Noon at Tiffany's (6 page)

Clara was using the maulstick to draw the finishing touches at the top of a landscape cartoon, when someone with a heavy step entered the workroom.

“Miss Wolcott! I demand an explanation for every one of these charges.”

Lowering the stick, she took the time to lean it against the wall before turning to confront W. Pringle Mitchell, Louis Tiffany’s vice president and manager. As usual, he was bristling with indignation, exactly as he had been when he’d knocked into her on the day of her interview. Since that moment, he’d continued to plague her, second-guessing her every decision and niggling over every expenditure, right down to the number of pencils she used.

He stood before her glowering, his side whiskers precisely barbered and his clothes faultlessly pressed from the cuffs of his pants to his stiff, white collar.

“What have I done now, Mr. Mitchell?” she asked wearily. “Have you discovered the three cents I embezzled from the company?”

“I’m glad you find this a joking matter, Miss Wolcott,” he said, shaking an order sheet in her face “Though I assure you, I’m not amused. Who authorized you to order this absurd amount of glass?” He took a pencil from behind his ear and began slapping it against the paper as a sort of punctuation.

“Look at this here.” (Snap!) “This is the most expensive glass we have.” (Snap!) “You go too far. At this rate, you’ll run Tiffany’s into the ground. You must stop this constant flow of expense.” (Snap! Snap!) “Explain yourself!”

Clara pulled the order sheet from Mr. Mitchell’s grip and went down the list an item at a time. “This order for the patterned dark green glass was for the lilies on the Saint Anne window. Now, I suppose I could have made do with the lighter, cheaper color, but then there would have been no contrast with the other leaves—it would have looked out of place, and we know what Mr. Tiffany would have done about that, now, don’t we?” She made a sound like breaking glass.

Stifled laughter came from the women who were pretending not to listen as they bent to their task of cutting glass.
Mr. Mitchell started to protest, but she cut him off. “Then there’s this order for the cobalt glass. Terribly expensive, I know, but that was to replace a section of the Jesus at Galilee window that went under Mr. Tiffany’s cane. Since he specifically asked for the cobalt, you might take the issue up with him.

“This order here for the number five pink glass? That was for the flowers in the Saint Joseph and Virgin Mary window. Mr. Tiffany wanted deep pink, but since I’m endeavoring to keep my charges down, I went with the number five instead of the number six, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed and thus end up under Mr. Tiffany’s cane. So, you might say I actually saved the company money with that order.”

Except for the barely audible grinding of his teeth, Mr. Mitchell remained silent.

She went to the next item. “Then, of course, there’s this gold glass for Jesus’ halo in the crucifixion window. Again, frightfully expensive, but it
is
for Jesus’ halo. I think the Son of God deserves a gold halo, don’t you, Mr. Mitchell?”

“You’re an insolent woman!” Mitchell ripped the paper from her hands. “I don’t know what Mr. Tiffany was thinking when he hired you. We simply cannot have this kind of spending!” He lowered his voice. “It wasn’t until you got here that we’ve had to put out so much for glass.”

She took off her spectacles, her patience spent. “Which is exactly why the quality of the windows has soared. Don’t think for one moment people haven’t noticed. Orders have doubled in the last three months. Mr. Tiffany is pleased with this higher quality work, and I have serious doubts he’ll ever be satisfied with mediocre products again.”

“To the devil with higher quality! You’re going to bankrupt us!”

“I’m doing no such thing! I’ll even go so far as to say that once you cease your insufferable interfering with my department, the company will become even more productive.”

Opening and closing his mouth like a beached fish, Mr. Mitchell stalked out, slamming the door behind him with a cry of outrage.

She sat down and rubbed her eyes, as the women converged on her.

“What’s he got against you, Miss Wolcott?” asked Miss Hodgins, a pretty woman with hair the color of burning embers. “He’s always harping at you about one thing or another. Honestly, if I didn’t know to the contrary,
I’d say you was married to the disagreeable lout on account of the way you two bicker so professional-like.”

Too worn out to laugh, Clara smiled. “I believe Mr. Mitchell belongs to that breed of men who don’t approve of self-governing women.”

