Noon at Tiffany's (23 page)

The priest, a spry man of older years, appeared noiselessly out of the shadows, his hands wrapped inside the cuffs of his robe. There was a pious gravity about him, though it was mixed with a spark of cheerful optimism.

“I see you ladies are admiring our new windows,” he said, rocking on his feet. Red number twenty-one reflected off the lenses of his spectacles, giving him a decidedly demonic look.

“Yes,” Clara said, “They’re—”

“Tiffany windows,” he finished for her, smiling wide enough to give them a good view of his dental failings. “Mr. Tiffany worked on them for more than a year.”

“Actually,” Clara said, “these ladies and I made them in about six months.”

Intent on bragging, the priest failed to take in the meaning of what she’d said. “Mr. Louis Tiffany himself designed them with his own hands, you know.”

Miss Hawthorne and Miss Wilhemson glanced at each other and then at her. From their expressions, she saw they were not yet inured to the humiliation of having their talents attributed to someone else. She was embarrassed for having grown so accustomed to it.

“With all due respect, Father,” Clara said, “Mr. Tiffany provided the materials and the general idea of what was to be represented in each window. Otherwise, it was these young women and thirty-three others who created the windows in this church.”

“Though, Mr. Tiffany does contribute his cane criticisms,” Miss Wilhemson added without a trace of humor.

“Mrs. Driscoll is being modest, Father,” Miss Hawthorne said. “She’s the designer of all of these windows. The rest of us work under her direction as glass selectors and cutters.”

The priest adjusted his spectacles to see them more clearly and chuckled, “You ladies are fooling with me.”

“I assure you we’re quite serious, Father,” Clara said. “We’re well-acquainted with every inch of these windows. Look here,” she pointed to the tight cluster of blossoms, “this is confetti glass, called so because of the way it’s made with all little bits of colored glass. And these folds here in Christ’s robe? See how the glass folds? That’s called drapery glass. We’re the only glass studio to use this technique.”

The priest lifted his glasses and squinted at the folded glass.

She stepped back and pointed toward the top of the window. “Did you notice the lustrous sheen of the sky? Mr. Arthur Nash formulated that glass. Lovely, isn’t it?”

Miss Wilhemson pointed to the borders portraying flowers and vines. “And see how the borders are all in the art nouveau style? That was Mrs. Driscoll’s idea.”

“Lillian Palmié painted all the faces,” Miss Hawthorne said, “and I painted the feet and hands.”

The priest stared at them, incredulous. “But you are women!”

“So was the Virgin Mary,” Clara remarked drily, “and just think what
she
created.”

Still unconvinced, the priest shook his head. “But these windows are signed. It’s written right here, see? Tiffany Studios.” He looked at them as if this proved everything.

Clara broke into a smile. “Well, Father, just
who
do you think Tiffany Studios
is
?”

December 24, 1896

Norwich, Connecticut

Accompanied by harness bells, the sleigh runners sliced through the snow, making the hollow, high-pitched sound that Clara always found eerie. Mesmerized by the rise and fall of the horses’ shadows on the unbroken snowdrifts, she leaned against Edwin, seeking the warmth of his body.

Taking the reins in one hand, he slipped an arm around her. His increasing attentiveness toward her was a welcome change from his usual remoteness, and it made her happy.

“We should have asked the Norwich stationmaster to telegraph word to your mother that we missed the last train and are coming by sleigh without George,” she said.

“No time!” Edwin shouted over the noise of the bells. “Anyway, they wouldn’t have received the message before we arrived. It’s only twenty miles to Danielson. We’ll be there in no time.”

“But this is the third time in a row George has failed to come along,” she argued. “Your mother is sure to suspect something’s amiss. Don’t you think it’s time someone told her about his seizures?”

“That would only serve to upset everyone. I’ll tell her that he was obligated to complete an illustration by Monday and couldn’t spare the time. She’ll believe whatever I tell her.”

“I don’t know, somehow it doesn’t seem fair that your parents know nothing about his illness. Can’t you at least inform your father?”

“What would you have me tell them, Clara? That none of the doctors Belknap has hired can find anything wrong? Or, perhaps I should tell them about the last quack who told him to forget art and find a career on the stage, so as to divert his mind to something
useful
.”

Both of them collapsed in laughter. Resting her head against his shoulder, Clara gazed up at the halo of purple, orange, and yellow that encircled the moon.

“I’ll bet you didn’t know that in this region the January moon was called the ‘Wolf Moon,’ because during the deepest part of winter, starving wolves used to surround the Indian villages and howl.” She paused. “Do you ever wonder what the moon is like?”

“It’s probably nothing more than rock craters, but that’s one mystery that will remain a mystery forever.”

“You mean like yourself?”

“You mistake simplicity for secrecy, my dear. What you see is all I am.”

“What I see is a complex mystery. I suspect below that simple exterior there are many layers that I know nothing about.”

Edwin fell into silence. He wasn’t much for chatter, especially when he was the subject of conversation. Nestling close to him, she amused herself with peering inside the farmhouses they passed. Some were dark, but most glowed with the golden light of gas lamps and fireplaces. The thought of families gathered around cozy parlors, sipping mulled cider, made her yearn for a real home of her own, one where she could rise, work, eat and sleep by her own clock and at her own pace.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a woman’s nightgown hanging on a clothesline, flapping in the wind, tossing its arms and hurling itself every which away, so that it looked like a fat old woman giving way to a furious temper. It reminded her of Mr. Tiffany when he was in a mood.

“Mr. Tiffany came down to see me this morning,” she said. “He spent an hour going over the list of things he wants designed and finished before next Easter.”

