by Echo Heron
“I don’t believe so,” Clara said, arranging her skirts around her. “You do have a tendency to play your cards rather close to the vest, Mr. Driscoll.”
He chuckled. “I suppose that is the way of most men in my business. Discretion is the better part of making a good deal. Why, I remember once when I was first—”
“You were speaking about your wife?” She was tired and wanted to go to bed.
“Ah, yes. Catherine was a devout woman, although fanaticism might better describe her religious zeal. Our daughter, Mary, was a docile child. By the time she was ten, she’d been so beaten down by her mother’s strenuous daily catechism and stern rules, that there wasn’t an ounce of self-will or joy left in her. I tried to intervene, but Mrs. Driscoll was not to be deterred in her mission.” He made a helpless gesture. “She put Mary in a convent at the age of thirteen.”
Horrified, Clara pulled back. “But surely you could have withheld your consent?”
“I never gave my consent; it was solely her mother’s doing. When Mrs. Driscoll died a few years later, I went to the Mother Superior to demand that my daughter be released. I was informed that her soul was committed to God, and any further attempt on my part to see her would be denied. I challenged this but learned soon enough there was no reasoning with the church.”
Clara imagined being bullied into joining some primitive cloister and felt a burst of gratitude for her mother’s wisdom in giving her daughters the freedom to choose how, and even if, they wanted to make religion part of their lives.
“Is there some way in which I can assist?” she asked, unable to fathom why he was revealing the intimate details of his life. “Perhaps you‘d like me to accompany you to the convent?”
He shook his head. “I am telling you this so that you might understand how alone I’ve been. I miss having the gentle influence of a woman in my life. I want my life to be more than an endless succession of days filled with business and meaningless talk. Until I met you, I’d barely been able to discern one day from the next. May I speak plainly?”
She managed a ghost of a smile, apprehension settling in her stomach like a block of ice. “Of course.”
He went to the cabinet and poured them each a glass of sherry.
She raised her eyebrows. “Is it that bad, Mr. Driscoll? Shall I brace myself?”
Maintaining a serious demeanor, he set her sherry on the table in front of her. “I am not a young man, Clara, however I am a successful one. I beg you, do not take offense at my trespassing into your private matters, but I’ve recently been made aware that you are in need of financial assistance. In short, I wish to relieve you of your difficulties.”
A surge of anxiety brought her to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and I’d like to retire to my room. Perhaps we could have this discussion some other time?”
He touched her hand. “Please, let me finish.”
Reluctantly, she sat back down.
“Besides offering security, I wish to provide you with a comfortable life—trips abroad and perhaps a studio where you could work. We might even open a gallery shop where Josephine could have her own dressmaker’s studio.
“Of course, it goes without question that Josephine would share our home and continue her art studies. We’d have a jolly time of it, if you would … I mean, if you’d like to—”
Out of patience, Clara stood abruptly. “Mr. Driscoll! What are you proposing?”
“Why, that is exactly what I’m doing: proposing. I am asking you to be my wife.”
She fixed her attention on the portrait of President Harrison on the wall behind him. More than anything, she wanted to bolt up the stairs and barricade the door against him and his offers.
He gripped her hands. “I may not seem like a man capable of harboring tender affections, but I love you, Clara. I’ve loved you from the first.”
Alarmed, she forcibly pulled her hands out of his grasp and hid them under her cape. “I’m at a loss for words; you’ve caught me by surprise.”
“Surprise? Why, every boarder here knows of my feelings for you. Even the servants have their suspicions. I am a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.”
That his intimate feelings for her were common knowledge distressed her almost as much as his proposal. The misery she felt showed plainly on her face. “I must have time to think this through.”
“Take all the time you need, my dear. I’m not so vain as to imagine you harbor the same feelings for me, but I pray that in time you might come to love me.”
He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his words were rushed and lurching. “Rest assured that I won’t … I would not require you to …” He drained his glass. “At my age, I have no need for more progeny, nor would I want to subject you to the dangers of confinement, unless, of course … What I mean to say is that I realize you are young and vital, and if you harbored any such desires, I would … I could accommodate your wishes, although I’m not the sort of man to demand that you perform the duties of … that you fulfill the wifely obligations of the ah … marriage bed.”
Clara hurriedly made her way to the door. “While I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Driscoll, I’m not—”
“My dearest.” He took a step toward her, his arms open.
Thinking he meant to kiss her, she shied away in disgust.
He lowered his arms, the hurt evident on his face. “Your happiness is of the utmost importance to me,” he said softly. “I won’t press you for an answer now. I only wish to free you from your difficulties, not add to them.”
“I don’t mean to appear dismissive, Mr. Driscoll, but it’s late, and my mind is occupied with matters at work.”
Mr. Driscoll kissed her hand. “I understand. Shall I see you at breakfast?”
“No. I have a meeting with Mr. Tiffany first thing in the morning, so I’ll be leaving earlier than usual.” She withdrew her hand and shoved it under her cape, surreptitiously wiping away his touch. “Good night.”
She grasped the newel post, and in her haste to escape, tripped over the first step. Embarrassed, she regained her poise and started up the stairs. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d been given a death sentence; she’d simply been asked for her hand in marriage.
