Noon at Tiffany's (3 page)

“When you’ve sketched out your designs and made note of the colors you wish to use for each piece, you’ll bring them to me. If I approve them, you’ll then make a cartoon—a large drawing—the same dimensions as the actual windows.”

For a brief moment he searched her face, as if half expecting her to protest. “Once that’s completed, you will select and cut your glass. Make sure to keep an account of each pound and piece of glass used, and how much time you spend on each task.

“Mr. Bracey and the men will then set the cames …” He saw their confusion and sighed. “Cames are the strips of lead that hold the glass pieces together.” He waited for their nods of understanding before continuing. “At that point, I’ll view the piece, make my criticisms, and then you’ll make the changes I ask for. Is this clear?”

“Yes,” Clara replied, with a confidence she did not feel.

“Considering your previous experience, I’ll review your position after a six-month probation period. If you’ve shown yourself to be competent and your work meets my expectations, I’ll advance you to a managerial position. The other girls need someone assertive to guide them. You are to report next Monday, 8 a.m. sharp. Tardiness is not tolerated here at Tiffany’s for any reason.”

Clara moved forward in her chair, “Thank you, Mr. Tiffany. I’m looking forward to—”

“Your hours,” he continued, “are Monday through Friday from eight to five, and Saturdays from eight to three-thirty. Based on what I’ve seen of your skills, and considering the responsibilities of your position, I’m setting your wage at ten dollars and fifty cents a week.”

He shifted his attention to Josie. “As for you, Miss Wolcott, I think—”

“It is said I have great promise as an artist,” Josie said quickly.

He looked about to laugh, but then changed his mind. “In that case, you shall start as your sister’s assistant. Your pay will be five dollars per week. However, once the League is back in session, you should concentrate on your studies. At that time, your hours and wages will be decreased by half. You may arrange your schedule to what best suits your purpose. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Yes, sir. I’m very grateful. I hope—”

Abruptly, Tiffany stood and went to the door, an indication the interview was at an end.

As if waking from a dream, Clara rose slowly. It didn’t seem real that one of the most famous and successful men in New York had just hired her. The interview could not have lasted longer than a half hour, and yet she felt her life was changed forever.

They followed him into the hallway, where he handed his instructions to Mr. Belknap. “Give these to Mr. Bracey, Henry, and make sure the Misses Wolcott are given a tour of the department before they leave. Good day, ladies.”

Elated, Clara all but curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Tiffany. I can’t express how pleased I—”

Without further ceremony, Louis Tiffany took a step back and closed the door.

Afraid they would burst into laughter should they look at one another, the sisters directed their attention to Mr. Belknap, who seemed as bewildered as they.

He cleared his throat. “Well then, ladies, follow me if you would to our new elevator.” To Clara’s chagrin, Josie insisted they use the stairs.

The Window and Mosaic Department was an open workroom, one wall of which was made up of enormous windows that filled the room with light. Awed by the sheer size of the place, Clara let her eyes wander to the partially completed leaded windows spread out on huge easels, and then to the finished ones hanging from the ceiling, sending rays of color in all directions. Racks of colored glass in every shade one could imagine were placed in the center of the room. It was, she thought, like wandering into a thieves’ cave and finding a mountain of treasure.

Mr. Belknap pressed a handkerchief to his neck. “You should take
care not to wear your best clothes, and don’t forget to bring aprons and comfortable shoes.”

A dour-looking man approached. Not waiting for introductions, he took the instructions out of Belknap’s hand and began to read, his expression one of vexation.

Well-acquainted with the prejudice men held against women who sought jobs rather than husbands, Clara saw her work would be cut out for her trying to sway this man into thinking of her as a colleague rather than an enemy out to steal jobs away from men.

For the better part of an hour, Mr. Bracey lectured in his Irish brogue as to where each tool was stored, and to whom they were to speak and to whom they were not. He was particularly adamant that they take their instruction from him and only him, adding at the end that any ‘female nonsense,’ such as unnecessary talking, giggling, smiling or flirting, would be grounds for immediate dismissal. He punctuated the end of his discourse with an emphatic ‘bah!’ and strode away.

Clara was about to wish the back of his head a sour good day when Josie marched after him, chatting cheerfully as she went: “I detect from your accent that you must be from Ireland, Mr. Bracey. I’ve heard that your country is beautiful with all those green hills surrounded by nothing but ocean and sky. I hope to see it for myself someday. Surely you miss your homeland?”

The Irishman eyed Josie as he would if he were seeing her for the first time. His gruffness eased, and he swiftly removed his cap as if he had just remembered his manners. “Aye Miss, ’tis a grand place, but there’s no good in missin’ it now. I’m here an’ this is where I’ll be when I meet me Maker.”

“But still,” Josie smiled, “I’d love to hear about your Ireland and the people there. Perhaps someday you might tell me about it?”

Mr. Bracey hunched up his shoulders, fighting the smile that threatened to make a mockery of his well-practiced scowl. “Aye, perhaps.”

“Lovely. I look forward to seeing you on Monday. I’m sure my sister and I will learn a great deal under your capable direction.”

Clara tried to duplicate her sister’s smile, though she knew it held none of the same magic. For her efforts, Mr. Bracey managed to reward her with the barest of nods.

It was a start.

Mr. Belknap was waiting for them in the hall. “May I escort you ladies to the station?”

Clara opened her mouth to accept his offer when she changed her mind. Mr. Belknap was obviously a man of culture—it might do well to impress him by demonstrating her interest in the performing arts. After all, hadn’t she just professed a love of theater?

