Noon at Tiffany's

by Echo Heron

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” She smiled. “Tiffany’s will make news, and, your competitors will be jealous.”

  “Jealous? More likely, they will think I’ve lost my mind. I’d be willing to bet my rivals will laugh me down in the streets!”

  “Were I a betting woman, Mr. Tiffany, I’d wager that they’ll shake in their boots, worrying over what that clever Louis Tiffany has up his sleeve and how he’s planning on getting the best of them.”

  Louis laughed and then immediately sobered. “Twenty dollars a week is a great deal of money, Mrs. Driscoll.”

  “To some it is,” she agreed, “but not to those who are supporting a family and trying to survive in New York City. Nor is it too much to pay for quality and skill.

  “As I’ve said, I have quite a few design ideas already sketched out.”

  “All right then,” Louis sighed, “your salary will be set at twenty dollars a week. Mr. Mitchell will certainly object, but I’ll deal with him.”

  She gave a nod, careful not to let her expression betray her elation. She hoped it wouldn’t occur to him that she’d capitulated too easily. “There is one more thing that I—”

  “I have a most challenging project that you’ll be working on for the next while,” he cut in, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “It’s an important undertaking for which you’ll need to hire more girls.”

  “I’ll have the freedom to pick and choose my own workers?” She could barely believe her luck. On top of no longer having to depend on Mr. Mitchell’s approval for every pencil and sliver of glass, it was like a dream come true.

  “Yes, and they are your responsibility, so make sure you screen them well. I don’t want any low women in here, no matter how good an artist they are. I’ll need you to begin tomorrow morning. We can discuss the project that will be your sole focus for the next year.”

  She took a step toward him. “Mr. Tiffany, please. There is another matter that—”

  “You must give me your word that you won’t discuss this project with anyone outside the company,” he interrupted. “Even those within your family.”

  “Mr. Tiffany, I—” She faltered, a victim of curiosity. “What manner of project requires such secrecy?”

  He led her back to her chair. “Do I have your word you won’t repeat this information to anyone?”

  “Of course.”

  “My father and I have both been invited by the directors of the World’s Columbian Exposition to create exhibits for the Chicago World’s Fair. I’ve been given a pavilion in the Manufacturers’ and Liberal Arts Building, and I need you to help me.”

  Goosebumps went up her arms. For more than a year, she’d been following The New York Times articles about Daniel Burnham’s fantastical White City with great interest.

  “The Columbian Exposition! What an honor. What do you have planned?”

  Elbows on knees, they sat on the edges of their chairs, their foreheads almost touching.

  “The theme of the exhibition is based on the Beaux-Arts principals,” Louis said, “namely, European classical architecture. I’ve decided on a Byzantine-inspired chapel, a neoclassical room with an emphasis on balance and symmetry. It shall be entirely of iridescent tessera.”

  Her imagination soared with an image of a domed ceiling supported on mosaic columns. She was choosing color gradients of tiles, when she came to her senses.

  “Mr. Tiffany, please, before I commit myself to this position, I need to speak to you about another matter.”

  Louis paused, already wary of what she was about to ask.

  She lightly gripped the arms of her chair. “I want my initials engraved on all my designs, and I want my full name printed on the invoices that accompany each of my pieces.”

  The change in him was instantaneous. “That,” he said drawing himself up, “would be impossible. Obviously the excitement of my offer has clouded your judgment. As you are well aware, it is this company’s policy that no name other than my own shall appear on the pieces made at Tiffany’s. The customers expect to see my signature—that is what gives the piece worth. Surely you don’t believe that Tiffany customers would pay as much for an item if they thought the design was not mine but that of a woman they’d never heard of?”

  She stared at him unblinking. His ill temper no longer had the power over her it once held. This time she would not retreat. “Of course they would, if the work is of excellent quality and the design outstanding. You and I both know I’m capable of that.

