Noon at Tiffany's

by Echo Heron

  “Surely, as soon as you knew where you were, you made him take you away from there?” It wasn’t a question, but rather an assumption.

  “Of course,” Clara lied, “but I was tempted to stay.” She looked aimlessly around the room. “I hate being cooped up for months on end! I wish I could just go off on my own.”

  “Perhaps we should have Mr. McBride write another play,” Alice suggested, “one in which you can play the villain. That should liven you up a little.”

  “I don’t want to act in some silly play, Alice. I want to be doing something that has real meaning.” She checked her watch again. “I hope Mr. Driscoll hasn’t forgotten that he’s reading the final chapter of Treasure Island tonight. The residents have already moved chairs into the ballroom; it promises to be a full house.”

  The hard, insistent knock that came an hour later did not alarm her, for she intuited the importance of this particular summons. With a resigned sigh she opened the door to what fate had brought her.

  February 21, 1892

  Hotel San Remo

  Numb with exhaustion Clara measured out several drops of peppermint oil into a glass of warm water and prepared to rinse her husband’s mouth. For the two days since he’d been carried home half-conscious between two policemen, Francis Driscoll had labored for his every breath. She’d insisted on tending to him herself, never leaving his bedside except when exhaustion forced her into a few moments of fitful sleep. Alice made sure to keep her fed and in constant supply of hot tea or coffee, while Josie tactfully turned away well-wishers and the morbidly curious.

  Clara moistened a piece of cotton with the peppermint water and daubed it over his parched lips. Francis’s eyes flew open, a crazed, frightened expression twisting his features into an ugly mask. He searched the room, frantically tugging at her sleeve.

  “What is it, dear? Do you need more sedative? Shall I send Josie upstairs to fetch Dr. Hydecker?”

  Mr. Driscoll shook his head, his lips moving without sound. He turned pleading eyes on the glass of water. His thirst had been relentless, though she dared not go against Dr. Hydecker’s orders that his patient was to be restricted to only a few ounces of water, so as not to overburden his failing heart. It was an order she found hard to enforce.

  She propped him up with extra pillows and pressed the glass to his lips. “Rinse your mouth and spit out the rest. Remember what Dr. Hydecker told you about the—”

  Francis grasped her arm, knocking the glass to the floor. She moved to pick up the shattered pieces, but he held her fast with a strength that shocked and frightened her.

  “I’m done for,” he rasped. “Forgive me. I forgot …” He pulled her close. The fetid smell of his breath brought the bile to the back of her throat.

  “I meant to, Clara, but I—”

  Summoned by the sound of breaking glass, both Alice and Josie appeared in the doorway.

  “Alice, run upstairs and bring Dr. Hydecker,” Clara ordered, unable to keep the alarm out of her voice. “Tell him it’s urgent. Josie, make hot compresses. His legs and hands are cold as ice.”

  Josie did not move, but gaped at the wild-eyed man struggling for air.

  “Do it now!” Clara shouted. “Go!”

  Josie’s skirts swished as she vanished into the dark of the hallway at a run.

  “Out of time,” Mr. Driscoll panted. “Forgive me.”

  She stroked the side of his face. “You’ve done nothing to forgive. You are—”

  His fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “I failed you both. Forgive—”

  Clara eased her arm from his grip and pushed what was left of his hair back from his forehead. His face distorted in a grimace of pain, as his eyes rolled back into his head.

  She glanced nervously toward the door, desperately wanting the doctor to appear. “You mustn’t tax yourself, Francis. Dr. Hydecker said—”

  His eyes bored into hers. “Let me go!” He struck out with his fists, kicking at the bedclothes. “I’ve got to … got to …”

  She fought to gain control of his hands, watching in horror as the sickly gray of his skin took on a mottled purple hue. She captured one hand as his body arched, went rigid, and began to jerk. Bloody foam oozed from between his clenched teeth and down his chin.

  She threw herself on top of him to stop the bucking motions of his body. He was still thrashing when his bladder released, soaking the front of her dress.

  Dr. Hydecker hurried into the room, a napkin still tucked into his collar, his suspenders hanging loose at his sides. Undoing the clasps of his medical bag, he removed a glass syringe and vial.

