by Echo Heron
ALSO BY ECHO HERON
NONFICTION:
Intensive Care; The Story of a Nurse
Condition Critical; The Story of a Nurse Continues
Tending Lives; Nurses on the Medical Front
NOVELS:
Mercy: a novel
MYSTERIES:
The Adele Monsarrat series:
Pulse
Panic
Paradox
Fatal Diagnosis
NOON AT TIFFANY’S
an historical, biographical novel
ECHO HERON
Noon at Tiffany’s is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the known actual people, events and locales that figure in the narrative, some of the names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or to living persons is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Echo Heron
All rights reserved
Published in the United States by Heron Quill Press, LLC.
Noon at Tiffany’s:
an historical, biographical novel /Echo Heron
ISBN: 978-1-938439-71-1 (ePub)
Printed in the United States of America 2012
www.EchoHeron.com
Cover design by Daniel Magil/ danmagil.com
Top cover photo by Steven Vermillion
Photo of Clara Wolcott courtesy of Linda Alexander
Bottom cover image: Tiffany Daffodil leaded lamp/designer:
Clara Driscoll/Telome4/CC-BY-SA 1.0
Interior images used by permission from Jupiter Images.
QED stands for Quality, Excellence and Design. The QED seal of approval shown here verifies that this eBook has passed a rigorous quality assurance process and will render well in most eBook reading platforms.
For more information please click here.
In memory of Clara Pierce Wolcott Driscoll Booth December 15, 1861 – November 6, 1944
When I see her mosaics, lamps and windows now, I see my sister’s soul. I have always thought of Clara as one of the special heroines of God’s world. We have been singled out to enjoy the blessing of her companionship; we have walked in her light. Her memory is a star that will move on before us to the end.
Emily Wolcott, 1944
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I began writing this book in January 2007, after hearing a National Public Radio broadcast about the discovery of a cache of 1,330 letters written between 1853 and the 1930s. The majority of this collection is made up of the weekly round robin letters circulated among Clara Wolcott, two of her three sisters, Emily and Kate, and their mother, Fannie. What makes these letters so noteworthy is the secret revealed within their yellowed pages—that Clara was, in fact, the designer of the iconic Tiffany lamps and of many of the glass and mosaic pieces that Louis C. Tiffany claimed were his own designs.
For most of my writing life I have endeavored to champion remarkable women who unjustly go unrecognized simply because they are women. By the time I had finished reading Clara’s letters, in which she gives vivid accounts of her daily life in turn-of-the-century New York City, I felt I had to bring this incredible woman out from behind Louis Tiffany’s shadow and into her own light. There was no doubt in my mind that not only was Clara Wolcott an extraordinary woman, years ahead of her time, she was also unquestionably one of America’s most prolific and original artists.
Since Clara’s letters form the foundation of this book, I have used sections of the Wolcott letters and diary entries to fashion portions of the dialogue, story lines and scenes. I also relied on my own intuition based on my research into the events and mood of the place and time.
I derived my characterization of Louis Comfort Tiffany’s personality and psychology from the abundant source materials available, including but not limited to his biographers and memoirists. Although I relied on my research to form Louis Tiffany’s diary entries, they are conjectural, since few of his personal accounts are in existence.
In the instance of Clara’s visit to the church in Troy, NY, the particular windows I describe in that scene are invented, although in fact, Troy’s St. Paul’s, St. John’s and St. Joseph’s do have a magnificent collection of Tiffany Studios windows.
While I have tried to capture the essence of truth, if not always the precision of factual detail, in depicting the events and characters in this book, I have not hesitated to bend personalities, time, and events to suit the fictional needs of a novel. I trust what liberties I have taken will be forgiven.
If you will, take a closer look at the book cover. The pensive woman in the photograph is Clara. I think, after all these years of silence, she would be honored for you to read her story.
Round robin (round rob•in)
Noun
a letter, notice, or the like, circulated from person to person in a group, often with individual comments being added by each individual in turn.
Table of Contents
Part 1 - 1888–1892
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part 2 - 1896–1908
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part 3 - 1908–1933
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
A Note On Sources
Acknowledgments
1888 ~ 1892
~ 1 ~
May 7, 1888
Tiffany Glass Company
333-35 Fourth Avenue at East Twenty-fifth Street,
Manhattan
A TEAM OF WILD-EYED HORSES rounded the corner at a reckless speed at the same moment that Clara Wolcott and her younger sister reached the middle of the intersection. Frozen in mid-step, Clara focused instinctively on the panicked driver, who stood on the dray’s platform, straining against the reins for control. She heard screams as the horses veered sharply at the last second, sending the overloaded cart up onto two wheels, where it teetered and then righted itself with a loud crash. The animals thundered past with only an inch to spare.
