Noon at Tiffany's (58 page)

“I’m honored that you want me as your wife, but I won’t marry you. I don’t love you in the way a woman should love her husband. I’m guilty of having done that once in my life, and I won’t do it again.”

Sulky and resistant, he seemed to be searching for some last, magic words to persuade her, when she rested a hand on his arm. “Mr. Tiffany, I believe you aren’t so much in love with me as you are with the idea of finding relief from your loneliness.”

He pulled away, his jubilation faded. “You speak as though I’m only looking for a companion. The very nature of my position in business and society requires me to be a man on the town. I have more cronies and female acquaintances than I know what to do with. There must be a hundred women in New York City alone who would jump at the chance to marry me.

“What I want is to have you as my wife, damn it!” He slashed the air. “Why do you deny yourself that which would be the remedy to both our ills?”

“I’ve told you before—because I’m not the sort of woman you want, nor are you the man for me. We would end up miserable together, feeling more alone than we do now. Resentments would grow into hate and worse.”

She got to her feet. “Can’t we be friends? I promise that in time you will thank me for this.”

“No,” he said flatly, “I’ll neither be your friend, nor shall I ever thank you for wounding me in this way.”

“Please, Mr. Tiffany, you mustn’t make more of this than it is. We
are
friends. I hope we will always be such.”

With a suddenness that startled her, he flung the ring box at her feet. “You can think and do whatever the hell you please,” he growled and stalked away.

Noon at Tiffany’s

October 16, 1907

Dearest Emily and Alice,

Here I am again feeling like a cat in a strange garret. I don’t yet have any great enthusiasm for the work, but shall once I get started. Mr. Tiffany has been indisposed since we returned, so my orders now come from Mr. Thomas.

We all gathered at Point Pleasant a last time before the end of the season. Philip Allen was there, since his wife has not yet returned from her long visit to California. Not being one to hold a grudge for long, I was friendly toward him, which I think he appreciated. He is much changed from our old Philip—hollow-eyed, subdued and not at all what he used to be. He was attentive, but depressed despite all our efforts to get him out of himself.

Edward and Mr. Yorke took me to the Hippodrome—New York’s glorified circus. The stage is enormous and the scenic effects spectacular. Although I hate circuses on general principle, I saw the most fantastic ballet with little sea horses and immense crabs swimming in the dance.

Now I must swim back to work.

Much love, Clara

Noon at Tiffany’s

February 14, 1908

Dearest Alice,

I’m designing more jewelry for Mr. Tiffany, specifically necklaces. My salary doesn’t increase, but I assure you, with the rate and price at which my necklaces are selling, Mr. Tiffany’s income certainly does.

Enclosed you will find several quick sketches of the finished products. I am also sending along photographs of Edward and me on our bicycles, and another of us from last summer on the cabin porch. It would seem that somewhere along the way, I have fallen in love with this wonder of a man. The only thing that amazes me is how I managed not to recognize it years ago.

At the prospect of seeing you in July, Dudley has broken his resolve to never set foot in the ‘dangerous wilderness’ of Pt. Pleasant. He has sworn to brave the horrors of snakes, mosquitoes, ants and man-eating plants that reside outside of the city. I’m looking forward to watching him squirm at the sight of Edward scaling and gutting his dinner.

I’ve heard rumors that Mr. Tiffany’s daughter, Hilda, is dying of consumption in a sanatorium in Saranac Lake, with but a few months to live. He has scheduled a long trip up the Nile or some such place far away from here. Some might think him heartless to leave his daughter in her time of need, but I don’t think he’s strong enough to watch another of his children perish.

I pray some good-hearted woman will sweep him off his feet before I ask him again about having my mark on things, or at the very least, on the necklaces, where it will be so small as not to be seen without a magnifying glass. After twenty years of asking, my patience has finally worn through on this subject.

Daniel Bracey stands in my doorway looking exasperated, so I need to see what the matter is. I suspect it has something to do with not receiving the glass we ordered from Corona two months ago.

How I miss you. I hope July comes early this year.

Yours always, Clara

S
HE WAS INURED
to Louis’s furies now, although there were moments when she was sure he was going to forget himself and do her bodily harm. He’d not yet forgiven her for refusing him, and each day he made his resentment known either in his criticisms—which bordered on mad ranting—or in his general lack of civility. That his feelings went from professed love to anger did not surprise her; as her mother was fond of saying, fevered love is just a stone’s throw away from hate on a cold day.

He barely glanced at her when she entered his office. “What is it? I’m busy.”

Clara debated whether or not to sit down, and decided against it. “Mr. Tiffany, for the last time I’m appealing to you to have my name, or at least my mark, imprinted on some of my designs.”

He stared at her with a resentment that chilled her from the inside out.

“No, and I warn you, do not ask again.” He came around the desk, stopping inches from her. “I’ve already told you the only way you’ll get to have your mark on the pieces you design.”

“My
mark? You mean
your
name. Tiffany will be on each of my designs, just as it is now. The Clara Wolcott part of it will be sure to disappear. I’ve given my reasons for not marrying you, and if you had any common sense, you’d give up that ridiculous notion once and for all.”

“In that case, Mrs. Driscoll, you may
not
have your name or your mark on anything that goes out of my company.”

She swung open the door, intending to leave without parting words, when he held her arm in a claw-like grip. Her eyes went to his fingers.
“You’re hurting me.”

“Not nearly as much as your cruelty has wounded me.”