  “Help him!” Clara gasped. “For God’s sake, do something!”

  Quickly filling the syringe, he pushed her away from the bed and injected his seizing patient. Within seconds, the seizure lost its grip, leaving Driscoll’s body limp.

  Clara approached the bed and peered into her husband’s face. His eyes were glazed. “Francis? I forgive you for whatever it is you believe you’ve done. I …”

  Francis sat up with a jerk and sucked in a breath with the force of a drowning man breaking through the water’s surface. For several seconds he stared at her, then fell back onto the bed, air escaping his lungs in an eerie moan as his eyes shifted toward the ceiling, fixed in an unseeing stare.

  She waited for his next breath. When it didn’t come, Dr. Hydecker pressed his stethoscope to Francis’s chest and listened, at the same time feeling for a pulse. A moment later he straightened. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Driscoll, but your husband has—”

  “No!” She shook her head, not wanting to hear the word. She brought Mr. Driscoll’s hand to her lips, the cool, clammy feel of his skin proof of what she did not want to believe.

  Dr. Hydecker let out a breath that spoke of his frustration at failing to keep death at bay. He dismantled the glass syringe and wrapped the pieces in a cloth soaked in disinfectant. The smell turned her stomach.

  “How could this happen?” she whispered.

  “He wouldn’t let me help him,” he said more to himself than to her. “For the last two years he has refused every medication I prescribed and ignored all my advice. There was nothing I could do.”

  From one of the other rooms came the sound of Josie weeping. Clara knew she should go to her, but could not make herself leave Mr. Driscoll. Her mind refused to focus on the enormity of what had taken place. She stepped back and heard the crunch of glass under her shoe. Dropping to her knees she began picking up the shards, unaware of the glass stabbing into her flesh.

  The doctor pulled her to her feet and examined the cuts to her hands and fingers. When he had finished cleaning her wounds with antiseptic, he called for Alice to take her to her room and put her to bed. Once she was bathed and in her nightgown, Clara refused to get into bed. “It isn’t right that I should be in here, while Mr. Driscoll is in there alone,” she argued, slipping into her wrapper. “I need to see to the arrangements.”

  “Dr. Hydecker and I will wait for the undertaker,” Alice said. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to be making arrangements. You should rest now and tomorrow—”

  “You don’t understand!” Clara pulled away. “I’m his wife; I should be with him.”

  She reached the door just as Dr. Hydecker returned with a glass of water into which he had stirred a packet of sleeping powder. “Drink this. I’ve given your sister the same draught. Hopefully, you’ll both sleep through the night.”

  “I don’t want sleep! If I don’t make myself useful, I’ll lose my mind.”

  “You’re in no condition to be of use to anyone, Mrs. Driscoll.” He put the drink in her hand. “You’ve had a grave shock and need to conserve your strength. You’ll need it in the days to come.”

  He turned to Alice. “I’ll call on Mrs. Driscoll and her sister first thing in the morning. If you have further need of me tonight, don’t hesitate to knock on my door. Should I be out attending another patient, my wife is a trained nurse and will be able to care for Mrs. Driscoll and
her sister until my return. For now, we should leave Mrs. Driscoll to her rest and retire to the parlor.”

  As soon as they were gone, Clara set aside the potion. She refused to take the easy way through her grief. Instead, she would take firm hold of the sorrow and pull it into herself, letting it whip and roil until it was done with her. Opening the door a crack, she peered into the parlor, where Alice and the doctor sat talking with their backs to her. Noiselessly, she tiptoed into Francis’s room.

  In death, he did not look like the man he’d been in life. She didn’t know this placid face. The face of the Francis Driscoll she knew had never been this still, not even when he slept.

  Not knowing what else to do, she removed his nightshirt and bathed him, scrubbing away all trace of blood and soil. When she was finished, she took up her sketchpad and pens and began drawing; searching for the man she’d known. In each line, curve and crosshatch, she remembered him—his kindness, his quick smile and the voice that could mesmerize a roomful of people. She recalled his sincerity when he vowed to love her for the remainder of his life.

