Noon at Tiffany's (9 page)

Design sketches and odd bits of cartoons scattered under her fingers as she rifled through the confusion of papers in her desk. She found her drawing for the lamp base and held it out to him. “I thought the base should be of copper or brass.”

Pulling a pencil from her hair, she pointed at the four finely detailed poppy leaves that made up the feet of the base, their delicate stems weaving together in an exquisite and harmonious pattern that twisted up the length of the metal arm. “Inlaid here in these narrow panels between the stems will be mosaic tiles in colors complementary to the glass.”

“Hideous!” Mitchell blurted. “It is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. No one would be foolish enough to buy such unappealing frippery. The production costs alone would put us out of business.”

She whirled on him. “It is
not
hideous! Truth be told, it’s the most original and interesting thing in the place! If you don’t believe me, Mr. Mitchell, display this lamp in the showroom, and we’ll just see how well it sells.”

Tiffany took the shade to Clara’s desk and sat down.

“Out of the question!” retorted Mitchell. “However, since we’ve caught you red-handed, might I inquire what business you have wasting company time and materials on this useless enterprise?”

“I beg your pardon!” she snapped, her voice high and loud. She promptly lowered it—sounding like a fishwife would get her nowhere. “I created this piece on my own time. As for the materials, every inch of the shade has come from scraps I recovered from the dustbins or scrap glass that I purchased with my own money.”

Unrelenting in his attack, Mitchell shook his head. “That makes no difference whatsoever. You did not have my permission to engage in this this waste of company resources. You simply took it upon yourself to—”

“This is ingenious, Miss Wolcott,” Tiffany said quietly, turning the lampshade so that the glass sparkled. “I applaud you.”

“Louis!” Mitchell pushed her aside. “The cost of producing this
design would exceed any profit we might realize from its sale, if indeed it sold at all.”

Tiffany held up a hand. “I’ve said nothing about putting it into production.” He returned his attention to the shade. “How did you come by this design?”

Cautiously she crossed in front of Mitchell. “Last winter being what it was with so much snow, Josephine talked incessantly about how much she longed for the bright colors of the other seasons. That became the seed of an idea that took root and blossomed when I saw how our landscape windows come alive when the light shines through them.

“I thought, why not a stained glass lampshade sporting colorful designs from nature? What could be more cheerful than all those colors on a dreary winter day?”

Tiffany nodded. “And the shape?”

“It seemed to match the natural lines of the flowers.” She leaned over him, running her fingers down the curve of the shade. “You can see here how I used copper wire to mimic the fine veins of the leaves. It worked …”

She was at once acutely aware of him, the side of his face so close to hers she could smell the faint scent of apples on his breath. Tiffany caught her fingers under his. With the lightest of pressure, he caressed her hand, and then released it.

The event was so subtle and unexpected that, for an instant, she doubted it had actually happened. She resumed her thought, her words slow and halting. “It worked quite well as you can see. I wasn’t sure at first how I would make the detail stand out, but—”

“Louis, please!” Mitchell broke in. “I don’t understand how you could possibly entertain this preposterous notion for one moment. This thing would never sell to our class of clientele. It’s more fitting as a carnival novelty item.

“Surely you don’t mean to indulge the fanciful artistic whims of a woman who hasn’t the first idea about designing for the higher classes of society, who, if I might be so bold as to remind you, are the cornerstone of our business.”

With great care Tiffany placed the shade on the desk and fixed Mitchell with a cold stare, his jaw clenching spasmodically.

Clara held her breath, incredulous that Mr. Mitchell seemed oblivious
to the change in Mr. Tiffany’s eyes. Anyone who knew him even a little would know enough to heed their chilly warning.

“Honestly, Louis,” Mitchell resumed, “your artistic judgment seems to be flagging. Perhaps we should ask your father’s opinion in this matter, before we go off on any frivolous tangents.”

Tiffany jabbed a finger in his direction. “Be quiet! When I want an evaluation of a design, I’ll ask an artist, not a business manager.” He threw back his shoulders. “Simply because you’re related to my sister by marriage doesn’t entitle or qualify you to critique the work produced by my artists—that’s my business; money and accounting are yours.