“I’m sorry, but we’ve made plans to meet friends at Madison Square. We have tickets to attend the rehearsals at the Metropolitan Opera House this afternoon.”

Puzzled, Josie turned to look at her. “But we aren’t going to—”

“Of course we’re going to make it on time—if we hurry,” Clara quickly cut in. “Besides, the …” she threw out the fanciest name she could think of, “… the Vanderlings said they’d wait for us.”

Belknap looked baffled. “Rehearsals? I wasn’t aware there were rehearsals this early in the year. Is it Wagner or have the stockholders finally managed to overthrow German opera once and for all? I’ve heard they’re bringing back Italian opera now that Verdi is so popular in Europe.”

Snagged by her own piece of fiction, Clara stammered. “I … it’s um … it’s …”

“It’s a Wagnerian opera,” Josie said with conviction.
“Das Rheingold.”

Clara stared at her.

“It’s one of my favorites.” Josie finished.

Belknap opened the outside door. “In that case I won’t delay you. I’ll stop in on Monday to see how you’re doing. Until then, ladies, I wish you a pleasant day.”

With a firm grip on her sister’s arm, Clara whirled about, her skirt swirling as they wended their way toward Madison Avenue. Once they were out of earshot, she turned, eyebrows raised.
“Das Rheingold?”

Miss Todd’s Boardinghouse

32 Oxford Street, Brooklyn

Clara and Josie unpinned their hats and sank gratefully into the mountain of pillows lining the couch. The small room they called home had been made cozy with the addition of lace curtains and several vases of daisies and cornflowers.

“Mr. Belknap seemed the perfect gentleman,” Josie said.

“Definitely that, although he was quite …” Clara paused, unsure of the word she wanted.

“Short?”

Clara laughed. “Not so much short as delicate and exceedingly well-groomed.”

“Did you notice his shoes?”

“His shoes?”

“They were half the size of yours.”

Clara lifted her skirt to reveal dusty lace-up boots of a most unladylike size. Picking up a sketchpad and charcoal stick she began sketching. “Mr. Bracey was ready to throw us to the devil until you worked your magic on him.”

“Oh, Mr. Bracey’s all right,” Josie said. “A little prickly on the outside, but I expect he’ll come round. I thought Mr. Tiffany a bit strange, the way he was cross and restless and tender all at the same time.”

Josie lay back, and Clara saw the pose she’d been looking for. “Hold that position right there. Turn your head a little to the left.”

“George said Mr. Tiffany went a little mad after his first wife and son died.”

“Wealth and prominence in society don’t always mean one is guaranteed an untroubled life, Jo.”

“When I think of how happy we are here with nothing except a bed and a few pieces of clothing, and how lucky we are to have our family, I feel sorry for him. I don’t think I’d like being rich—you’d never know whether someone loved you for yourself or your wealth.”

Without looking up from her drawing, Clara smiled. Of her three sisters, it was Josie who always went right to the heart of a person.

From out in the hall came the familiar whistle of Mr. Driscoll, the widower who rented the room across from theirs. Neither sister could
remember at what point he’d fallen into the habit of reading to them each evening, but it soon became the highlight of their day. Mr. Driscoll was blessed with an actor’s knack for lending each character a unique personality and vitality with a simple change of voice. He made scenes and characters come alive as vividly as if they were assembled on a stage before them. With his pug nose and deeply cleft chin, their neighbor had about him a craggy, weatherworn look that on more than one occasion made him a worthy subject for their sketches.

Mr. Driscoll stood in the doorway, tipping an invisible hat. “Miss Todd has rung the first bell for dinner, and I thought I’d see about escorting you ladies downstairs.”

“Then you shall be the first to know that we’re hired on at Tiffany’s,” Clara said.

“It was exciting,” Josie added. “Mr. Tiffany was much taken with Clara’s work, and Mr. Belknap, the art director, was—”

“Mr. Henry Wyckoff Belknap?”

Clara looked surprised. “Do you know him?”

“Several years ago I represented Mrs. Belknap in the purchase of a commercial building. They’re a wealthy family, leading patrons of the arts and tight with the Tiffanys. Belknap is a splendid chap, although his mother …” he hesitated. “Well, suffice to say Catherine Belknap is a widow who leans heavily upon her son.” He turned to Josie. “How did you fare with Mr. Tiffany?”

“He had few questions for me, but I was only applying as an apprentice.”

“Consider yourself lucky, my girl,” Mr. Driscoll said, holding back a smile. “I know for a fact that Tiffany is meticulous in his business dealings, especially when it comes to the people who work for him, no matter how minor the position may be. I’ve heard that he once raked a twelve-year-old messenger boy over the coals for two hours before giving him the job. The poor lad ended up in Chambers Street Hospital with nervous prostration.”

“I’ve also heard that Mr. Tiffany wields his walking stick like a weapon.” Alice Gouvy stood in the doorway smiling. Her voice was huskier than one might expect from such a petite woman, though it did not detract from her beauty. “However, having grown up with the Wolcott girls in Tallmadge, Mr. Driscoll, I can assure you they’ve all been taught never to back away from adversity without a good fight.”

She took Clara’s hands. “I couldn’t help but overhear the news. Congratulations—I think.”

Clara smiled warmly at the woman she’d loved like a sister most of her life. “Is there anything else we should know before the next time we come face to face with this destroyer of young children?”