  By the time she finished the portrait of her dead husband, she’d found her grief.

  Hotel San Remo

  February 23, 1892

  Dear Family,

  You need not come. The worst is over, and the most important things done. I can manage the rest alone. Henry Belknap, George and his brother, Edwin, have been my towers of strength, doing all manner of things to make life easier for us in our time of grieving. Alice, my guardian angel, has not left my side. Now, if only I could sleep. Kate, please send a box of dried chamomile and a jug of Mrs. Price’s best honey. They may help.

  Josie maintains a good attitude, although I think this is a show for my benefit. Emily, please send her some of your humorous drawings of our relatives. They are the only things that might bring a genuine smile to her lips.

  Everything has happened so fast. It’s the oddest thing, but I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and the last few days will all have been a bad dream.

  Love, Clara

  March 1, 1892

  27 Park Place, Manhattan

  Inside the dimly lit office of John C. Dugro, Esq., Clara debated whether or not there were windows behind the books, stacked floor to ceiling against the walls. She decided there were, and turned her attention to the aged Mr. Dugro.

  Magnifying glass held in one tremulous hand, the attorney examined the parchment that was Francis Driscoll’s last will and testament. The cramped and dusty room was so quiet she could hear his beard scrape over the starched collar of his shirt.

  To her left, Mr. Hulse leaned on his walking stick and studied the stacks of books with interest, craning his head every so often in an attempt to read the titles. The three gentlemen to her right were, as near as she could make out, legal representatives of a church in New Jersey.

  For what seemed an interminably long time, no one spoke or made any sound other than the sighs and clearing of throats one usually hears at such solemn occasions. She began to doubt the wisdom of having come alone to the reading, though there wasn’t anyone suitable to accompany her. Alice was indisposed, due to a bad bout of the grippe; George wouldn’t have been able to sit still for five minutes, let alone two hours; and Josie—well, Josie was still hiding inside her cocoon of grief.

  Her own mourning had followed a less traditional course. She’d made endless sketches of Mr. Driscoll, until there were no more places to put them. Once she’d finished with that, she set to putting things in order, scrubbing the suite top to bottom, and then scrubbing it again until exhaustion forced her to her bed, where, for three days, she slept like someone in a coma. When she awoke, she was ready to break free of the imprisonment of mourning and get on with the business of making her way.

  Josie implored her to mourn in the way of other widows, but she could not bring herself to be so false. Death was a fact of life. She’d made the conscious choice to deal with it practically, planning for their future survival and not moldering in some darkened room, squandering precious time.

  Her thoughts returned to the subject of Mr. Driscoll’s will. He’d never discussed his financial arrangements for her, though he often assured her that she would never have cause to worry. Regardless, she was determined to have a studio and gallery shop of her own.

  Mr. Dugro cleared his throat. “I will now commence with the reading of the last will and testament of Mr. Francis S. Driscoll. Unless any of you have an objection to my doing so, I won’t bore you with the legal preambles and minutiae, but will go directly to the bequests.” He solemnly looked at each of them, in turn. Assured of their consent, he held his magnifying glass over the document and began to read.

  “I, Francis S. Driscoll, residing at Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse, 32 Oxford Street, Brooklyn, New York, being sick of body, but sound of mind and memory, and considering the certainty of death and the uncertainty of time thereof, and being desirous of setting my worldly affairs in order, do hereby make and publish this document as my last will and testament on this twenty-seventh day of November, eighteen eighty-nine.”

  The blood drained from her face as she pushed unsteadily to her feet.

  Mr. Dugro looked at her over the tops of his spectacles. “Mrs. Driscoll? Is something wrong?”

  “With all due respect, sir, this can’t be the correct document. We were married November twenty-eighth of that year, one day after he made this will. There must be a more recent will, or surely Mr. Driscoll made a codicil to this one.”

  Mr. Dugro didn’t change his expression or the imperturbable lawyerly drone of his voice. “Unless Mr. Driscoll hired another solicitor to draw up a new will, I am afraid this is the only one he left behind.” He pursed his lips and added, “Mr. Driscoll did make several appointments with me in the last six months, saying that he wanted to draw up a new will, though I regret to say he never kept any of them, nor did he discuss with me what revisions he wanted to make.”