Miss Ring, the department’s best glasscutter, made a face. “We heard he’s a relation of Mr. Tiffany, and that’s the only reason Mr. Tiffany keeps him around.”

Clara lifted the maulstick to its original position. “Mr. Tiffany’s sister is married to Mr. Mitchell’s uncle.” She hesitated. “Which, I suppose, is where the expression ‘a monkey’s uncle’ originated.”

When the laughter died away, she resumed work on the cartoon until her eyes gave out. She was in the ladies’ convenience splashing her face with water, when Josie appeared in a state of agitation. “You’ve got to come quickly. Mr. Tiffany is here for the Cane Criticism. He says he has to do it now, because his father has made other plans for him tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Bracey was waiting for her in the hall. He ran alongside her as she made her way to her office. “Should I undrape all them windows fer His Majesty or no?”

“Uncover the four finished ones,” she directed, searching frantically for her writing pad while smoothing down her hair. “Josie, have all the girls gather to one side of Mr. Tiffany the way he likes, and tell them this time there shall be no giggling, sobbing or fainting.”

She removed her apron, glad she’d worn the less threadbare of her two white lawn waists. Pinching color into her otherwise pale cheeks, she hurried into the main workroom where Louis Tiffany was already perched on a tall stool. Head tilted and both hands clasped around one knee, he squinted at Saint Anne with great intensity.

Off to the side, her girls stood at attention like soldiers in formation. Though it would not have been evident to the casual observer, she could see they were flustered by the unscheduled visit, each one nervously holding her breath, awaiting his approval. Daniel Bracey and Josie stood behind them, waiting for the drama to unfold.

Clara hurried to his side. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tiffany. I wasn’t aware you were coming for the criticism today.”

He gave her a withering glance. “I specifically told Mr. Mitchell to inform you of the schedule change. It must have slipped your mind.”

“Mr. Mitchell never gave me your message,” she said without a trace of the irritation she felt.

“No matter.” He pointed his cane at Saint. Anne. “This is quite good. You’ve selected exactly the right color for her face. The lilies are perfect.”

Tiffany slipped off the stool and stepped closer to the window, a furrow beginning between his brows. He began pacing, which she knew from experience was not a good sign.

“What about the hands?” He looked at her in disbelief. “Why aren’t they finished?”

“Mr. Bracey and I were discussing that earlier. He’s come up with the brilliant idea of using copper for caming the finely detailed portions, like Saint Anne’s hands. He’s ordered the copper and should have it by tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the result.”

Tiffany nodded to Mr. Bracey. “Very good, Daniel. I look forward to seeing it completed.”

Clara winked at the women—one window approved with no broken glass was cause for celebration.

He shifted his attention to Jesus at Galilee, staring at the window for a long while before breaking into a wide smile. “You’ve outdone yourself on this one, Miss Wolcott. It is superb.”

“Thank you,” she said, her spirits lifting. “It was your choice of cobalt blue for the water that balanced it perfectly, although I’m not so sure Mr. Mitchell approved of the cost.”

“Mr. Mitchell be hanged,” Tiffany said offhandedly, already inspecting the next window, with its depiction of Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary in a garden of flowers. He cocked his head. “The richness of your color selection is exceptional, but I don’t think the Virgin’s crown is quite the right color.” He raised his cane and let the tip rest against the glass.

A tremendous impulse to wrest the cane out of his hand and throw it across the room caused her to take an involuntary step toward him. The window had been particularly difficult; she’d spent hours of her own free time, coming in early and leaving after closing in order to bring it to perfection.

Before she could check herself, she let out a little cry, as Tiffany jabbed his cane into each of the crown’s sections. One by one the pieces fell to the floor and shattered.

“Perhaps it might do better to change these sections to a deep gold.
You agree, don’t you, Miss Wolcott?”

No matter what she said, she couldn’t win. If she agreed with him, she would betray her own sense that the gold would ruin the restful quality of the window. If she disagreed, he would accuse her of impertinence and perhaps destroy the entire window.

“But, Mr. Tiffany, might not the gold …” her voice slid to a whisper, “… defeat the tranquility of the window’s other muted colors?”

