be lovely,” she said, not quite believing the words coming out of her mouth. “I look forward to it.”

Clara approached the Lenox Hill Tiffany Mansion at a turtle’s pace, the heat having made her feel stupid and slow. She’d had to work straight through the dinner hour in order to catch up, so there’d been no time to brush her hair, let alone have a change of dress. She hoped she could slip through the crowd, say hello and thank you, and then slip out.

As she was ushered up the grand stairway from the dark entry hall toward the cascades of light at the top, her head swam with the intoxicating scent of gardenias and roses. The spacious marble reception hall, resplendent with flowers of every color and description, left her staring in wide-eyed wonder.

Mrs. Tiffany greeted her warmly and introduced her to Louis’s two oldest daughters, Hilda and May-May, and then to the eleven-year-old twins, Comfort and Julia. At the far end of the hall, she caught sight of Mr. Tiffany, engaged in animated conversation with a man whose close-cropped red hair and bushy eyebrows competed for attention with his absurdly large mustache.

For the next ten minutes, Clara and Mrs. Tiffany managed to plow
through a range of small talk—flowers, the reception hall, Mrs. Tiffany’s work at the Women’s Infirmary, the weather, and the success of the lamps. When she caught herself repeating for the third time how lovely the flowers were, she excused herself and made her way toward her employer.

Halfway across the hall, she became suddenly aware of the stares from the sea of stylish
beau monde
surrounding her. They stepped away, clearing a path as if she were some creature who had wandered up from the coal cellar. She looked down at her shabby work clothes and scuffed boots and went scarlet with mortification. She wanted to kick herself for not making even the slightest effort to be presentable. Fighting the urge to turn and run, she presented herself to Mr. Tiffany.

Louis bowed deeply, making a show of kissing her hand. From his bloodshot eyes, and the smell of spirits, she surmised he was tipsy, if not fully inebriated.

“Mrs. Driscoll, how good it is to see you. Let me present my friend, Mr. Stanford White. Stanny, this is my dear Mrs. Driscoll.”

She half-smiled at his introduction, wondering if he referred to her as “my dear Mrs. Driscoll” to all his acquaintances.

Executing a theatrical bow, Mr. White kissed her hand. His eyes wandered over her in a slow, salacious manner that made her feel he was physically violating her. A wave of revulsion caused her to draw back.

“So, this is your lovely Mrs. Driscoll,” Mr. White grinned. “A very pretty piece of merchandise. I can see why you prize her, Louis.”

She froze at the base meaning behind his words. Jerking her hand out of his, she stared at him in disgust.

“Mr. White is an outstanding architect,” Louis said. “He has—”

“Yes, I know,” she said stiffly. “Mr. White designed Madison Square Garden and the Washington Square Arch. I’ve read about his work …” she hesitated “… and his reputation.”

Mr. White’s lips snaked upward in a predatory grin. “And I’ve heard about
your
work, and
your
reputation, Mrs. Driscoll.”

“I find that difficult to believe, Mr. White, since unlike yourself, I have no celebrity, and neither my accomplishments nor my foibles have been printed for all the world to know.”

“In that case, Mrs. Driscoll, let me offer you the opportunity to make certain that at least your foibles are widely known and step out with
me some evening.” He winked. “I assure you the journalists will take notice. Within hours, your name will be linked with mine in every major newspaper in the country and abroad.”

“If I may be frank, Mr. White, in the interest of preserving whatever reputation I may own at present, and, in the name of decency at large, I enthusiastically decline your offer.”

Louis guffawed, and finished off the rest of his brandy in one swig.

Seemingly impervious to insult, Mr. White gave her another suggestive once-over, before glancing at his watch. “I’d like to continue this pleasant repartee, Mrs. Driscoll, but I’m already late for another appointment with a young lady who has no decency whatsoever.” He leaned close. “I shall make it my business to make sure we meet again.”

She forced a smile. “And I shall make it mine that we do not.”

“We’ll see about that.” Stanford White tipped his hat and walked away, a pronounced swagger in his stride.

She turned to Louis. “I apologize for arriving in such a sorry state, Mr. Tiffany, but I didn’t have time to prepare.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you were dressed in rags,” he said, taking her hands. “You are always lovely to me.”

She stared at his hands holding hers and nervously glanced to the other end of the hall. She couldn’t be sure, but Mrs. Tiffany’s attention seemed to be focused on them.

“I’m late because the men decided to move the Bodine Memorial window downstairs.” She eased her hands out of his. “It took six of them to carry each of the four easels. You would have enjoyed seeing the girls tiptoeing anxiously at the rear of the procession, in case some of the heavier pieces should fall.”

“Did anything perish?”

