Noon at Tiffany's (50 page)

She watched him through the window until she was sure of what she wanted, then walked toward him with purpose.

8:40 p.m.

Edward lay in the ditch, cold needles of rain stinging his face. He recalled the dozens of times his mother had warned him about the danger of stormy weather ‘widow-makers.’ Had it not been for the pain in his ribs, he might have had a laugh over it; but at the moment, laughing was the last thing he felt like doing.

He tentatively probed the stinging flesh above his eye, his fingers coming away dark with blood. With a grunt he picked himself up and kicked at the ‘widow-making’ branch that had fallen across the path. In light of the fact he was at his top speed when he hit it, he was amazed it hadn’t killed him.

He found his bicycle ten feet away, looking like some dead animal torn apart by wolves. He picked up the twisted wheel, quickly dropping it as the pain tore through his ribs. Kicking the ruined bike into the ditch, he began to run, the mud sucking at his shoes.

8:45 p.m.

Clara hurriedly changed out of the wet blouse and skirts that were the last vestiges of her armor, and into her pale green kimono. When she returned to him, Philip was standing by the fire staring into the flames.

He looked up, eyes shining. “Come here, Clara. Let me love you.”

8:47 p.m.

Edward almost shouted for joy at the first whiff of wood smoke. Thirty yards away, he could see the glow from the fireplace flickering orange and yellow on the cabin walls. The lace curtains were drawn in a futile attempt to create an illusion of privacy for those inside.

He hesitated below the porch steps trying to remember which was the creaking board. Unwilling to take a chance, he cautiously walked around to the parlor window, where, summoning all his courage, he looked inside.

Silhouetted against the flames Clara and Philip were locked in an embrace, their kiss frenzied, almost violent in its intensity. In their passion, Clara’s kimono slipped, revealing the smooth skin of her bare shoulder.

He staggered backward, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the heart. Wild with hurt, he ran like a madman across the yard, stumbled over a rake left lying under a pile of leaves, and sprawled headlong into the garden.

For the second time that night, he lay in the mud, his emotional torment eclipsing any physical pain he may have felt. How could she have chosen
him
—a man who had no other choice except to eventually abandon her? He pressed his fists against his eyes, as if to erase the image of her bare shoulder from his memory. She would ruin herself this night, and there would be no way for her to hide it.

He hauled himself to his feet. He’d allowed his life to twine around hers the way a vine crawled toward the sun. It was her vitality and resilience that drew him; her loving nature left him no choice but to love her. Was that not reason enough to save her? He would do no less for any other woman. Even if he had to force her, he could not allow her to marry a lifetime of disgrace for a momentary pleasure. If she hated him for it, so be it.

Picking up his rucksack and hat, he climbed onto the porch, knocking the mud from his shoes against the one squealing board. He rattled the handle and shoved the door open, let it slam, then slammed it again for good measure. “Hello? Clara? Philip? I’m late, but I’m here. What a storm! I say you two, where are you hiding? I hope there’s hot tea.”

Delaying the moment as long as he could, he took a breath and stepped smiling into the parlor.

Years later, when she saw her first Keystone Cops film, Clara would recall the night Edward Booth rescued her from her own foolishness. The sound of footsteps heavy and solid on the porch sent her and Philip scrambling off the sofa like it was a hot griddle.

Frantically rearranging their clothes while grabbing at hair combs, sketchpad and book, they made a mad dash to the safety of separation—she, throwing herself into her chair, and Philip reclining on the couch, pretending to be engrossed in his book.

In a desperate attempt to appear calm, she bent over her sketchpad so Edward might not see the flush of excitement that lingered.

“Hello, Edward,” she called in a voice that sounded forced. “We’re in the front room.”

Edward set down his rucksack. “Sorry I’m late, but the ferry was delayed, and then I had a bit of a mishap with my wheel, so I had to walk the last mile.” He took off his hat, revealing the gash on his forehead. “I’m afraid I had a bit of a row with a tree. I think I need your expert nursing, Clara.”

She examined the cut to his forehead, and went to the kitchen in search of the medicine kit. Through the door she could hear the men’s voices low and serious, with no hint of the usual lighthearted banter that was their custom.

Edward’s voice suddenly rose to a sharp pitch, and then just as quickly subsided. She thought she heard him say, ‘Not here!’ or maybe it was, ‘Not her!’ She sidled closer to the door, straining to hear more, but their voices dwindled to a faint series of murmurs.

When she reentered the room, the two men were staring at one another, the tension thick as pudding. For an instant, Philip met her eyes and withdrew into himself. She longed to reassure him, to tell him she loved him and that there would be another time.

She cleaned and bandaged Edward’s wound, easing the strained silence with a stream of chatter that sounded inane even to her. The moment she was finished, Edward yawned, wincing as he did so.

“Shall I make you something to eat? You must be famished.”

Edward shook his head, his eyes wandering everywhere but to her. His gaze came to rest on her hair combs that lay next to the couch, and for a moment his face filled with disgust. “Don’t bother; I’ll make a cup of tea and set up the hammock in the kitchen. We all need to get some sleep. I expect Mr. Yorke will be up on the early morning ferry. If we’re to have this porch done by next week, we’ll need to hop to.”