She paused, hoping he would comment. When he didn’t, she continued. “It’s going to mean working all day on Saturdays, and probably every evening, except Sundays.”

The sleigh swerved over a large drift, almost throwing them from their seats. Edwin called to the horses and pulled up on the reins. He set the brake and jumped out.

“Is everything all right?” she shouted after him. “Wait a minute while I light the other lantern.”

He took the lantern from her and went about checking the team in his thorough, impassive manner. When at last he finished, he came to her, reached up beneath the blankets and caught her roughly under the arms, swinging her to the ground. She marveled at his strength; at five feet eight
inches and one hundred forty pounds (if the glass scales in the basement were to be believed), she could not be called a dainty woman.

For a long time he watched her, saying nothing. Eventually his eyes shifted to a nearby copse of pines, his expression unreadable.

She glanced nervously around the desolate countryside, and a wave of fear went through her, though she could not have explained the reason for her alarm. Spears of icy wind tore through her coat, numbing her. “We’re going to be late. Your mother will be worried.”

“Be quiet and listen,” he said, his breath coming in shivery sighs, as if he were having a fit of nerves. “Two months ago I answered an ad in the
Times
for a position as foreman on a coffee plantation in Mexico, inland from Veracruz. The company that owns it has promised to supply me with fifty workers. The plantation house goes with the job.”

He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “It doesn’t start until August, and the salary isn’t much, but if I make the production quota for two years running, the company will give me a twenty percent interest in the plantation and the option to buy them out.”

She started to shiver, unsure whether it was more from nerves or the cold. “Have you signed a contract?”

He nodded. “When I told them I’d been teaching at the Settlement, they said they’d add a few dollars to my monthly pay if I agree to teach English to the local boys. I thought that since you’ve been to Mexico, and already know the place, you could do the teaching part.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to claim familiarity,” she said, jiggling her feet, hoping to bring some feeling back into her toes. “I visited a different part of Mexico for a few weeks. I know nothing about the language except a few basic phrases. I’m sure there are books on how to go about it, but …”

Her freezing feet were momentarily forgotten with the sudden realization of what he was getting at. To hide her elation, she buried her face in his heavy coat, breathing in the flowery fragrance of the exotic pipe tobacco supplied to him by the Chinaman who sold him his miraculous headache powders.

“Leave New York and come with me,” he whispered. “Just think, no more snow or ice, and you would never again have to deal with the likes of Tiffany. We might even be able to afford that bicycle you want so badly.” He pulled her toward him. Kissing her lightly he held her anchored against
his chest. “What do you say? Will you marry me and come to Mexico?”

Vivid memories of Mexico’s blue sea and exotic plants and flowers instantly came to mind. The image of taking shower baths in the tropical afternoon rain filled her with delight. Even the idea of teaching appealed to her as a challenging adventure.

There would be no end of fascinating things to sketch. She could work in tile, creating mosaics. Surely there would be a market for it someplace in Mexico. She would bring a camera with her. Tiffany might even commission her to design landscape windows or perhaps exotic one-of-a-kind pieces. It wouldn’t be as if she were working for him directly, so it wouldn’t matter whether she was married or not.

Despite the cold, a drop of perspiration slid down between her breasts under her corset. “Could we … could my mother and sisters come in the winter to visit?”

“I suppose,” he said carefully. “Once I start making money, you might even be able to visit them in the summer and stay as long as you liked.”

She looked at him, thinking of the life they could have. It would be the most reckless thing she’d ever done. The very thought of it made her feel wild and free, and the feeling suited her. “Yes,” she said, finally, “I’ll marry you and go with you to Mexico.”

With a satisfied smile, he lifted her into the sleigh, as if she weighed no more than a child, and hoisted himself up behind her. He took up the reins, and with a quick snap they were under way.

Clara quickly glanced back, wanting to memorize the place where her life changed course.

Just outside Mr. Tiffany’s door, she checked her hairpins and smoothed down the front of her skirt. All morning she’d been jittery, thinking of how best to deliver the news. On the verge of nervous exhaustion, she built up her courage by revisiting thoughts of Mexico and how easy her life would become without the constant pressure Tiffany’s served up each day. She would just tell him outright and be done with it, once and for all.

At the sound of men’s raised voices coming through his door, she turned to leave, but thought better of it. If she went back to the workroom, the women would assume she’d lost her nerve. It would be better to stay
put. Recognizing Henry Belknap’s voice, she was drawn closer to the door.

“You simply
must
prohibit Dr. McIlhiney from nosing around Arthur’s studio, Louis. Arthur Nash is your master glassmaker, for God’s sake, he should be respected as such.”

At the mention of Arthur Nash, she pressed her ear to the door, trying not to think of how disappointed her mother would be at her shameless eavesdropping. Mr. Nash was a likeable English gentleman, who had once enjoyed a very brief partnership with Louis in the first glass factory at Corona until it burned down, some said by arson. He also had the distinction of developing some of the most magnificent art glass the world had ever known. Unfortunately, the world knew nothing of Arthur Nash—Louis Tiffany had seen to that.

“Thank you, Mr. Belknap,” Mr. Nash’s voice was low, but firm. “My son discovered Dr. McIlhiney here rifling through my private notes this morning. When confronted, McIlhiney had the unmitigated gall to try and wheedle the formulas out of
him
—as if my own son would ever give out such information.”

“You and your son are imagining things, Arthur,” Louis said. “Dr. McIlhiney has no more interest in stealing your formulas than …”

“Please sir, do not insult my intelligence,” Nash said. “Dr. McIlhiney is an analytical chemist. What else would the man want with my notebooks at six-thirty in the morning? You have already stripped me of my factory, my due, and every penny I owned, Louis. You cannot have my formulas as well.”