“Two pieces from Christ’s robe, but Frank managed to catch them. Once it was safe, I went back to working on the primrose lamp and lost track of time.”

“Well, you’re here now and that’s what counts.” His hand slid up her arm, pulling her after him. “Let me show you the library.”

Not daring to check and see if Mrs. Tiffany were still watching, she allowed him to guide her through a set of mahogany doors into a room that was at least two stories high. Soft-colored lights set in such positions as not to stab the eye, illuminated walls lined with books and rich tapestries.
Her eyes roamed the room, while she memorized as many details as she could. She paused at a table holding dozens of framed photographs, mostly portraits of Louis as a young man, the present Mrs. Tiffany holding the twins, and a myriad of others she guessed must be ancestors of one stripe or another. She was about to move on, when her gaze fell on a photograph set inconspicuously in the center of all the rest.

She picked the frame off the table, baffled that he had obtained a photograph of her. The gown wasn’t familiar, and as far as she knew, she’d not had a photograph made of herself since she was thirteen.

“That’s my first wife, May,” he said, coming up behind her.

“But she looks just like—” Before she could finish her thought, he had her hand and was again rushing through doorways and halls into countless palatial rooms, lavishly furnished. At the top of an odd, winding stairway, he pushed open a carved double door and led the way inside.

The splendor of the room was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Every element conceivable had been enlisted to contribute to an exotic atmosphere for the senses. A profusion of hothouse plants perfumed the air, while music seemed to float down from the ceiling. In the center was a sculptural, four-hearth fireplace that rose from the mosaic-tiled floors.

“It is a work of art,” she whispered. “You’ve juxtaposed old and new, rich and plain, and created something magnificent. I’m in awe.”

“Now you know how I feel when I see your designs,” he said, not taking his eyes off hers.

She searched his face. “Are you mocking me, sir?”

“Not at all. The greatest art is accomplished by having an ideal and a desire to attain it. I see that genius in your work. It’s evident to anyone with an appreciation of fine art.”

He bent to kiss her hand, and without thinking, she lightly touched his hair, surprised to find it so soft.

He looked at her questioningly and slipped his arm about her waist.

“Papa?”

In one seamless movement, Louis released her and stepped away. “Ah, my little Dorothy. Come here and meet Mrs. Driscoll. She’s Papa’s best worker.”

The girl politely held out her hand. “How do you do? My name is Miss Dorothy Tiffany, but everyone calls me Dorothy. What’s your name?”

Clara knelt, so they were eye level. “I’m Clara Driscoll. How old are you?”

“I’ll be seven on October eleventh, and I’m going to be a doctor and a musician when I grow up.”

“In that case, I’m sure your patients will find you highly entertaining,”

Dorothy squinted, tilting her head side to side. Breaking into a delighted smile, she patted Clara’s face. “You look just like a pretty daffodil.”

They were still laughing when the nurse found them and took Dorothy back to the nursery.

Clara sat in the shadows of the Madison Avenue car, turning Mr. Tiffany’s words over in her mind until an irrepressible resolve to do her best work welled up in her; she would create designs so unique and fine, that not even Louis Tiffany would have the temerity to claim them as his own. At some point, he would have to let her put her mark on her work.

The fantastical sights and sounds of the Tiffany mansion continued to glow in her memory long after she climbed into bed. The experience gave rise to so many new ideas that she was forced, time and again, to rise and commit them to paper. As she sketched, her thoughts wandered from the photograph of May Tiffany, to the insanity of touching Mr. Tiffany’s hair and then to the way he’d looked at her.

Shaking off the embarrassment, she tiptoed to the washstand mirror and surveyed her features, looking for the daffodil.

Lenox Hill

June 15, 1898

Louise overheard Mrs. Mellon talking about the “exciting new Tiffany lamps” at tonight’s reception. Word will soon reach Mrs. Astor and quickly trickle down her list of 400. Soon, the Vanderbilts will want them for the Hyde Park place, and that will put me at the top. I’ve already decided to price the next few pieces between $400 and $600. The lotus lamp may go even higher. What a coup—Father proven wrong, and I to be rewarded for my perseverance.

Clara’s idea about producing smaller items of high quality: pen trays, clocks, and pin boxes, that could be priced to accommodate less advantaged buyers, seems sound, although I don’t see where the money is in this. I’ll reconsider once the lamps are in full production.

Louise questioned my motives for inviting Clara to an event where she was clearly out of place. I explained that it was necessary to expose her to the level of society she is designing for. I did not, however, waste my energy explaining to a woman unfamiliar with the mechanics of a profit-seeking business how it serves the company’s purposes to keep Mrs. Driscoll humble.