Noon at Tiffany's (53 page)

“You are a liar!” she shouted, her voice raw with misery. “I saw you with her. I saw you kiss her and the way she looked at you. Is that what you consider being ‘good friends’?” Her voice went raw as she choked out the words. “You’ve deceived me from the beginning. I thought you were the finest man I’d ever met—a crusader, a paragon of what was right. Now I see you had no regard for me or for anyone other than yourself.”

She let the tears run down her face unchecked. “I was happy. I looked forward to getting up in the morning. For once, I had more than my work to look forward to. For once I felt I knew was it was to love and to feel passion.” She made herself look at him. “No man has ever known me as well as you. And to think that I almost compromised myself and that you would have
let
me!”

He touched her shoulder. “Please Clara, won’t you—?”

“No, I won’t!” She slapped his hand away. “I want you to leave and not come back. You’ve broken my trust, and that’s an injury that can never be mended.”

He stood with his arms at his sides. “Please don’t shut me out like this. Tell me what I can do to make this right with you.”

“Nothing. There’s nothing left here. Go marry her. Marry your Ferne Ryan, and leave me alone.”

July 26, 1905

Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company

There was nothing subtle about the pain she felt in losing Philip. The work at Tiffany’s that she once declared would be the death of her was now the only thing that kept her from wallowing in the memories and what might have been.

Louis was thrilled by the volume and quality of her things, but not so thrilled that he was willing to entertain any further raises in her salary.

To her relief, Edward once again took up the quest of devising new diversions and entertainments. At the moment, she was wishing he would come and distract the whole of the women’s department from the terrible heat.

By noon, the temperature inside the workroom had reached an unprecedented 109 degrees, despite the bank of fans lined up like sentinels in front of the windows. Resolved not to have any of her flock succumb to the unpleasant forces of nature, she set up the usual buckets of ice water cut with alcohol in the corners of the workroom. All of the women draped cloths dipped in the cooling mixture over their heads and around their necks, so that at first sight they resembled a group of religious fanatics.

Regardless of their efforts, the women, and finally Joseph and Frank, dropped like flies. By closing time, she and Mr. Bracey were two of four who’d managed to stick it out. As she started for home, her blinding headache grew steadily worse, until she was so caught up in pain and nausea she could not keep her thoughts straight, let alone voice them.

As she crossed Gramercy Park, she came to the frightening realization that she wasn’t sure which direction she needed to go to get home. Blurred by the haze of heat, none of the streets or buildings seemed familiar, though she was fairly sure it was the same route she’d traveled every day for years.

She lowered herself onto the nearest bench, desperately wanting to capture and corral her thoughts, a task that proved to be like trying to catch smoke with one’s hands. She could make out the figure of a policeman standing on the corner, but when she tried to wave him over, she couldn’t lift her arms.

In the middle of trying to find the humor in dying on a park bench in broad daylight, she felt the last of her strength ebb away. Her head slumped
onto her chest, and whatever thoughts were left, fractured and floated away into a black void.

Minutes or days later—she had no way of telling—she was conscious of being shaken. “Miss Clara? Are you alright?” The voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.

A woman lifted her chin. Clara opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue was thick, and all that came out was a sound like that of a choking baby.

“Don’t you know me, Miss?” The woman searched her face for signs of recognition. “It’s Bernice, the housemaid from Miss Owens’s. Are you sick, ma’am?”

Bernice? Miss Owens? The names swirled in the fog that had taken over her mind, and then disappeared. Crying weakly, she attempted to wipe away the saliva running down her chin and could not. She sank once again into the murk then came back up to find the woman, Bernice, and a man looming over her, wearing expressions of grave concern. Bernice began chaffing her hands, while the man held a canteen to her lips, forcing her to swallow a heavily sugared liquid.

He pulled off her high collar, and she managed a sigh. There was nothing she loved more than a dress without a collar. His commanding voice forced her back to the surface.

“Clara, wake up! You must drink as much as you can!”

She swallowed a little at a time, the rest spilling onto her dress. The next thing she knew, he had her in his arms and was running. Through the blurred window of her vision, shocked faces flashed by. A door opened, and Miss Owens appeared.

Overjoyed at the sight of someone she recognized, she waved a finger and tried to form the words to say she didn’t think she’d be having dinner when, without realizing how, she was on someone’s sofa with Miss Owens bent over her removing her clothing.

Stripped down to only a thin cotton chemise, she felt herself being lowered into a tub filled with cool water and ice. The fog that was keeping her mind prisoner slowly lifted.

The man—she saw now it was Edward—removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs and got into the water with her. He gently rubbed her down, encouraging her to stay with them. A faint smile came to
her lips, as she tried to imagine where else she might possibly go.

Miss Owens packed iced cloths under her arms and around her neck, and poured numbingly cold water over the top of her head until her scalp tingled. Alice materialized out of nowhere, alternately spooning salty broth and then sugared water into her mouth.

It wasn’t until they lifted her out of the tub that they noticed her chemise had turned diaphanous. A gentleman to his core, Edward averted his eyes even while carrying her to her room, where she lay inside her cotton towel cocoon until the doctor arrived.

It was an easy diagnosis: heatstroke, the same thing that killed dozens of horses in New York’s summer streets. The doctor assured them that had she not been found and treated so efficiently, she would have had the distinction of being the first woman to perish on a Gramercy Park bench.