His cane swung up. Flinching, she quickly covered her face. When she opened her eyes, Louis was still looking at the window, the cane resting on his shoulder. “To my eye, the right color is as essential to these windows as notes are to the composer. Since I’m the colorist here, I want to see gold glass in the Lady’s crown, and so you shall place gold glass in the Lady’s crown.” He turned to her. “You
will
do that, won’t you?”

The headache that had been threatening to blind her crouched behind her eyes like a panther waiting to strike. That he found it necessary to browbeat her was insulting; that he did it in front of the rest of the department was deplorable.

Tiffany frowned at the Crucifixion at Golgotha window, his fingers drumming on the head of his cane.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Tiffany?” She fought to keep the apprehension out of her voice. It was best to remain calm.

Taking a piece of paper from his breast pocket, he looked from it to the window, his mouth set in a hard line.

She stepped back, discreetly motioning to the four women closest to him to do the same.

“This is wrong.” He checked the paper again and turned his icy gaze on her. “What are the dimensions of this window?”

A bolt of panic twisted her stomach into a knot. “Six feet by four. Mr. Mitchell said you wanted the size changed. He said—”

He moved closer to the window, using his pince-nez to examine the lower panel. “And what in the blazes are those brown things at the base of the cross?”

She forced herself to look where he was pointing. “Those are the rocks you requested.”

His eyes fixed on hers, hard and accusing. “I asked for gray rockth!” he shouted, “Not lumpth of something that resembles what you’d find on the floor of a livery.”

She checked her notes. “But Mr. Mitchell said you wanted brown rocks because the gray was too expen—”

The cane came down against the lower half of the window, shattering the figures of the Virgin and two Roman soldiers. Multicolored shards of glass flew in every direction. She shielded her eyes, hoping the women remembered to turn their heads and cover their faces with both hands as she’d instructed.

“Do not
dare
contradict me!” he screamed. “I would never have asked for brown rockth!” He struck the window again, sending Mary Magdalene’s head spinning in Clara’s direction.

A sharp, stabbing pain above her left eye caused her to jump back from the destruction. Unbidden, an image of a guillotine blade flashed through her mind and then vanished. She waited until she was sure the demolition was over before unshielding her eyes. Tiffany stood before her gaping at the destroyed window, as if he couldn’t fathom who had done such a thing. Behind her, she heard Miss Barnes, the youngest and most sensitive of her flock, run sobbing from the room.

“About the rocks,” Clara began, careful to keep her voice neutral, “Mr. Mitchell refused to purchase the gray glass I originally ordered, because it was too expensive. He assured me you wanted brown rocks instead. I argued against it, but he wouldn’t budge. He said—”

“I don’t give a damn what Mitchell told you,” Tiffany shouted, as he made for the door, glass crunching under his shoes. “Remake the window eight feet by five. Change the figures to fit the new scale and make the rocks three shades of gray. While you’re about it, make the sky a lighter blue, but not too light, and add another mourner—a woman—to the right of the frame. I want her in ochre robes. No halo.”

At the door he shouted into the otherwise silent room. “Have all four windows complete and ready for my criticism and shipment by next Wednesday morning.”

She ran after him. “But Mr. Tiffany, you can’t expect us to—”

“I not only expect it of you,” he barked, “I demand it. If you and the other girls hope to keep your positions here, you’ll do as I say.” He disappeared into the hall, his booming voice echoing behind him. “Wednesday morning. First thing!”

The instant his voice died away, they began picking up the larger
pieces of glass, while Mr. Bracey swept up the rest. “’Tis a shameful waste of good glass,” he muttered. “Half a fortune in glass right here on the floor.”

“I’d like to tell that Mr. Mitchell a thing or two,” Miss Hodgins added, picking slivers of blue glass out of her shawl. “It was plain spite, him giving us the wrong measures. His Majesty ain’t much better, either. He ought to be locked away—he’s like a crazy man.”

Clara looked at the shattered window. The waste in time and labor galled her.

Miss Ring took a step toward her. “Miss Wolcott, you’ve been cut.”

When she touched the stinging place on her forehead, her fingers came away slick with blood. She pressed her handkerchief against the wound. “It’s only a scratch. Nothing to be concerned about. However, if I do bleed to death before the day is out, please notify Mr. Tiffany that I won’t be in tomorrow.”