Clara let out a breath and tightened her grip on the handle of her portfolio, somewhat pleased at her increasing ability to take these daily death-defying events in stride. When she’d first arrived in New York, merely the sound of an approaching wagon had turned her weak-kneed. She gave her skirts a perfunctory shake and resumed her brisk pace through the cloud of dust.
Josie ran after her, clutching her hat. “For God’s sake, won’t you please slow down?”
“Prestigious businessmen such as Mr. Tiffany don’t like to be kept waiting by anyone, especially two poverty-stricken newcomers who come begging favors,” Clara shouted over the noise of the carriages.
“We aren’t poverty-stricken, and you aren’t a newcomer, Clara. You’ve been in New York for well over a year.”
“Which is why you should listen to me when I tell you that being late for an interview practically guarantees you’ll soon be poverty-stricken.”
Clara continued toward the Tiffany building, giving no indication that beneath her composed exterior, she was a mass of roiling nerves. It still didn’t seem possible that she was about to present her work to
Louis Tiffany. If meeting the magnate wasn’t pressure enough, her mother and sisters were sure to have told every living soul within a fifty-mile radius of their farm in Ohio that she and Josie were, at this very moment, heading into an interview that would determine their fate. They would assuredly be the main topic of conversation at every supper table throughout Tallmadge and Kent for weeks.
They were halfway across the building lobby when a stout gentleman, intent on his pocket watch, collided with Clara, knocking the portfolio from her hand and the derby from his head.
“Watch where you’re going!” he growled, retrieving his hat.
Clara turned a withering eye on him. Even after a year of being subjected to the coarse manners that prevailed among the men of New York, she still had difficulty coming to grips with their disregard for women. No man in Tallmadge—or even Cleveland—would ever think of behaving so poorly.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I think you would be better advised to go where you’re watching!”
“What impudence! Women shouldn’t be allowed to barge about the streets like wild animals!”
“And you, sir, need to be reeducated in the basics of how a civilized man should behave in polite society.”
His face suffused with color, he stalked off, his hat lopsided.
She retrieved her case, stealing a glance at her sister. Hand pressed against the middle of her chest, as if to smother the pain that often resided there, Josie was pale, her face beaded with perspiration. Clara averted her gaze. Any other day she would have insisted they sit and rest, but today she couldn’t allow Josie’s poor health to delay them. A position at Tiffany’s was her entrance into a world she’d dreamed of since the moment she realized her life’s purpose was to create art. If her sister wanted to fit into the life of a New York artist, she would have to grow tougher skin.
Clara caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors that lined the lobby walls and stopped to make sure she was presentable. She’d gone without lunch for a week so she could afford to rent the blue taffeta gown that flowed over the length of her figure. Cut tight across her slender waist and hips, but draped full over the bustle, the garment was so recently out of fashion that only the most observant dressmaker would know it was last year’s style.
Josie came to stand next to her. Both women were considered attractive by current standards, though they were of a completely different cast of features. Clara’s hazel eyes, prominent cheekbones and sensuous mouth gave her a marked exotic appearance, contrasting sharply with Josie’s girlish, wholesome mien.
She glanced at the lobby clock and grabbed Josie’s hand. “We have to hurry!”
Three steps into the climb, she spied an unattended elevator cage and did an about face. “Let’s use the lift.”
Josie stopped short. “I won’t ride in that contraption. We’ll plummet to our deaths.”
“Don’t be silly. Elevators are a modern marvel. We’ll shoot up three stories in a matter of seconds and emerge looking as fresh as if we had stepped out of a bandbox.”
Josie blotted her face and neck with a hanky she pulled from her sleeve. “I’d rather rush and look like a beggar than risk my life in that mechanical deathtrap.”
Privately thankful she didn’t have to demonstrate her ignorance of how to actually operate the machine, Clara nonetheless gave an exasperated sigh before following her sister up the stairs.
Clara had just raised a hand to knock on the door displaying the name Louis C. Tiffany in gold script when a rush of raw panic overtook her. Closing her eyes, she did a quick review of her work. Surely, it was as good as any she’d seen in the galleries, and, despite his great wealth and notoriety, Louis Tiffany couldn’t help but recognize that. After all, he was a fellow artist—though, in her private estimation, his paintings and stained glass lacked passion and confidence. It was her belief that his true talent lay in his innovative and flamboyant architectural designs.
As she lifted her hand again, a strikingly handsome gentleman in a beige pongee suit opened the door. He made no attempt to greet them, but rather stared at Clara as if he were seeing a ghost. The moment might have been awkward had she not also been rendered speechless by the physical reality of Louis Tiffany. The slim, elegantly groomed gentleman before her did not conform to the fat and jowly exterior she’d imagined. Unsure of what to say or do, she smiled.
He reanimated at once. “Forgive me. Please come in. I am Louis Tiffany.”
Clara breached the rules of genteel feminine conduct and extended her hand before he did. “I am Miss Clara Wolcott, and this is my sister, Miss Josephine Wolcott.”
