Noon at Tiffany's

by Echo Heron

  She let out a strangled cry and got to her feet. A church! A church he’d never mentioned, let alone frequented. A church in New Jersey, of all places. Holding onto the back of her chair, she steadied herself before heading to the door. There was much to be done—it was only a matter of figuring out what to do first.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Driscoll.” Mr. Dugro looked up from the document. “You can’t leave yet. You have papers to sign.”

  “I need to walk,” she said without slowing. “I need to take measure of … of my situation.”

  Mr. Hulse followed her into the hall. “May I be of service, Mrs. Driscoll?”

  “No. I need … I want to …” her voice broke.

  Mr. Hulse draped her coat about her shoulders and guided her down the stairs. The moment she stepped onto the pavement, she set off at a fast clip, gulping the freezing March air.

  Mr. Hulse called to her, but she dared not stop for fear of breaking down altogether. She broke into a run, taking no notice of the people turning to stare. She needed to keep her thoughts organized. She couldn’t afford to dwell on questions that had no answers, just as she couldn’t berate herself or Mr. Driscoll for what they had or had not done. She needed only to keep moving forward.

  Five hundred dollars.

  His antique books and the Egyptian collections would have to go to an auction house that could get the best prices; Mr. Belknap would help find a dealer she could trust. That might cover the funeral expenses and Dr. Hydecker’s bill, but there was no way of telling.

  When her lungs began to burn, she slowed, her mind cleared of confusion. If they were careful, the money might take them to the end of May, but no longer. Without studio, supplies or gallery, she would need to find work, the sooner the better.

  She rounded the corner from Park Place onto Broadway. Mr. Driscoll was a businessman. How could he have left her in such a mess? Was it forgetfulness, or had he resented their chaste arrangement? She shook her head, refusing to believe such a thing; he would not consciously have left them destitute.

  It wasn’t until she turned down Murray Street that she felt her ultimate refuges of logic and practicality had been restored. They had saved her in the past; they would save her now. She would go back to washing her own laundry. The order for their new afternoon dresses needed to be cancelled. They were well-fixed for warm coats and boots, but she would have to sell her gowns and use the money to buy sturdy skirts, waists and shoes for work. She could certainly go without breakfast and lunch. The extra seven dollars a week was better spent elsewhere, and she could definitely spare a few pounds. Since she’d been married, she’d indulged herself with three meals a day, plus tea and biscuits before dinner. Her once-lean frame now sported an extra layer of flesh she neither needed nor wanted.

  By the time she reached Church Street, she had already determined what prices she could get for the silver samovar and the parlor sofa. When Mr. Hulse caught up with her, he was out of breath, and, she noticed, he’d forgotten to put on his gloves.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hulse. I didn’t mean to run off like that, but vigorous exercise helps clear my mind, especially when I’ve had a shock.”

  “Most women faint,” he smiled, “but I think I like your method better.”

  She took his arm. “If you would be so kind as to escort me to Mr. Dugro’s office, I’ll do what is required of me.”

  They had gone only a short distance, when Mr. Hulse slowed. “Mrs. Driscoll, I won’t pretend to understand why Francis failed to make proper arrangements for you and your sister, but I was aware of his increasing absentmindedness. Still, to leave such an important matter unattended was unconscionable.

  “If you will permit, I’ll speak to my attorney about how you might enforce your dower rights. I believe New York laws give you the legal right to claim a third of Francis’s estate, possibly more. Properly invested, even a third of his estate would leave you financially independent.”

  She shook her head. “I appreciate your concern, but I shall not challenge Mr. Driscoll’s will. Pursuing legal recourse would be a great expense and undoubtedly cause embarrassment in all quarters. The New York Times is guaranteed to print some lurid story that will vilify us all and forever tarnish the good names of Wolcott and Driscoll. I’d be condemned as a fortune-seeker for the rest of my days.

  “I can already imagine the headline: ‘Greedy Widow Steals Food and Shelter From New Jersey Orphans.’”

  “I understand how you might feel,” he countered, “but for the sake of your sister’s and your own wellbeing, you must consider that ten thousand dollars is not an amount to be dismissed so quickly.”

  “Thank you, sir, but even a fortune such as that isn’t worth the misery it would cause my family. I’m sure most people would consider me a fool, but I won’t ask my mother and sisters to live with that embarrassment.”

  “All right,” he sighed, “but rest assured that Francis’s’ funeral and medical expenses, along with any outstanding household expenses, including the money due on your lease, I insist on paying out of the business account as part of his just debts. It isn’t much, but I hope it will relieve you of some immediate worry.”

  Moved by his generosity, she studied the stooped and graying man and wished she’d taken the time to know him. “Your kindness is much appreciated, Mr. Hulse.”

  He gave her arm a consoling squeeze. “I should have paid more attention. I would have made sure Francis attended to his duties the moment you were married. I’m worried for you. How on earth will you and your sister get by?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Hulse. Mr. Driscoll was fond of saying that I was capable of managing even if the sky fell in. I believe his theory is about to be put to the test.”