  She lowered herself to the chair, her heart beating hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

  Forgive me. I forgot …

  Her breath grew shallow, as the truth of the matter came to her. She loosened the buttons of her collar. He never mentioned anything about having made appointments with his solicitor—or about forgetting to keep them. But then, he rarely told her the details of his daily dealings, and, she realized with a twinge of regret, it was just as rare for her to ask.

  “Item one,” Mr. Dugro continued. “First and foremost, I commit my soul into the hands of Almighty God our Savior …”

  Clara blinked. In the two years they had been married, she’d not known Mr. Driscoll to be particularly devout. When pressed, he would admit to leaning toward the Methodist Episcopalian faith, but his attendance at church was sporadic, at best, and even then he viewed it more as a social gesture than a religious event.

  “Item two. To Mr. Peter J. Hulse of New York City, my friend and longtime business associate in Empire Properties Incorporated, I hereby acknowledge and honor the terms of our partnership agreement, dated December twenty-first, eighteen seventy-one, including the right of the survivor to all assets and obligations of said partnership in Empire Properties.

  “Further, I release to Peter J. Hulse all proprietary interests in Empire Properties that are held by me at the time of my death to be his as sole proprietor. Any business debts that I may so leave behind, I hereby direct Mr. Hulse to pay in full.

  “Item three. I hereby give and bequeath to my beloved daughter, Mary Margaret Driscoll of the Sisters of Charity of Convent Station, located in New Brunswick, New Jersey, the sum of five thousand dollars, to be held in trust for her by the legal firm of O’Hara and McAvoy, 157 Sutton Street, New Brunswick, New Jersey, attorneys for St. Peter the Apostle Parish, also in New Brunswick.”

  Five thousand dollars to a cloistered nun? Clara bit her lower lip. What could a nun who wasn’t allowed to have so much as a letter from the outside world do with such a fortune?

&nbs
p; “Item four. To my dearest friend …” Mr. Dugro paused. Even in the dim light, his discomfort was obvious. After a momentary silence, he resumed. “To my dearest friend, Clara Pierce Wolcott, of Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse, 32 Oxford Street, Brooklyn, New York, I hereby bequeath the sum of five hundred dollars, all my personal property, including my jewelry, my rare books and my Egyptian antiquities collections, to do with as she pleases.

  “Further, to her sister, Josephine Wolcott, of the same address, I bequeath the sum of two hundred fifty dollars, to be used exclusively for the completion of her art studies at the Art Students’ League of New York City.”

  He rushed on. “Item five. I hereby direct that the remainder of my estate which, at the date of this document, amounts to no less than thirty thousand dollars …”

  There was a sharp, collective gasp. Clara clutched the arm of her chair, her mouth gone dry.

  “… and includes all my personal bank accounts, stocks and bonds heretofore listed at the conclusion of this document, be given to St. Peter the Apostle Parish in the Diocese of Newark, New Jersey. I hereby direct that these monies are specifically to be used in the building and maintenance of an orphanage and school for impoverished children who …”

  Clara stopped listening as despair descended over her. He’d promised.

  I meant to. I forgot …

  He’d betrayed her. How could he have forgotten such an important thing as changing his will? She was his wife.

  I failed you. I forgot …

  Her anguish changed abruptly to guilt. If only she’d talked to him, made him explain his plans instead of waiting for him to bring up the subject. She was sick with the realization that she’d simply not paid attention. She’d been so busy pursuing her own interests and insisting he become part of her life, that she’d not bothered to become a part of his.

  Thirty thousand dollars! She pulled off her gloves and removed her collar altogether, not caring what any of them thought. Perhaps she’d not heard correctly. Mr. Dugro might have said thirteen thousand. But even at that, she could easily have afforded a large studio with a showroom gallery. She could have formed a cooperative with twenty-five or even fifty rentable spaces for the best young artists in New York. With Mr. Belknap’s connections and marketing savvy, the entire lot of them could have made a fortune.