“This piece is neither hideous nor preposterous, and if you possessed one iota of artistic refinement, you’d know that. It is, as Miss Wolcott has so shrewdly pointed out, the most innovative thing in the factory.”

He turned to her. “I’m taking you off the Last Supper window effective immediately. You shouldn’t be working on the mundane when you could be designing pieces like this. I’ll notify the men in the glass and metal department to provide you with whatever you need in the way of supplies.” He paused then added, “Within reason.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tiffany. I promise I’ll—”

“I want more sketches for these sorts of things. Make them exotic, but continue using nature as a stimulus and a harmonizer. When you have everything completed, you will meet with me so I can review what you’ve done. Is this agreeable?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll design as many as you like. I’ll—”

Tiffany stopped her with a look. “Miss Wolcott, understand that I’m granting you permission to complete this one sample. I’m not issuing any guarantees that we’ll put it into production. The lamp must earn the approval of all members of the management before we can consider such a thing. It will be scrutinized from every standpoint, artistic and …” he nodded to the still fuming Mr. Mitchell, “commercial.”

He hooked the end of his cane over his arm and removed his pince-nez. “You may carry on with what you were about. Good afternoon.”

Before she could reply, they were gone; Louis Tiffany in a blaze of unassailable importance, and Pringle Mitchell in an evil temper. She plunked herself down on the windowsill, scarcely believing her luck. Of course, Mr. Mitchell would increase his efforts to sabotage her work, but
for now she couldn’t have planned a more successful introduction of her lamp design.

She leaned over the sill, breathing in the chill air of the early evening. Her eye was caught by a streak of orange above the setting sun. Taking out her notebook she began sketching ideas for lampshades as quickly as they popped into her head. She was working on her third rendering of a large goldfish entwined in pond lilies when a soft knock signaled the arrival of Mr. Driscoll.

Lenox Hill

September 26, 1889

Dined with H.O. Havemeyer at the club. My visit to Emile Galle’s glass factory this summer impressed him, for he has commissioned me to decorate his home. He is a slippery bastard. I’ll need to take care lest he tries to cheat me out of the fortune I stand to make from the job. Father would never let me live it down.

I encountered Belknap and Clara Wolcott at the new Metropolitan exhibition. They seem to regard the rest of the world with shared smugness, as if there were a joke in the works and they alone knew what it was. I admit I resented not being invited into their circle. Even more troubling was the sight of her on his arm. Still and all, I’m relieved to see Belknap in the company of a woman other than his mother.

Tomorrow the board decides on my glass lampshade idea. I’ll try to collar Mitchell, who will assuredly knock the proposal down, as I suspect Father has already poisoned the waters.

Little Annie Olivia is ill again. The sweet child cries for me, but I cannot tolerate seeing her suffer. L.C.T.

Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse

September 26, 1889

Dear Ones,

When I returned from Tiffany’s, I found Ida B. Smith camped by the fire grate. She refused to eat or drink and yowled piteously if touched. One of the boarders, Miss Julia Alling (of the Tallmadge Allings), claims to know all about cats. She examined Ida B. and said the poor thing was in a bad way, with nothing to be done about it. Seventy-five cents of chloroform gave her a peaceful death (Ida B., not Miss Alling).

Miss Todd sent for the ASPCA, but they refused to come, so I wrapped Ida in one of my old undergarments and laid her out in a gift box. I asked Abe (Miss Todd’s colored handyman) if we could deposit her in the waste can. He informed us it was against the law, so I decided to put her in the river, but the washerwoman said I’d better not if I didn’t want to be arrested on suspicion. Miss Alling predicted someone was sure to see me and call the police, who would drag the river and undoubtedly find a dead baby—a fish having meanwhile made off with Ida B—and I would end up in the Tombs.

So, off I trudged to the board of health (ironically across from the Tombs), where I announced that I had a dead cat in the box. After some amusement at Ida B.’s expense, they said they didn’t want her and directed me to the Department of Public Docks men, who, as could be expected, didn’t want her either.