  Lenox Hill

  March 4, 1892

  Wonder of wonders. I’ve received a note from Clara requesting a meeting. It hasn’t even been two weeks since she was widowed. I don’t know whether to be appalled by her blatant disregard of the rules of genteel conduct during the mourning period, or shout for joy at the prospect of having her back again—and at such an auspicious time. I’ve sent word that I’ll see her Monday in my office.

  Baby Dorothy bears the closest resemblance to me of all my children. If only her eyes were blue instead of brown. Nonetheless, she’s a hearty, sweet-natured child.

  Burnie outdid himself at Sunday dinner. The children were terrified. I wanted to take the addlepated bully to the cellar and pummel him.

  Rather than move to The Briars for the spring season, Louise wants to stay at Lenox Hill until the end of June, so as not to upset Baby Dorothy. I’ve agreed to wait until the end of April, with a stern warning that she had best have her children and herself ready to go, so that I might tend the gardens.

  I suspect her reluctance to accompany me to The Briars has nothing to do with the babe, but rather with my flirtation in Paris. Ever since she caught wind of it through the infernal gossips, she has kept the door between our bedrooms locked and regards me as one might an insect. I will allow some time for her to calm herself, and then I’ll assert my rights, even if I have to break down the door to do it. I am sick to death of her sanctimonious attitude.

  I went to Stourbridge Furnaces in Queens this morning for my meeting with Arthur Nash, hoping to find this latest batch of glass to be more in line with what I’m looking for. It wasn’t anywhere near what I’d asked for.

  I smashed the entire lot. Damn the man! I despise being restricted by his traditional approach. This time I have insisted he experiment with free-form glass in all manner and colors. I hope the damned building goes up in flames with him in it!

  A brandy and then off to the theater with Stanford White. L.C.T.

  ~ 12 ~

  March 7, 1892

  Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company

  THE FAMILIAR SMELL of Mr. Tiffany’s freshly pressed shirts jarred her memory. As implausible as it might seem, Clara realized that she’d missed him, despite his volatile temperament. She didn
’t even flinch when he took her hands in his, with no apparent intention of releasing them. Certainly some license could be taken for a show of sympathy toward a newly widowed friend.

  From under the brim of her hat, she gave him her warmest smile. Her mission, she reminded herself, was to impress without appearing needy, something she hoped to accomplish by countenance alone. Never before had she given so much attention to her appearance. She’d spent the better part of an hour rubbing her hair with silk until it shone, and had even gone so far as to use red crepe paper to apply the faintest touch of color to her lips and cheeks.

  Her plum silk dress was the best of those she hadn’t sold. Cut to flatter her figure, it was of a shade that few women could have worn so successfully. Alice made over her black taffeta hat by adding netting, and while it wasn’t a perfect match for the dress, it was so elegant it didn’t matter—the overall effect was fashionable, yet somber enough to be considered proper mourning garb.

  “How good it is to see you again, Mrs. Driscoll,” Louis said, returning her smile. “Please accept my condolences for your recent loss. Though my acquaintance with Mr. Driscoll was brief, he seemed a fine man. How is your sister, ah… ?”

  She let him flog his memory for a few seconds before coming to his aid. “Josephine has resumed her studies at the Art Students’ League. Mr. Driscoll bequeathed her sufficient funds expressly for that purpose, and—”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. The details of what Mr. Driscoll set out in his will were not the sort of thing one discussed with anyone other than a relative or an attorney. “And she’s happy to be actively creating again.”

  Louis clapped his hands. “Creativity! Now that is precisely why I wanted to meet with you today.”

  Her eyebrow arched delicately. It was she who had proposed the meeting, though she’d been careful to give only the slightest hint she was toying with the idea of a position. She wanted him to think of her as an artist driven by boredom, rather than desperation.

  She watched as he began circumnavigating the desk and chairs. He was still trim and impeccably dressed. Had he been only an inch or two taller, women would have thrown themselves at him. But of course they had. The one thing she’d observed about society people was that great wealth made up for any imperfections.

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. Rumor had it that Louis sometimes enjoyed not only the attentions of many young ladies who worked in the theater, but he’d had his way with many society divorcees and wives as well. His recent break with the famous Parisienne courtesan, Leonide LeBlanc, for keeping him waiting in one room, while she bedded her hairdresser in another, was the talk of the town.

  She agreed with George that had Louis not been able to buy off the press, his romantic scandals would have long since ruined him.

  Pulled from her thoughts, she realized he was concluding his discourse, his expression as serious as if he were pleading his case before a hanging judge.

  “… and I assure you none of them is a small undertaking, Mrs. Driscoll.”

  She nodded, hoping to be able to pick up the thread of his subject. Whatever it was, he was definitely warmed to it. “I completely understand,” she said. “Now, please start again at the beginning, and tell me the details of what you have in mind.”

  He sat down and once again laid claim to her hands, jouncing them to the rhythm of his words. “Up to the present, I’ve concentrated on stained-glass windows, mosaics, tiles and glass plaques for architectural detailing. But now, I’m envisioning new horizons for Tiffany’s.”

  “I’ve started by changing our name to the Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company; I feel that better reflects the company’s changing nature. From now on, I want to focus on high quality, handmade goods; one-of-a-kind pieces designed exclusively for our wealthy clients.