“I never had any desire to cause you misery. Think this through with common sense, Mr. Tiffany. We’re both stubborn, independent and strong-willed. What possible joy could ever come from a union between two people like that? It’s precisely because I do care for you, that I have refused you.”

His eyes narrowed “Is there someone else? Just tell me that much.”

She sighed; she may as well have been talking to a rock. “Mr. Tiffany, it shouldn’t matter whether there is or isn’t someone else. What does matter is that it will never be
you
.”

May 10, 1908

44 Irving Place

She was singing
Sweet Adeline
and clearing away the cobwebs that had accumulated in the corners over her bed, when a man’s voice joined hers in perfect harmony. Thinking it was Edward come back to search for some lost article, she didn’t bother turning around. “What did you forget this time?”

“Certainly not you, Clara. I could never forget you.”

Whirling around, she gave a cry of pleasure. “Philip! What are you doing here?” She came down from the ladder, removing her scarf, at the same time tucking escaped strands of hair back into the thick coil of her braid.

He met her with arms outstretched. “I’ve missed you more than you know.”

She smiled, truly glad to see him, but didn’t linger in his embrace. Should Edward find them alone in her room, it would undoubtedly bring up painful memories that were best forgotten.

“Come down to the parlor,” she said, already heading for the door. “We’ll have a cup of tea.”

In the full light of the parlor windows, his sickly pallor became apparent. She touched his forehead and drew back. “You’re burning with fever!”

He caught her hand and held it against his chest. Through his thin jacket, she could feel him shivering.

“It’s a guilty conscience,” he said, flopping down onto the sofa. “I had to see you. I started a letter, but it seemed a coward’s way out.” He stopped to get his breath and began again, his voice rising and falling with each burst of words. “I’ve come to make things right between us. I should have told you the truth long ago.”

She watched his eyes, sunken and ringed with shadow, and grew frightened. There was no one to help her get him to a doctor as everyone was either at church or out enjoying the warm day.

“Let me call the doctor,” she said, getting up from the sofa. “He’s only a few blocks away and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind …”

He reached for her hand. “Please, Clara, hear what I have to say. I can’t rest until you do.”

Not wanting to upset him further, she took her seat.

“I should have been honest with you. I should have told you about—”

“That’s all over now. You’re married and I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t understand. I’m talking about Tiffany and what he’s done.”

“Mr. Tiffany? I doubt there’s much you could tell me about him that I don’t already know.”

Philip raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you know
this."

She stared at him, startled by his bitter tone.

“At the Paris Exposition,” he began, “Tiffany bribed the reporters and the owners of the papers they worked for.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he do such a thing?”

“To make sure the names of the artisans whose designs won were kept out of the papers. Tiffany insisted on being the only one who received recognition in the press.”

His voice dropped. “Do you remember the article in the
Daily News
that printed your name under the rendering of your dragonfly lamp?”

“Of course. I was thrilled. But obviously if Mr. Tiffany didn’t mind about that, why would he need to bribe—”

“Because that article was supposed to be about Tiffany, and only Tiffany. Henry Belknap arranged with one of the reporters to have your name appear. The reporter was fired the next day, and there isn’t a paper in the state of New York that will hire him. Tiffany made sure of that.”

“Mr. Tiffany wouldn’t stoop that low.”

“Yes, he would—and much lower.” Philip rested his elbows on his
knees and ran his fingers through his hair. “Did you know that he cheated John LaFarge out of his due for opalescent glass?”

“That was just hearsay,” she said. “Mr. Tiffany said that LaFarge started that rumor because he was jealous.”

“It was no rumor. After I learned about Tiffany buying off the press, I began going through legal records and public accounts. I found that by the time Tiffany met him, John LaFarge had already developed methods and formulas for making opalescent glass suitable for colored windows.

“Eight months after LaFarge was granted a patent, Charles, acting on Louis’s behalf, approached LaFarge, suggesting a partnership between him and Louis for the purpose of producing stained glass windows under LaFarge’s patent.

“Lafarge was destitute at the time, so thinking only of the monetary advantages a partnership with Tiffany’s would give him, he readily agreed. Charles seized the moment and asked LaFarge for permission to use his formulas for making and plating glass while the Tiffany attorneys drew up the partnership papers. Foolishly, LaFarge gave his consent.

Once Tiffany had the technical information and permission they needed from LaFarge, they never followed through with the partnership. Louis walked away scot-free with LaFarge’s work and never once acknowledged or compensated the man. Ten years later, he did nearly the same thing to Arthur Nash.”

Unnerved, Clara took her time about replying. “Surely these are exaggerated accounts. You know better than anyone how these stories can get twisted around.”

“It’s fact, not fiction, Clara. Tiffany may pay you well enough, but he’s robbed you and all his artisans in the same manner he has cheated these men. You and your designs
are
the Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company. Leave that place and watch how soon it crumbles to nothing.”

Not wanting to hear more, she came to her feet. “You’re ill, Philip. Edward and Mr. Yorke will be here any moment. They can settle you in one of the vacant rooms upstairs. I’m going to telephone for the doctor.”

“I don’t want a doctor,” he said. “I only came to clear my conscience. I should have told you this a long time ago.” He got wearily to his feet and managed his way to the same foyer where they’d first met. “I’ve been a weak coward. I hurt so many by not saying what I knew to be the truth.”

He took her by the shoulders. “I want you to know that I did love you. I still do.”

She stared after him until he disappeared from sight. She thought of what he’d told her, and wished he hadn’t. The gnawing fear that she had somehow wasted her life began in the pit of her stomach and showed no signs of going away.