“You’re directly on time,” he said shaking her hand. “A few seconds early in fact. I assume you had no trouble finding your way?”
“I’m quite familiar with this part of the city,” she replied, remedying the quiver in her voice by clearing her throat. “And I do try to be punctual, despite carriage drivers’ consistent attempts to run me over.”
He didn’t appear to be listening, nor had he given up her hand. Rather, he was again absorbed in studying her. Unable to restrain herself, Clara openly examined him in return. He was inarguably good-looking, a man who could easily turn women’s heads. His careless dark curls looked tossed about, as if he’d been caught in a windstorm—a contrast to the neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His broad forehead, wide mouth and straight nose were perfectly formed, but it was his eyes that commanded attention. Large and brilliant blue, they had a sharp, penetrating quality, like that of a bird of prey. They gave her the eerie feeling he could look inside her and know her thoughts.
A man standing half-hidden in the darkest corner coughed and stepped forward.
Tiffany dropped her hand at once. “May I introduce Mr. Henry Wyckoff Belknap, the artistic director here at Tiffany Glass,” he paused and then added, “… second to myself, of course.”
The diminutive, impeccably dressed gentleman stepped out of the shadows, greeting them with a bow and a kind smile. He was so slender and youthful looking, he could easily have passed as a young boy.
“Please sit down, ladies.” Mr. Tiffany gestured toward the two chairs that faced his desk. He placed himself directly in front of them, adjusted his pince-nez and commenced reading a document she recognized as her resumé.
Blinded by the glare from the window behind him, she dug her heels into the rug and tried unsuccessfully to push back the heavy chair. Not to be deterred, she positioned herself in Tiffany’s shadow in order to judge his reactions.
“I see here that after high school you taught for a short time?”
Relieved that he hadn’t started with a more challenging line of inquiry, Clara nodded. “Yes, I took a position teaching in a private girls’ school, but didn’t care for the work. My aim in life has always been to be a designer.”
She pulled her portfolio onto her lap and began unfastening the straps. “As I mentioned in my letter, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing some of my—”
“After you gave up your teaching position, you enrolled in the Western Reserve School of Design for Women where you graduated first in your class with honors. Is this correct?”
“Yes. While I was in—”
He fixed her with a look. “When did you discover your path as an artist, and, how did you end up here in my office?”
She took his direct manner as an invitation to answer in kind. “It was my mother who recognized my talent early on and sent me to Cleveland. While there, I soon learned of the exalted role the arts play in New York City. After that, there was no question that New York was where I wanted to be.
“A few years later, my closest friend, Alice Gouvy, proposed we move here and attend the Art Students’ League together. To help cover expenses, I took a position modeling for Mr. Waldo’s illustration classes; he’s the gentleman who told me Tiffany’s was looking for women artists with experience in—”
“You also write that you are in excellent health, take daily exercise, and enjoy opera and t
he theater?”
Momentarily perplexed by the sudden turn of the interview’s focus, she recalled George Waldo’s warning that Tiffany had a reputation for being eccentric and that she shouldn’t worry if he had a sudden turn to the fanciful.
“I walk a great deal, and when I’m able to afford the theater, I like—”
“Ah, the theater, one of my favorite entertainments.” Tiffany regarded her with unconcealed amusement. “Whom do you consider to be the greatest actors on the stage today, Miss Wolcott?”
She thought for a moment. “Without doubt I would say Sarah Bernhardt and, of course, Mr. Booth. He is by far the greatest tragedian of our age, and Miss Bernhardt has a most eloquent manner of speech. I believe she—”
“But Mr. Booth is the brother of John Wilkes Booth, the man who assassinated President Lincoln, is he not?”
“Yes,” she replied hesitantly, “though the relation does not appear to have affected his acting abilities. Indeed, from what I’ve read, all three Booth brothers have proved themselves to be highly talented thespians, irrespective of any wayward political beliefs they may have held.”
“I see.” Tiffany pinched the corners of his mouth and resumed reading. A moment later, his eyes lit up with a modicum of excitement. “You held a managerial position with Ransom and Company in Cleveland designing Moorish-style fretwork and furniture?”
Happy to be returned to the safe ground of her resumé, she brightened. “Yes, I was head designer there for two years and managed fifteen workers who—”
“I have a great fondness for that style,” Tiffany cut in. “I employ the Moorish influence in many of my own architectural endeavors, in both interiors and exteriors.”
“While I agree Moorish design is intriguing,” she said, not at all convinced that giving her unsolicited opinion was in her best interest, especially since it didn’t entirely agree with his ideas, “and the Moorish influence is fine for broad use in architecture, as you have brilliantly demonstrated in your building on Lenox Hill, my own tastes and interests lean toward Oriental simplicity for interiors. It seems much more suited to decorative elegance and personal comfort. The Japanese style of minimal decoration and clean lines is, in my estimation, the most—”