At two this morning, I gave Ida B. Smith a proper burial under Miss Todd’s peony bushes, grateful to the dear little thing for dying while the ground was still pliable.

Henry Belknap has asked George and me to accompany him to the Metropolitan lecture series on Charles Rennie Macintosh’s European Arts and Crafts Movement. It’s a delight to see how perfectly George and Henry’s personalities are in balance—a floating bubble and a rock.

Speaking of rocks—as in millstones around my neck—Miss Northrop has been particularly critical of my work as of late. I refuse to be offended, preferring to believe she is jealous of my inventiveness. Her own work is excellent, but predictable.

Much love, Clara

P.S. Emily, my dear sister, taking into account how you love to tell people what to do and correct them when they make innocent mistakes, it’s clear that in choosing the teaching profession, you have chosen a fitting vocation. Because of your diligence in returning all of my letters with the spelling errors circled in red, I have been shamed into purchasing a proper dictionary. I’ve discovered all manner of fine words, for instance, “punctilious” and “nitpicking.”

September 27, 1889

L
OUIS PLACED THE
velvet drape over the lamp and set it to one side of his desk.

Henry threw up his hands in exasperation. “You would think just one of the other board members would have voted in favor of the lamps, especially after hearing Mrs. Tiffany’s declaration that she wanted several permanently installed in your entry hall, so they would be the first and last pieces of decoration seen by your guests. For God’s sake, every woman in New York knows that Louis and Louise Tiffany set the trend in home decoration.”

“None of that matters now,” Louis said. “We need to move forward with the windows.”

“But what folly not to recognize the design’s potential!” Henry fumed, “The minute Mitchell started bleating about financial instability and production costs, they all followed like sheep. Why can’t they understand that taking chances is the only way to get ahead in this business?”

“The board is about money, Henry. They’re afraid that if we start producing new things, it will divert business away from the windows and mosaics. No amount of praise or testimonial is going to change their position. Until Tiffany Glass is more securely rooted, we have to abandon the lamp idea.” He tapped his pencil and stared fixedly out the window. After a minute he threw the pencil across the room. “Damn it! I want these lamps in the showroom.”

Henry planted both hands on Louis’s desk. “That’s the spirit! I say we put them on display now … today.”

Louis averted his eyes.

“What the blazes, Louis? Don’t tell me you’re in agreement with these cretins!”

“Don’t be an ass, Henry. I want the piece in the showroom as much as you do, but I gave the board the power to override my decisions with a majority vote, and I’m bound to honor their decision.”

At the lie, Henry bit his tongue. It was common knowledge that Charles Tiffany had handpicked the board of directors before providing the seed money for his son’s company. The unwritten rule, strictly adhered to, was that none of his son’s business ventures were to go forward without his approval.

Louis lifted the drape once more. “I am tempted to send it to the showroom despite the veto.”

“We’d be deluged with orders,” Henry urged.

“That’s the problem. As long as my fa—” He caught himself. “As long as Mitchell can convince the board that the production cost of a single unit can’t be recouped in the retail price, my hands are tied.”

“That’s absurd! They know perfectly well that we could charge far more than the cost of making such an item.”

“Knowing they can is one thing; actually giving their permission to do so is an entirely different matter.” Louis slapped his knees and stood abruptly. “But—there it is, and there’s no changing their minds for the time being. Miss Wolcott will have to return to her work on the windows.
I’ll break the news on Monday. The sooner she knows, the sooner she’ll get over her disappointment.”

“Make sure to tell her that you and I supported the idea,” Henry said. “I prefer she not think that we all went against it.”

“About Mitchell’s accusation this morning, Henry, that business about your interest in the lamp being tied to a more personal interest in Miss Wolcott? I think in the future it might be wise for you to guard against fraternizing so closely with the hired women.”

He halted Henry’s protest with a look. “You have Miss Wolcott’s reputation to think of. Your association might foster jealousies and malicious gossip among the other girls, which, in turn, could ultimately hurt production. While I’m the first to admit she is a charming woman, you need keep in mind that Miss Wolcott is only a hired worker and you are a director. You should find a young woman of your own station. If I were your age and single again, I’d be—”