  “Modern society women like your present wife, champion the advancement of other women; they would most likely find a woman designer much more to their liking, both aesthetically and politically.”

  “You are correct on that score,” he said, his voice losing none of its hard edge. “Except may I remind you that it is their husbands who pay for the goods, and there are few men who would pay the same amount for an object designed by a woman as one designed by a man—especially a man with a famous name.”

  “Your argument is not without merit,” she countered, falling into the spirit of their badinage. It was, she thought, like playing Whist—a bluffing game. For the first time she understood completely Mr. Driscoll’s love of bartering and making deals. “However, it’s the woman who will have what she wants in the end, and it will be the woman who tells her acquaintances about the wonderful things she bought at Tiffany’s and how clever that Mr. Tiffany is to have a woman designer.”

  He started to object, but stopped. Going to the sidetable where he kept his potted orchids, he feigned sudden deep interest in their stems. “Since it’s essential that we begin work without further delay, I’ll agree to having your initials inscribed on certain pieces, but not until you have proved to me that you deserve the honor. If, let’s say in two years, your designs are selling well, I might be persuaded to allow your initials to go on select items.” He looked at her, his face without expression. “Will that satisfy your need for recognition?”

  She wasn’t fool enough to believe him, but she sensed he’d been pushed as far as he would go. To argue further would only result in some sort of unpleasant scene. Still and all, she had a perverse desire to put up a fight, or take the extreme course and simply walk out with her head held high.

  Her practical nature persevered. She could hear both her mother and Mr. Driscoll telling her that patience is a necessary virtue in business. She only had to be patient and wait for the time when he could not refuse.

  “Credit where credit is due, Mr. Tiffany. My mother is fond of saying that about both our good and our bad deeds. It’s an arrangement that will do for the present, however be advised that I’ll bring the matter to your attention in one year.”

  “Fine, but for now we must begin work. You have much to accomplish in a short time.”

  She adjusted her hat so that it shaded her eyes. “Tomorrow at eight?”

  He looked at his watch, as if calculating the number of hours until they could meet and nodded. “After I show you around the new workshop, we can discuss the work.”

  “In regard to Mr. Mitchell,” she said. “I won’t tolerate his constantly looking over my shoulder.”

  Louis opened the door that still bore the scar from his cane. “Leave Pringle to me,” he sighed. “I’ll find some way to placate him.”

  Together they stepped into the hall, where he bowed and kissed her hand.

  It was all she could do to keep herself from laughing until after she’d turned the corner.

  Noon at Tiffany’s

  March 17, 1892

  Dear Mama et al,

  It’s the strangest thing to be back at my old work desk. Daniel Bracey, Frank and many of my flock (now known amongst the city’s artisans as “The Tiffany Girls”) were here to welcome me. Even Mr. Mitchell made a special trip downstairs to greet me, although I don’t think he did so of his own volition.

  The San Remo manager refused our request to rent one of the servants’ rooms. He did, however, offer us jobs at $4 a we
ek. When I begged off, he insisted on three months’ rent, paid in advance, “Seeing how youse is a widow now and not as reliable as the mister was.” He employed the smug, condescending attitude that well-off and dishonest people often take when dealing with those they consider beneath them. It was precisely that smirk that flung me into action. I gave notice on the spot, and bid adieu to him and his ever-present cloud of cigar smoke.

  We have found an affordable boardinghouse at 1135 Madison Avenue, just down the street from Central Park, where the trees are presently budding in that clear, fresh green, so dainty in their newness. Josie will have the convenience of a trolley close by to take her to the Art Students’ League.

  Our youngest lamb is coming out of mourning. I know this, because I found the new Harper’s tucked inside her sketchbook. She has also taken an apprenticeship with a Mrs. Greenwald who owns a dress shop close by. I have never seen her so happy. If that isn’t enough to convince you, just yesterday she gave the Italian vegetable and fruit vendor our only umbrella, so the rain wouldn’t spoil his wares. I’m happy to report he returned it at the end of the day, along with four turnips.

