Noon at Tiffany's (55 page)

“Yes, Madam.”

“You mean his boudoir?”

“Yes, Madam.”

She nodded. “Please tell Mr. Tiffany I’ll see him in the library.”

“Very good, Madam.”

“Is Dorothy here, Simpkins?”

“Yes, Madam. She arrived last night from St. Timothy’s. I have already informed her of your presence.”

Simpkins hadn’t gone five feet when he hesitated. “Madam?”

“Yes, Simpkins?”

“Mr. Tiffany is … well, Madam, you should know that Mr. Tiffany is …”

“Drunk?”

“No, not tonight. What I mean to say is that Mr. Tiffany is …”

She could see how difficult it was for him. “It’s all right, Simpkins. You may trust me with whatever it is. I’ll not give you away.”

The elderly valet nodded. “Thank you, Madam. What I mean to say is that Mr. Tiffany is not happy. I worry for him. He imbibes too much, too often. The children have done with him, and he’s …” Simpkins hesitated, looking down at his shoes. “He is in need of a wife.”

She pursed her lips. “I couldn’t agree more, Simpkins, however although I do provide solutions to many of his problems, that is one thing Mr. Tiffany will have to take care of on his own.”

For a moment Simpkins looked even more somber than usual, a feat she wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Yes, Madam. However, as Mr. Tiffany thinks so highly of you, I thought perhaps—”

“Go no further, Simpkins. I understand, but I’m afraid I must disappoint. I am no fair candidate for marriage, not even for our dear Mr. Tiffany. I’m quite settled on that point.”

Simpkins let out a mournful sigh, bowed, and then hobbled away.

She found Edith Griffin at the refreshments table and quickly drew her aside. “In ten minutes have one of the attendants show you to the library. Say that Mr. Tiffany and Mrs. Driscoll are expecting you.”

Miss Griffin grimaced. “But Mr. Tiffany hates to be interrupted when
he meets with you. What should I say when I get there?”

“Don’t worry about that, only make sure you don’t leave the library without me, no matter what Mr. Tiffany says.”

The library door was ajar when she arrived. Louis was already there, writing at a corner table. Upon seeing her, he came across the room to kiss her hand. In his evening dress, he cut a handsome figure. Any woman who didn’t know him well might be swept off her feet. He was so nearly a gentleman, though not quite.

“The girls are hoping you’ll come down to the ball.” She disengaged her hand and hid it in the soft folds of her gown. “It doesn’t seem fair that we should be having all the fun without our host.”

“I’ll come down after a while, but only if you promise to honor me with a dance or two.”

“Of course.” She went to the table that held her prize-winning dragonfly lamp. “Simpkins said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” He edged casually toward her. “I’ve purchased tickets for the theater next Saturday, and I‘d like you to accompany me. Afterwards, I thought we might have dinner at Delmonico’s. Would you like that?”

She moved to an adjacent table. “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Tiffany, but have you forgotten that I’m sailing for Europe on Saturday?”

Louis stopped in his advance, his expressions revolving from hopeful expectation to disappointment and finally, annoyance. “I’ve not approved anyone to replace you. My express instructions were that you couldn’t leave until you found someone I deemed capable.”

She could barely suppress a smile. “But I have found a replacement. She’s inarguably the best choice, so I have no doubt you’ll approve. She’s worked for you for some years and … ah, here she is now. Come in Miss Griffin.”

Dazzled by the splendor of the library, Edith Griffin stood speechless in the doorway.

Clara took her by the elbow and guided her to Louis. “I was just telling Mr. Tiffany that you’ll be assuming my position while I’m away.” She gave Louis a look, trying not to sound too delighted with herself. “Miss Griffin was right under my nose the whole time—quite literally. Not only is she an integral part of the women’s department, she occupies the room directly across the hall from mine at Irving Place.”

Beaming, she placed an arm affectionately around Miss Griffin’s small
shoulders. “Miss Griffin meets all your requirements. She’s a fine critic and her artwork is beyond reproach. She’s very orderly; and more importantly, the women respect her. Have I forgotten anything, Miss Griffin?”

“Yes,” Miss Griffin said, recovering herself. “I held a position as bookkeeper for two years before I came to work for you, Mr. Tiffany. I am quite able to handle all the accounting for the department as well.”

Tiffany stroked his beard, his expression one of a man who had been outwitted and did not like it.

“Oh, and as far as Miss Northrop’s accompanying me?” Clara said. “I’ve already checked with her, and unfortunately she’s not able to go right now, such short notice and all that.”

Louis danced with her only once, and, to her relief, did not attempt to engage her in conversation. Afterward, he made a short speech about how proud he was of everyone, and then disappeared, not to be seen again.

At one a.m., Clara tucked the last of her flock safely into cabs and was allowing Simpkins to help her on with her coat, when from the corner of her eye, she saw a flutter of green silk descending the grand staircase.

She held out her arms to embrace the lovely young woman with the smoldering looks of a gypsy. “The butterfly has emerged from it’s chrysalis, and what a beauty she is. How are you, dear, or shall I begin addressing you as Miss Tiffany?”

“I’ll always be Dorothy to you.” The girl’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she led Clara to a sitting room to the side of the entry hall, where a log burning in the grate gave off the pleasant scent of oak.

Clara warmed herself by the fire. “How do you like St. Timothy’s?”

“I don’t, but my aunt thinks it’s the best thing for me. The only thing I do like about it is that it takes me away from here—from him.”

“Is he really such a trial for you? Don’t you have any love for him?”

“I suppose because he’s my father, I must love him” she said plaintively, “but I don’t like him very much. After Mama died, we were terrified of what he would do. He didn’t disappoint us—he turned into a real tyrant. His tempers kept us terrified.

“Have you been to the Palace yet?”