Halfway to the kitchen, he reached over the back of the couch and turned Philip’s book right side up. “Easier reading that way, old chap.”

Sleepless, she lay balled up inside her quilt, interpreting every sound. She willed herself to relax, but her thoughts refused to be corralled. Deceit was not in her nature, and the thought that honest, sweet Edward might know what she and Philip were up to, made her insides wither.

She turned over, impatiently plucking at the tangle of her nightgown. What
were
they up to? Love? Passion? She couldn’t get beyond the wanting of him, to be sure.

Alternately cringing and exulting over the events of the evening, she found herself analyzing Edward’s every word and nuance of expression. What if he
had
guessed, or even worse—what if he’d
seen?
She shook her head and rubbed at her eyes, scratchy from lack of sleep. He couldn’t have known, but why else wouldn’t he look at her?

Suddenly furious, she sat up, hands clenched. What business was it of Edward’s, or any of them, for that matter? Was she not allowed to have her own private life?

She threw off the covers and got out of bed. What did she care what they thought? She rested her head against the window, her breath fogging the pane, and then clearing. Wrapping her arms about herself, she watched the storm exhaust itself and die away.

In the first gray light of morning, she crawled back under the covers and lay still, eyes on the bare rafters. From below came the quick, successive
thunks
of Edward splitting wood for the kitchen stove.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her.

Noon at Tiffany’s

November 10, 1904

Dearest Ones,

We are fretfully busy at work on the new Fire Worshipper panels and all the lamps and deluxe individual pieces for the oncoming holiday season. In all honesty, I would rather be digging potatoes than making $500 lamps.

We have just now come from our first ride on the Subway that opened a week ago. This wonderful modern marvel took us from 14
^th
Street and shot up to 125
^th
, only 3 minutes from the Fort Lee Ferry. In the past this trip has taken a full hour by horsecar and cost 10 cents. Now it costs a nickel and takes 15 minutes.

You don’t realize how fast you’re going, because you can’t see anything but an occasional station flash by. The white posts on the sides of the tracks are trying to my eyes, but I try not to look. The stations reminded me of expensive, freshly scrubbed bathrooms, with their clean green and white tiles. Another wonderful thing about the cars is the quickness with which they get up speed after stopping—much different from a railroad train.

On Election Day, the Irving Place family hiked to a great flat rock overlooking the Hudson and all New York. We broiled steaks on long, forked sticks over a fire. Around nine, we crawled up Broadway, watching the Times searchlight indicating a majority for Roosevelt. By eleven, it was evident it was a Roosevelt victory.

When I opened my eyes this morning, they were greeted by a splendid patch of sunlight splashed across the yellow chrysanthemums my dear Philip brought last night. I’ve been light as a feather all day just for the thought of them waiting for me in my cozy room.

I purchased a lovely blue and white lawn dress on sale at Wannamaker’s, and my gray silk waist and my black skirt have been satisfactorily altered and mended to look brand new, so I’m set until next year.

Alice and Mr. Booth send their love. Me too. Clara

44 Irving Place

February 17, 1905

Dear Ones,

Mr. Booth has graciously offered to give up his hand at the Whist table to write for me while I rest my eyes. I’m lying on Miss Griffin’s couch with Muggs (our new house cat), asleep on my chest. Across the room, Miss Nye is reading Plato’s
Apology of Socrates
to the Whisters.

Not much news except that Mr. Tiffany flirts with disaster by taking a major Easter window away from the men and giving it to my department. This on the heels of giving us the Rose window for Mr. Thomas’s sister at Bryn Mawr. As I walk by the men’s department now, I am a model of contriteness.

Our own workroom windows are being replaced, and it’s so cold, the girls get up and dance every half hour to keep their blood from freezing. They’re enjoying these little flights of exercise so much, we may keep up the practice until summer.

If you haven’t seen it in the papers, Mr. Tiffany gave $300,000 to the Infirmary for Women and Children. I am quite sure I helped make a large part of that contribution.

Emily, sir: I’m sorry I haven’t executed your list of orders as swiftly as you commanded, but I’ve been so miserable with work, I’ve yet to answer my Christmas mail. I haven’t had time to have my hair treated or
even combed properly. I look such a fright, small children flee in terror at my approach.

Honestly, Em, isn’t it about time you dispensed with the electric shock treatments? In case no one has mentioned it, it hasn’t improved your disposition one iota.

The aftermath of last week’s ice storm was a sight to behold. In the bright sun, the trees were a mass of glittering diamonds. Even with my eyes, as poor as they are—

M
ISS GRIFFIN CRANED
her neck over her cards, looking into the hall. “Clara! A man just went into your room.”

Clara sent Muggs to the floor and hurried across the hall where Joseph Briggs stood in the middle of her room looking lost, his eyes full of worry.

“Joseph?”

He grasped her hands. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to resign my post at Tiffany’s, immediately.”

She sank into a chair. Losing Joseph would mean she would have to take on all the mosaic work herself. It would never do. She’d either go mad or die—probably both. She searched his face for signs of drunkenness or any hint that he might be playing a joke, and found neither.

“You are not leaving. Unless you’ve committed murder, I won’t let you give up your position at Tiffany’s and let us all down.” She paused, then, “You haven’t have you? Committed murder, I mean.”