Noon at Tiffany's (38 page)

Dorothy pointed to the garden fairies window. “Mama said you made that before I was born. It’s my favorite window in the whole house. I like to make believe I’m the fairy in the green dress and can fly away anytime I need to.”

Hearing despair behind the words, Clara looked into the child’s sweet face and found staring back at her a lonely and wounded soul. It pained her to think of the child surrounded by so much wealth and yet not having the one thing she needed most.

The ghostly Simpkins materialized at the top of the attic stairs with a tray bearing cups and a blue and white ceramic pot. Taking no notice of either her or Dorothy, he placed the tray on the table, poured out two cups of the steaming chocolate, and then slipped away without a word.

“Nurse lets me have as much hot cocoa as I want,” Dorothy said, taking a dainty sip. “Especially on the days my mother is at the ’firmery with all the sick mothers and babies.” She shot Clara a quick glance. “Papa doesn’t like her to go there. He yells and throws things, but my mother goes anyway. I heard Nurse tell the maid that Papa got glass in his eye because he was angry at Mother for not staying home.”

Dorothy looked at her with a depth of concern that Clara found unsettling in a face so young. “Does Papa yell at you, too?”

“No,” Clara said, then, “well, maybe a little.”

Dorothy lifted Clara’s arm and wrapped it around herself, briefly resting her head against Clara’s shoulder. Touched, Clara leaned down and tenderly kissed the top of her head, taking in the salty sweet scent that belonged only to children.

“I have to go back to work now, but before I go I’d like to see your artwork.”

Springing up, Dorothy grabbed a handful of drawings from a battered toy box and placed them in Clara’s lap. “I’d like a crick … crickeek …”

“A critique of your work?”

“Yes, one of those. Papa’s always too busy, and Mama only likes to look at photototography.”

Clara carefully examined the watercolor drawings of lions, flowers, and horses, until she came to the one that gave her pause. The scene was of a golden meadow dotted with specks of red flowers. Beyond was a hill and beyond that, a sea of blue with white-peaked waves. A girl stood at the top of the hill, her face turned toward the sun.

“This is the best of your work. Your choice of color is excellent, and the balance of all the things in here is perfect.”

Dorothy put her finger on the girl. “That’s me making a wish.”

She couldn’t help herself; she had to ask. “And what were you wishing for?”

Dorothy looked surprised, as if the answer were evident. “I was wishing for a friend like you to come and take me away from here.”

January 4, 1900

The moment he entered his office, Louis sensed something was out of order. Halfway to his desk, he saw the empty gap where the dragonfly lamp had been only a half hour before. He searched the room frantically, and, finding nothing, hurried to Pringle Mitchell’s office.

“What’s wrong?” Mitchell put down the newspaper he’d been reading. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“The dragonfly lamp—the one with the squat base of arrowhead flowers and dragonflies in mosaics and gold. It’s gone! Someone has stolen it from my office! Call the police; tell them we’ve been robbed. Tell them—”

“Oh,
that
,” Mitchell relaxed. “I took it down to the showroom. The clerk called saying a woman was in the store, insisting on having one of the dragonfly lamps at any cost. The others were sold, and I’d seen the sample on your desk, so I assumed—”

“You idiot! That was the premier lamp for the Paris Exposition. When did you take it down?”

Realizing the enormity of his mistake, Mitchell’s face drained of color. “About fifteen minutes ago. I quoted her a price of five hundred, and she didn’t even blink. I thought you’d be pleased. We sold the other dragonfly lamps for three-fifty.”

Louis’s feet barely touched the stairs as he flew down the four flights to
the showroom, arriving just as a rotund dowager was leaving. Trailing behind her was a uniformed chauffer carrying a large box bearing the Tiffany label.

Louis almost choked on the thick miasma of perfume that surrounded the woman like a widow’s veil. He cut her off at the door and bowed stiffly. “Excuse me, Madam, I am Louis Tiffany. I understand you have just now purchased one of my dragonfly lamps from our showroom?”

“I have,” she trilled, her ample jowls jiggling with her excitement. “Mrs. Astor has one in her drawing room. The moment I saw it, I knew I had to have one.” She laid a plump, gloved hand on his arm. “You are a marvel, Mr. Tiffany. Everyone is talking about your wonderful lamps. Only yesterday, Mrs. Vanderbilt told me she was going to install four of them in her library and another two in the front hall.”

“I’m glad the lamps please you, Madam. Nevertheless, a terrible mistake has been made.” He dabbed at his forehead. “You see, Madam, the lamp you have just purchased is not for sale.”

The woman broke into girlish laughter. “Of course, it isn’t for sale, you silly man. It’s mine—I just purchased it.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he said gravely, reaching for the box. “I must take the lamp back. However, I shall personally see to it that you receive another lamp that is as beautiful. If you tell the clerk what color scheme you wish to have, I’ll make sure—”

The dowager’s hands landed on the box at the same time as his. Wrenching it out of her chauffer’s grasp, she pulled the parcel against her ample bosom and wrapped her arms proprietarily around it. “You can’t have it.” Her voice rose. “It’s mine! My money is as good as anyone’s.”

“Yes, of course it is.” He bowed again. “But this lamp is …” Louis paused to consider. The old cow had high connections. He would have to proceed with extreme care. He knew well the power society women’s talk had in building or destroying the reputation of men far greater than he.