  Mama, do not worry over how we shall manage. May I remind you that my sisters and I were raised by a capable woman who taught us how to fend for ourselves?

  Emily, do not speak ill of Mr. Driscoll again. His neglect in making arrangements for us wasn’t intentional. The sooner this matter is forgotten, the better. It’s only when we look behind ourselves that we have a tendency to trip.

  I’m more resolute than ever about succeeding in the world, which brings me to your question about why I’ve agreed to undertake this staggering and monumental task at Tiffany’s. In answer, I can only tell you that until I reach my goal, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Much love,

  Clara P. Driscoll, Manager

  Tiffany Women’s Glass Cutting Department

  “Twenty dollars a week? Have you lost your mind?” Pringle Mitchell looked up from the employee hire form in disbelief.

  Louis leaned back. “Mrs. Driscoll works harder than anyone in the company. In turn, the women work harder to please her.”

  “But twenty dollars, Louis! The men will—”

  “The men will what? Strike? They’ve been threatening to do that for months. They know I’m under the gun to finish the exhibition chapel, so they think that if they refuse to resume work on the mosaics and windows, I’ll give in to the demands of the Lead Glaziers and Glass Cutters Union for higher salaries and reduced working hours.”

  Louis examined the ash on his cigar. “Which is precisely why I’ve hired Mrs. Driscoll. She provides us with a workforce that will out-produce the men and do a much better job. Her department will pinch-hit until the men come to their senses.”

  “But even so, paying her this much will only create resentments among the men.”

  Louis shrugged. “Initially there might be some hard feelings, but ultimately they’ll get used to it. They don’t really believe women are capable of replacing them.”

  “I’m warning you, Louis, the men will make her life miserable.”

  “Are you worried that they might make her more miserable than you do?” Louis tapped Mitchell’s desk and leaned in. “Hear me now, Mitchell, you will lay aside whatever resentments and hostility you’re harboring for Mrs. Driscoll. I can’t afford to lose her again, nor do I intend to even if I have to give her the moon and the stars. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mitchell nodded, though his natural pigheadedness forced him to try for the last word. “Very clear, but I still think you’re making a mistake.”

  “Mrs. Driscoll will prove you wrong.” Louis paused, “However, I am curious—why do you harbor such a violent dislike for this woman?”

  “She has an unnatural attitude of superiority,” Mitchell retorted. “Her type endangers the very fabric of our society. Her belief that she’s our equal is offensive. She’ll corrupt the younger girls with her insolence, you wait and see.”

  “I daresay your attitudes about women are a little outdated. I doubt Mrs. Driscoll poses any great danger to Tiffany’s, or anyone else, for that matter. Just make sure to keep her salary to yourself. If any of the men ask what she earns, lie. I’ve got enough on my plate without having tempers stoked.”

  Louis thought for a moment. “Change the employee hire form to thirteen dollars a week, but make sure her pay envelope contains the extra seven dollars in cash. I don’t want any record of that extra money, and I don’t want anyone finding out by accident.”

  “Where’s this extra cash to come from? Surely you can’t expect me to take that much out of the company cash box every week without someone noticing.”

  “Take it from my personal account.”

  “Now I’m certain you’ve lost your mind. Either that or—” Mitchell stared. “My God, Louis, are you having a dalliance with this woman?”

  Louis looked down at his cigar and slowly, deliberately, knocked the ash off onto the desk. Without warning, he grabbed Mitchell by the lapels, jerking him out of his chair. “If I were a less civilized gentleman, Mitchell, I‘d bash your damned teeth down your throat.” Louis shoved him back into his chair. “You had best be sure to keep that filthy-minded fabrication to yourself, or I promise you’ll regret the day you were born.”