“The Palace?”

“Laurelton Hall. My sisters and I call it the Palace. We’ve dubbed Father King Louie the Nineteenth, because we believe he’s partly mad. What else can one say about a man who changes his suits three times a day and quotes from Louie Pasteur’s papers on the germ theory like he’s quoting scripture? And if you ever wondered where all the clocks you designed went, you need search no further than the Palace. His obsession with punctuality forced him to install two, sometimes three clocks in all the rooms.”

Clara watched the young woman, noting every detail and change in her. Quick-witted and expressive, Dorothy possessed all the magnetism of her father, but without any trace of falsity.

“He isn’t like my friends’ fathers,” Dorothy continued. “I suppose because he’s wealthier than the rest, but the other girls’ fathers are so much more devoted to their families than he is. Frankly, Clara, I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay with him. As far as I can tell, you’re the only woman besides my mother who has ever stood up to him and his rages.” Her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “I’ll warn you—he’s looking for another wife.”

“So Simpkins has already informed me,” Clara said. “Don’t tell me you would want me to—?”

“No!” Dorothy shrank back in mock horror. “I wouldn’t think of it! For as much as I would love to have you as my stepmother, I wouldn’t wish that fate on my worst enemy, let alone a dear friend.”

Lenox Hill

May 6, 1906

I have half a mind to book passage on Clara’s liner. But perhaps it’s best to let her have her freedom for a time? There may be something to the saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Perhaps when she views the great cathedral windows, she’ll find herself thinking of me.

When she returns, I shall barrage the lady with invitations. I’ve been out of the game for some time, and the rules of courtship are a bit more complicated now. Thank God I no longer have an appetite for coquettish
flesh. I don’t know how Stanford White keeps up with all his girls. He continues to carry on with the young Evelyn Thaw, née Nesbit. She is barely in her twenties, and he is a man of fifty-two!

I suppose we all have our flirtations with danger—Mr. White with his numerous girls, me with the bottle. I wonder what tempts Clara? Certainly recognition, but I wonder—greatness? L.C.T.

June 21, 1906

Dearest Clara,

It doesn’t seem possible that my little girl, who used to play tricks on the other children by dressing the cats and dogs in their bonnets and socks, is now sitting in the Forum and Coliseum and being blessed by the Pope—but there you are.

I have received more lovely letters from our dear Mr. Booth telling us all the exciting news of your Irving Place family. He also sent a kaleidoscope to amuse me. What a wonder of an invention. I sit for hours looking out at a new world of crazy quilt colors and cracked lines.

Our best news: Mr. Booth has offered to come with Dudley Carpenter and Mr. Yorke to build a new porch and put up an arbor where the old one fell last winter. He has already drawn up the plans and thinks they can be built in four days.

Maternal advice is sometimes good, but one must be prudent about offering such counsel, especially when that child has done a masterful work of making her own life adorned with success and happiness. I do not mean to be intrusive, but I want to say that I wish you thought as much of Mr. Booth as he does of you. He is such a fine, upstanding man, and I hope that some day you may see him as more than a friend. If it’s any recommendation, I believe Emily is half in love with him herself—imagine
that!

Not to worry you darling, but I’ve had a little twist in my heart that
passed as quickly as it came. The doctor tells me I must rest often, so I shall leave off for now and go sit outside with my kaleidoscope.

Have you figured out yet who sent the bouquet of orchids to your stateroom?

We have.

Love, Mama

June 28
^th

We have been busy. Like a noble and conquering army, your sturdy good men came and built our arbor and porch with precision and aplomb. At the end of day, drooped with weariness, they triumphed over my kitchen as well. Mr. Booth cooked our suppers while Mr. Yorke and Dudley washed and dried the dishes. After dinner, Mr. Booth kept us entertained with witty stories, while Dudley charmed us all by drawing our portraits. We’ve found Mr. Yorke to be a veritable cornucopia of knowledge.

Four days later, these three miracles of kindness vanished back to their own work as quietly and orderly as they had come. How blessed you are to have such a rich and loving second family.

Your last letter written on the train to Switzerland has been read so many times by so many relatives and neighbors that the paper is worn thin. Your descriptions of Vesuvius and your sail around Capri are being quoted throughout Tallmadge.

You have not mentioned if Tiffany is paying you anything while you are gone, or if this is all dead expense. I ask because Emily came back from Chicago, where she went to a gift shop to buy a $2.50 vase for her room. The shopkeeper asked if she wanted to see the Tiffany ware. Inside the case were all of your hard-worked designs—ink holders, tea screens, vases, jewelry—selling for a king’s ransom that certainly no regular mortal could ever afford.

Your two loving families are in a united front against Tiffany and his schemes. He is, in our collective opinion, a scoundrel, one without regard for anything or anyone other than himself and his money.

On the matter of scoundrels, the papers are full of the murder of Stanford White by the cuckolded husband of some misguided girl. If I recall,
Mr. White was the man Mr. Booth threw down the stairs many years ago for his attempted misconduct with you. Now he has been thrown down for good.

Here in Tallmadge we have our own scandal: Ed Hewlett has put his sister, Sarah, in an asylum for the insane. Sarah is about as insane as I am, and there are plenty here who will attest to her sweet nature and
normal
mind. It made me weep to hear that they cut off all her beautiful hair and took away her clothes, and then practically starved the girl. They will not give her her mail, but open it themselves. I hope to goodness he reads my last letter to her, for his eyes will burn at what I think of him.

I’ve sold the Jersey cow, so instead of having 18 qts. of milk each day to care for, butterize and sell, we now have 2 qts., just enough for use in cooking and at table. The doctor advises I buy my butter along with my bread, since I am to leave off baking as well. Rev. Cutler is advised not to exert himself, so now we are both in command of our hours to take things easy.