“This lamp is a second-rate version of the dragonfly lamp, meant for sale to our less—how shall I say it?—our less discerning customers. When my assistant told me that you were a lady of obvious high standards, I hastened downstairs to save you from making a terrible blunder. As I am sure you are aware, Tiffany’s is dedicated to preserving the sterling reputations of its customers.”

A smidgen of doubt crept into the woman’s defiance. Scowling, she
glanced at the box, and then at him. “But I want one of the dragonfly lamps, and I must have
this
one.”

“And you shall have a dragonfly lamp,” Louis smiled. “Except you will have one that will make this lamp seem drab by comparison. I give you my word; I’ll personally see to it that you receive a lamp of the highest quality, an absolute diamond among lamps.” He tried again to remove the box from her grip and was aggrieved to find a last vestige of resistance.

He steered her away from the chauffer, employing an air of conspiracy. “Be assured the lamp you receive in exchange is worth five times what you paid for this one. Consider it my personal gift, my way of showing my gratitude for your patience and gracious understanding in this unfortunate matter.”

He tried again to pull the box away and found her grasp significantly loosened. “I must insist, however, that you do not disclose to anyone how cleverly you managed to come away from Tiffany’s with such a bargain. If word ever got out, I would be besieged. I wholeheartedly ascribe to the old adage that the best way to keep a secret is without help.”

Affronted, the dowager took one hand off the box to pinch at the copious amount of flesh that cushioned her neck. “I beg your pardon, but I am not the sort of woman who prattles gossip and tells secrets!”

“Excellent practice, Madam.” Louis tightened his grip. “You’re a shining example of womanhood.”

Blushing, she giggled like a schoolgirl. “Well, I suppose it might be all right, especially if I have your personal guarantee, Mr. Tiffany.”

Seeing his chance, Louis tugged at the box, and the lamp was his.

Lenox Hill

February 12, 1900

The exposition pieces are on their way to Paris. Father and I are to have our exhibits adjacent to each other in the American Industrial Arts building—his leather, stationery, damasking, gems and metals against my blown glass, enamels, lamps, mosaics and windows. Now we shall see.

Once again I’ve had to speak to Louise about a wife’s duty. Her reluctance to share my bed is in blatant violation of the marriage contract. We are healthy, and while another confinement is out of the question, it seems perverse to deprive me of my conjugal rights. I’ve insisted she seek
the counsel of Pastor Osgood. I’ll speak with him privately first thing tomorrow to make sure he and I are of the same mind on this issue.

The land adjacent to The Briars has drawn my interest as the ideal site for building my masterpiece. The main parcel overlooks a natural cove in Cold Spring Harbor, but is presently occupied by the Laurelton Hall Hotel and the public picnic grounds. The owner has informed my agent that he will never sell to me specifically and will go to great lengths to prohibit me from ever obtaining the parcel. He should spare himself the trouble, for I mean to have his land and all the land around it. L.C.T.

April 25, 1900

My darling Clara,

It is three years to the day since we brought Josephine’s body home. The night is as it was then—soft and warm, doors open, and frogs singing. I have been looking over the box with her picture and the lock of her beautiful hair. There are no apple and cherry blossoms now, but when there are, we will cover her grave again.

Take what is yours, Clara. When summer comes you must accept the Palmié twins’ invitation to their house by the seashore. Do not let your (and I dare say, Mr. Tiffany’s!) desire for money and fame rob you of your life.

Stay well, my darling girl.

Love, Mama

A June rainstorm was brewing, and more than anything, Clara longed to be out in it and away from the crowd gathered in her room. The endless games of Whist were beginning to wear on her nerves.

She slipped into Alice’s room to change, and then made her way to her bicycle. Riding off in no one’s direction but her own, she removed her hat and let the wind tear at her hair. Drunk on freedom and daring, she was euphoric as streetcars and horseless carriages zigzagged around her like evil spirits. At Church Street, where the roads turned to cobblestone, her lantern sputtered and went out.

The moment she turned onto West Broadway, the rains came, soaking through her clothes to her skin. She ducked into a side street and then
another, until she came to an enclave of narrow lanes and alleys that were protected from the storm. Illuminated by the flaring torches and red lanterns, groups of sweating men and scantily clad woman emerged from the shadows. They passed her with curious looks that made her feel as if she’d dropped out of the world as she knew it, and onto some other planet.

A fleshy woman wearing no more than a gauze shift grabbed at her bicycle skirt, holding it out. “Ooo, lookie here,” she jeered, “it’s her Lady La-di-dah come callin’ on us wicked, shameless folk.”

The man on whose lap she’d been sitting, stopped swigging from a bottle and gave her a lecherous look. “Or maybe she’s come lookin’ for a job. Come over here lady, I’ll give ya a job.”

A chorus of laughter came from a dozen dark corners.

Clara kept her pace, looking straight ahead, though she would have liked nothing better than to talk to them to get a sense of how they lived day to day. She wondered if they ever felt the hopelessness of their lives, or if they were content with their lot.

By the time the rain stopped, she was pedaling down Spring Street, and then Prince. She changed direction again, and raced down unfamiliar alleyways and through parks. The church bells ringing ten startled her, and suddenly Washington Square lay before her. Somehow, without trying, she’d found her way back to her own country.

As she passed through Union Square Park, she thought she heard her name. Through the fog she could just make out three men on wheels. Dudley’s gangling legs, Edward Booth’s tall frame and Mr. Yorke’s distinct Boston accent couldn’t be mistaken.

Her initial resentment at being searched out like a child collided with her pleasure over their concern. After a moment of watching their misty silhouettes weave among the trees, she gave in and let herself be captured.