  “When I received your letter, I had an epiphany. I told the board in no uncertain terms that the idea wasn’t up for discussion, but that it only required your approval.”

  She tilted her head, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “I don’t understand. You need my sanction on your work?”

  Hanging onto his lapels, he got to his feet and struck a pose that reminded her of a strutting rooster. “Mrs. Driscoll, I wish to offer you a position, the likes of which does not exist for any woman anywhere else in America.”

  Suspicion instantly replaced her incredulity. “Go on.”

  “I’ve created a department expressly for you. If you agree to my proposal, you’ll be the managing director of the women’s glass-cutting department.” He threw her a quick glance, checking for a reaction. When she didn’t immediately respond, he again took up pacing, with renewed vigor. “I plan to assign all my best girls to your department, including Miss Ring, Miss Griffin, and of course, Miss Northrop.”

  “Mr. Tiffany, I’m not sure I—”

  “These girls are good workers. Some need more pushing than others, but under your expert guidance, I expect they will all become proficient at their tasks.”

  “Mr. Tiffany, I—”

  “Granted, much of the design work will be on your shoulders. As usual, I’ll supervise the execution of each piece from start to finish. Each day, we’ll meet to discuss whatever projects are in the works, and, as in the past, I’ll critique what has been done and tell you what changes need be made. Every piece that bears my name has to be perfect.”

  He looked her square in the eye. “I’m interested in making money, and art is my route to that end. People are in desperate need of beautiful things, and so I shall give them the beauty they crave—at a price.”

  She remained silent, trying to separate the chaff from the wheat of his list of gifts and commands. The fondness she had felt for him only minutes before began to lose some of its warmth with the memory of his cane destroying months’ worth of work.

  “You are to play a key part in this, Mrs. Driscoll. I want Tiffany’s— you and I—to focus not only on the quality of the work, but also on our individual freedom to be creative.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry Mr. Tiffany, but I think I need more—”

  “Of course, you will want a salary commensurate with your position as a Tiffany manager.” Louis’s smile tightened.

  In the time it took her to draw her next breath, she understood how desperate he was to retain her. The realization changed everything. Instantly, she began calculating what might be a proper salary to ask for, and whether to set a number or see what he was offering. Mr. Driscoll had always told her that the first person to speak when making a business deal lost the advantage. She decided to let him name the price he was willing to pay for quality designing.

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed. “What salary are you offering?”

  “Well,” he began, a little less fire in his voice, “the assistant managers in the men’s department start out at fifteen dollars a week. Considering that you’ve proven yourself in the past to be more than capable, fourteen dollars a week should be an acceptable starting salary.” He paused to gauge her reaction, found none, and then went on.

  “Initially, I expect the men will be somewhat unnerved at having a women’s department on the premises, so I don’t think it wise to give them further cause for upset by making your salary any higher than that. I’m sure you’ll agree that would not be conducive to an affable working relationship.”

  She pushed down the impulse to walk away, and instead, counted to ten. “Mr. Tiffany, I’m grateful for your offer, but this is a responsibility that will require a great deal of my time. To be frank, I’m not sure I want to—”

  Louis bristled. “The men’s department managing director receives twenty-five dollars a week. I wouldn’t be able to pay you more than seventeen without going to Mr. Mitchell for his approval. I highly doubt he’ll agree to such a wage. It’s an unprecedented salary for a woman.”

  “Mr. Tiffany?” She rose from the chair, pulling on her gloves. “When I agreed to marry Mr. Driscoll, my one and only regret was havi
ng to leave my position here,” she paused for effect, “working with you.

  “Tiffany’s is known worldwide for quality and excellence, and I’m proud to have been an integral part of that process. I have a store of design ideas that would go a long way toward making this company even greater than it is now, leaving studios such as J. and R. Lamb and Stillwell’s far behind in the minds of the customers.”

  The mention of his two main competitors made Louis uneasy. “The Lamb Studio? Have you spoken to the Lambs? Has Victor Stillwell made you an offer of employment?”

  She walked to the opposite end of his desk and gazed out the window, thankful to Mr. Driscoll and Mr. McBride for giving her lessons in acting, both on stage and in business. “It’s a well-known fact you are one of the cleverest businessmen in New York,” she said softly. “As such, you should never have to beg anything of anyone who isn’t familiar with the labor of art and who doesn’t have the slightest ability to tell the difference between artistic perfection and the garish.”

  “Beg?” Louis frowned. “I beg nothing.”

  “In that case, the final decision of what you pay your employees, especially an employee who shares your artistic tastes, should be yours and yours, alone.” She hoped she’d not overplayed her part. Tiffany was neither gullible nor stupid, especially when it came to money.

  “That being said, I’ll accept twenty dollars a week to start, plus the contractual promise that my salary will be reviewed once a year and raised on the merit of my work.”

  He opened his mouth to protest and stopped. From the fact that he was controlling himself, it occurred to her that he was in some kind of a bind and could not afford to lose her, no matter what the cost.

  He ran his fingers through his beard. “Twenty dollars a week would certainly be a precedent in the matter of women’s pay.”