In their room, it wasn’t difficult to surmise from Josie’s ragged breathing and a laughable attempt at feigned sleep, that she’d been eavesdropping.
“Whatever possessed you to tell Mr. Driscoll of our difficulties?” Clara asked, lowering herself onto the edge of the bed. “Do you have any idea of the trouble your foolish meddling has caused?”
Josie sat up, tangled in the confusion of bedding. “I only asked him to help me find a position. How was I to know he’d use that as a reason to propose?”
Clara turned on her. “You don’t have the constitution for any situation other than commissions for fashion design, and how many of those do you think will find their way to Miss Todd’s boardinghouse and be handed to you on a silver platter?”
“My constitution is fine,” Josie shot back.
“Then you are either deluded or deaf! The doctor said your heart couldn’t withstand strain of any sort.” She pressed her palms hard against her eyes. “I don’t know how you did it, Jo, but somehow you’ve managed to create a disaster.”
“You’re being dramatic. Mr. Driscoll would do anything to make you happy. We … you would want for nothing. You could have a home of your own with a hired woman to cook and keep house. Mama, Emily and Kate wouldn’t have to worry about tuitions and the cost of keeping up the farm. I could stay in New York and continue my lessons, and you could … you could …” She bit her lip. “Oh. I forgot.”
“You forgot?” Clara said, her temper flaring, “Forgot that as a married woman I’d be required to give up my work? Forgot the possibility that I might someday be granted a position as head designer for Tiffany’s, the most prestigious design firm in New York? How could you, Josie?”
“But Mr. Driscoll is an honora
ble man. Aunt Josephine always says that a marriage based on romantic love fades like cut flowers, but marriage to an honorable man is as strong as an oak.”
“Aunt Josephine is a spinster,” Clara retorted. “She’s not exactly the best person to be giving sermons on the finer points of marriage.”
“All right,” Josie groaned, “I’ll write to Mama. Perhaps Kate and I can start our own dressmaking business. With her sewing skills and my designs, I’ll bet I could earn enough over the winter to come back next fall and finish my lessons. Of course, by that time you’ll be head manager of Tiffany’s, earning as much money as Mr. Belknap and Mr. Driscoll put together.” Filled with a dreamer’s confidence, Josie lay back smiling, happy with her reinvented world.
Clara shook her head and sighed. “All right, Jo. Don’t write to Mama yet. We won’t make any decisions until we’ve looked at all our options.”
With the discovery of the ragged tear in the hem of her gown, Clara was sure there were evil forces at work trying to knock her down. It would be at least two more seasons before she could afford a new evening dress, and maybe not even then. A tailor could make it right, but might charge as much as a dollar to replace the panel with the right match of silk. There was no room for such a luxury with the weekly budget already stretched by Josie’s tonics and special diet. She would have to purchase a cheap piece of trim and ask Josie to fix it as best she could.
The gown slipped from her fingers and lay crumpled between her feet. Making no move to retrieve it, she glanced around the room, taking in the abundant signs of their poverty. Inside the armoire were two well-worn nightgowns, numerous sets of cotton underwear handed down from her grandmother, one pair of heavy stockings, two sad-looking waists and two skirts, all of which had been made over and patched a half dozen times. Her only serviceable pair of flat work shoes were falling apart, and the black broadcloth coat she’d purchased at a seconds sale hung at the back of the wardrobe next to the linen traveling suit her mother had worn before the Civil War. The thought of suffering through another New York winter with only the thin coat to protect her brought her to despair. Mr. Driscoll’s proposal would free them from poverty, but marriage was the last thing she wanted.
She worked her hair into a braid and stepped out of her petticoats. His words about wifely duties and sharing a bed made her insides shrivel. Not that she was ignorant about that type of passion. After all, she was the favored confidante for girls who told her, in unrestrained detail, about their torrid romantic adventures. While these colorful narratives both fascinated and embarrassed her, they also left her in awe of the girls’ effortless ability to flow to emotional depths she could not even begin to imagine.
She scrubbed her face and neck, doubt already tearing at the edges of her decision to refuse him. For a woman of twenty-seven, the likelihood of receiving further marriage proposals was slim to none.
Shedding the steel cage of her corset, she checked her image in the mirror. If she wanted to be presentable for her meeting with Mr. Tiffany she would have to rise earlier than the others in order to have enough warm water for a bath and shampoo. There was nothing to be done about the poor condition of her skirts, but she would take care to wear the nicer of her two waists—the one Mr. Tiffany once complimented.
Once her lamp designs were in production, she was sure to receive a substantial increase in pay. With that, they could manage on their own. Her spirits lifted by the thought, she crawled into bed next to Josie.
In good conscience she couldn’t allow Mr. Driscoll to make such a generous offer, especially since she didn’t return his feelings. Be it her last marriage proposal or not, she was resolute—she would wait whatever number of days was considered proper etiquette, and then kindly, but firmly, refuse Mr. Driscoll’s offer.
Lenox Hill
September 29, 1889
Sleep impossible, as I am still tortured by the thoughtless lack of vision on the part of the ‘King of Diamonds.’ I pray for the day I’m freed from Father’s iron chancellorism and in charge of my own fate.