  Shaken, Mitchell smoothed out his jacket. “I meant no disrespect, but surely you must see how it might appear to the men if you continue to indulge her. I know how these men think, Louis. The majority of them are unrefined. They bitterly resent women in positions that rival their own. I tell you that if you continue to favor Mrs. Driscoll’s department, there will be trouble. Perhaps not this month, or maybe not for years, but the jealousies are there, and we’ll have to deal with them when they’ve grown into something ugly.”

  Louis donned his Panama hat. “Nonsense. Sometimes I think you’d see doom in a garden full of roses, Mitchell. Stop worrying about the mundane jealousies that are common to every workplace and try to understand that the monetary benefit to Tiffany’s resulting from Mrs. Driscoll’s employment will make the extra three hundred and sixty-four dollars a year seem like the best investment since the Dutch purchased Manhattan for twenty-four dollars and a few beads.”

  Lenox Hill

  April 4, 1892

  Going against all the rules, the widow Driscoll has thrown herself into her work with utter determination. I can’t help but admire her. I’ve been informed that Driscoll left her with nothing but a few hundred! I’m sorry for her sake, but the circumstances work so well to my purpose, I’m convinced it must be divine providence.

  Tiffany’s Byzantine Chapel is now guaranteed to win enough awards to put Father’s exhibition to shame. Of this I am certain. L.C.T.

  1135 Madison Ave.

  April 21, 1892

  Dear Ones,

  You can tell from the beautiful script that Alice is writing this while I rest my poor eyes. The work on the Columbian Exposition installment has everyone involved twelve to fourteen hours a day. The mosaics are beautiful, but the work strains my eyes and challenges my every faculty.

  I give my best to each demand Mr. Tiffany makes of me, with the hope that in the future my creative efforts will earn recognition from the public at large. I want to feel that I have truly earned every penny of my generous salary.

  Our new flat has been transformed into a cheerful nest. Alice and the Waldo brothers have freshened up the paint and contributed a few of their own watercolors for our walls. The ceiling in our room is much more interesting than the ceilings at the San Remo. This one has character in the artful way the cracks find their way through the whitewash. The variety of patterns gives my imagination plenty to play with during the long nights I’m unable to sleep.

  8 p.m.

  I meant to finish this letter with all my petty concerns over the price of shoe repairs and dentists, but now these seem such meaningless complaints, when compared to Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany’s misery this day. Henry Belknap
came by to inform me that Mr. Tiffany’s three-year-old daughter, Annie, died this afternoon of diphtheria, following a bout of scarlet fever. Apparently, Mr. Tiffany is out of his mind with grief. He has locked himself in his studio and will allow no one near him, save for the family dog.

  I cannot help but think of Mr. Driscoll, and how different the death of a child is compared to the death of a battle-weary lion. With the ending of a child’s life, we each experience a little death of hope.

  The best I can do is to take command of the chapel and seek excellence in our work. In the morning, I’ll return to the workshop and do what I can. It being Sunday, I’m looking forward to working without interference. It’s the least I can do for Mr. Tiffany.

  Much love to all, Clara

  P.S. Dear Family,

  My apprenticeship at Mrs. Greenwald’s dress shop has taken an unexpected and happy turn. As it so happens, one of her society ladies saw my spring gown and cape design and insisted that Mrs. Greenwald make it for her. Mrs. Greenwald was so pleased she gave me five dollars! I can attest to the fact it is a wonderful thing to earn money while doing something that brings one joy. If I never achieve another success in my life, I shall die happy.

  Your loving daughter and sister,

  Josephine Minor Wolcott

  1896 ~ 1908

  ~ 13 ~

  April 17, 1896

  Dearest Mama, Rev. Cutler, Clara, Kate and Emily,

  The thought of being separated from you grieves me sorely, but do not despair. I derive great happiness from knowing that I will soon be free of this flawed body.

  Use the money I’ve earned at Mrs. Greenwald’s to help with expenses. You will find these funds, presently totaling $63, in an envelope taped to the back of George Waldo’s portrait. Please, never forget that I love you.

  Josie

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