Noon at Tiffany's (20 page)

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 having 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.”

“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.