Halfway through family dinner tonight, Burnie arrived with a woman of low character, both of them reeking of drink. Without regard for my children, my wife or our mother, he goaded father for money. He was shameless, using language so vile Louise was forced to take the children to the nursery. When Father refused his demands, he stormed from the house with his whore in tow, but not without first smashing my best Moroccan vase to bits. One might think we are of no better breeding than the human vermin who inhabit Five Points.
Last night’s dream will not leave me. Clara, dressed in flowered robes, finds me wandering the desert and feeds me petals from the cloth. I pull her down to lie with me and then awaken with the feel of her lips still on mine. A maddening passion lingered, until I was driven to seek relief from a much-surprised Louise.
I have begun drafting plans for the architectural masterwork that will someday be my home. L.C.T.
~ 6 ~
Tiffany’s
September 30, 1889
Dear Ones,
I have a few minutes before I meet with Mr. Tiffany about my lamp designs. I’m nervous as a cat, but hopeful.
Someday, I’d like to live in the country and combine artwork and gardening. I could also teach artisans how to make the things that appeal to the wealthy. It seems to me there would be enough money in that to make for a comfortable and productive life.
Don’t worry anymore about the broken harness, Mama. Bring it to the blacksmith without delay, and tell him to send me his bill.
I must leave off here to make myself presentable. I try to follow Mr. Belknap’s example of good grooming, although I stop short of manicured nails. My hands are put to hard use in this workplace, so I doubt I shall ever have the luxury of having pretty hands.
How lovely that Rev. Cutler painted the parlor and all three bedrooms, and in just two days! Thank him for us and give him our best regards.
Love to all, Clara
P.S. Mama: I haven’t forgotten to have my photos taken—I’m just waiting to be better looking.
CLARA SWAYED, GRIPPING the edge of Louis Tiffany’s desk for support. She was having difficulty keeping her voice steady. “I don’t understand. People are certain to notice my lamps. I thought that was what you wanted.”
“Miss Wolcott,” Louis began, regret lacing his voice, “There is no question that these designs would draw attention, if displayed. Unfortunately, the board has determined that Tiffany’s cannot justify spending money on a new project at this time. That’s not to say we won’t reconsider these and similar designs in the future.”
He put his arm gently about her shoulders. “Please, sit down. You look unwell.” Lowering her into the chair, he did not let go right away. Even with the disappointment still settling inside her, she was acutely aware of his face being so near that she was able to make out the small white striations that lined the blue of his eyes. She gave him a questioning glance that sent him back to his desk.
“I’m sorry for your disappointment, but you mustn’t take this personally, Miss Wolcott—it’s business. As soon as the company is stable, we’ll review the lamp designs again, but for now I must ask that you return to your work in the window department.”
Without stopping to consider what she was doing, she got to her feet, glaring at him. “How could you allow this? Are you not the owner of this company? Surely you can order—”
“No, I cannot!” he shouted. “The board has made its decision, and I refuse to second-guess them on your account.”
She drew back as if jerked by a rope, a deep blush replacing her pallid complexion. “In that case, I must ask … no, I insist on an increase in my salary.”
From his astonished expression, she guessed no other female employee had ever spoken to him in such a manner. “I appreciate my employment here, but I’m barely able to afford room and board. Considering the quality of my work, I think I deserve a higher wage.”
“If I give in to you
r request, how long will it be before you insist on another increase?” Louis said between clenched teeth. “I can just imagine the idea spreading like influenza among the other girls. Within no time there would be a line of women outside my office door, demanding their due, as if Tiffany Glass were a charity instead of a business.”
He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and slammed it down. “The rest of the board would never grant such a request. It’s out of the question.”
The thought of the thousands of hours she’d worked to oblige his demands filled her with despair and anger. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Tiffany, but my responsibilities and contributions to this company far outweigh those of the men. Yet, for all my efforts, I receive less than half what they are paid. And, while I appreciate being appointed assistant manager, as near as I can tell, I am the only manager.”
Louis jumped to his feet, the veins in his neck standing out. “How dare you! I will not tolerate your attempts to erode my authority, Miss Wolcott.” He paused and swallowed. “You are a talented employee, and there may be some merit to your boldness, but you’ve far overstepped your boundaries. For as much as I’d like to help you, I don’t have the authority to raise your salary or your status. You’ll have to take up those matters with Mr. Mitchell.”
He flung open the door. “You have tried my patience to the limit. If you’ll excuse me, I have other business to which I must attend.”
She picked up her drawings and the lamp and turned to leave.
“I’ll retain the design sketches and the lamp, Miss Wolcott. Leave them.”
At a loss to understand, she looked from him to the things in her hands. They were her creations; they belonged to her as surely as a child belongs to his mother. “But … they’re mine. I made them. You can’t—”
Louis brought the heavy ebony cane against the door with such force as to split the wood. The piercing noise was like the retort of a pistol shot. He poised the cane for a second strike. “That lamp and every one of those drawings belong to me! You were paid to create them. Return them to my desk immediately!”