44 Irving Place Prison

July 31, 1905

Dear Ones,

By now you will have received Mr. Booth’s letter describing last week’s fiasco. The doctor insists I stay in bed and only allows me to be up for one hour a day. I am to eat fruit and drink warm tea at least 6 times a day. I dare not ignore his advice (even though I am PERFECTLY WELL), for I am constantly under the eye of my self-appointed jailer, Warden Booth.

August 2nd is Beatrix Hawthorne’s wedding. She’s marrying a literary man 12 years her senior. I’m sick about not being able to attend, for I am curious as a cat to see what kind of man was clever enough for her.

On the subject of marriage, I forgot to tell you that I went to Mrs. Cornwell’s swanky Murray Hill home for Independence Day dinner. During dessert, she announced to all present that she is bound and determined to marry me off to a rich society man. I haven’t laughed so hard in months. I told her I didn’t have the time or the correct attitude, but she wouldn’t hear of it and said that I was wasting my time loafing around 44 Irving Place.

She went on to say that she’d heard rumors Mr. Tiffany was drinking heavily since the death of his wife, and since he respected me so much, wouldn’t it be just the thing for me to help him see the light and perhaps
come up married in the process? She kept repeating: “Clara Wolcott Tiffany. It has such a lovely ring to it.”

I told her I couldn’t think of a worse fate. I can just imagine me chained to the worktable in his private studio, with the valet Simpkins standing over me with a whip and a serving tray of hot cocoa.

The dictatorial Warden Booth tells me my time is up, and I must abandon this strenuous occupation of writing, as it’s time for more fruit and tea. (He’s so bossy, he watches me until every drop and bite is consumed).

Much love, Clara

P.S. Dear Rev. and Mrs. Cutler and Fair Emily:

I’ve read over the previous page, and I am not so bad as I have been painted. But, despite these barbed aspersions, I’m doing well and happy in my task of watching over our reluctant
prisoner
patient. I hope you will come for another visit. Your comforting presence is always welcome here.

Now I must tend to our slightly bruised flower. I bid you adieu and Godspeed.

With love to all, Edward Abraham Booth

August 5, 1905

Dearest Clara,

When you saw the frightful record of 109-degree heat at Tiffany’s, why didn’t you flee as a bird to the mountains? Don’t you ever stay there again under such stress of weather, even if Tiffany’s and all it stands for melts to the ground! I thank God for Mr. Booth’s presence of mind and his quick actions. What a treasure of a man!

In a few days, we are having a telephone installed in the dining room. We’re going to insulate it so that we won’t hear the usual hums and buzzes. It will be quite a comfort and help, since we are not able to run about as we once did.

Here is Emily now, pen in hand. I relinquish the robin to her.

Much love, Mama

Clara:

You speak about the dimming of
my
bulb? How was it possible that you didn’t notice you were no longer perspiring? Nevertheless, we are once again in a furious rack against Tiffany’s N.Y. I don’t know with whom I am more angry, you or that arrogant miser you call your employer.

Remember, you are my only remaining sister. It would not do for you to leave me an only child. Who else would be left to rub my feet in my dotage?

Emily

September 21, 1905

Clara was mildly flattered to be included as an unofficial member of Tiffany’s board meetings, though, considering she was responsible for designing the majority of the merchandise sold, it seemed only natural.

Louis sat with his arms folded across his chest, all but his eyes impassive. She could read those eyes better than anyone, and in them she saw his quiet, stubborn fury simmering just under the surface.

“Our objective this morning,” Mr. Thomas began, “is to solve the ongoing problem we face every year with the holiday rush and not being able to handle it because of lack of help. At present, Tiffany’s employs the maximum number of female glass workers allowed under the union contract. We’re here to devise a way to increase the amount of output without increasing the female workforce.”

“I’ve been thinking about this a great deal as of late,” Mr. Schmidt said cautiously, avoiding looking in Louis’s direction. “What about sending Mrs. Driscoll to Boston to start another company for us? We would, of course, market the product, but she could manage the place.”

Mr. Platt gave a nod of approval. “A wonderful idea. In Boston, there would be no limit on the number of people she could hire. She certainly knows enough about the business to do a fine job.”

Clara considered the proposition. Going to Boston meant leaving New York and everything and everyone she knew. On the other hand, it also meant having complete control over her own work. With Henry close by, he could introduce her into a new group of friends, and New York was a relatively short train trip. “I
could
do it,” she said. “It isn’t as though Boston is on the other side of the world.”

“Absolutely not!” Louis thumped his cane for emphasis. “I’m well aware you’ve all been conspiring about this for weeks, and you can put the idea right out of your minds. I want Mrs. Driscoll here. End of discussion.”

Mr. Platt cleared his throat. “Think of it as expansion, Louis. We can make twice the money. It’s reasonable to assume there’s a market for our things everywhere. New York City isn’t the universe. My God, man, the Boston Brahmins would storm the showroom, money in hand.”

“No!” Louis’s jaw clenched. “I won’t stand for it. Mrs. Driscoll stays here!”

Silence fell as the men stared down at the table with feigned interest, as if they’d each found their destiny written in the grain of the wood.

“Why not, Mr. Tiffany?” Clara asked with a lift of her shoulders. “Why won’t you stand for it?”

They all looked at her, their expressions a mixture of shock and amusement.

“Because, Mrs. Driscoll, I want to be able to direct everything myself. God only knows what trouble you’ll get into up there without my oversight.”

“You mean the way I get into so much trouble here?”

Mr. Schmidt guffawed and instantly covered it with a cough.

Louis’s eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me, Mrs. Driscoll?”

She gave up. To question him was one thing, but to goad him into a disagreement was altogether beneath her. It would be too much like teasing a cranky child.