Irving Place, he did not get out of the carriage in front of the boardinghouse. Instead, he tookboth my hands in his, and with a deep breath that raised his chest, he said without preamble, “I’m in love with you, Clara. You must know that.”
An instant of perilous pleasure flared in me and then subsided just as quickly.
“What’s more, I want you to love me. There’s a kind of love that makes you feel like you can do anything. That’s what I feel for you. Have I only imagined that you could give that love to me?”
I wasn’t going to answer that. I certainly didn’t know.
“I have a plan for us. A business opportunity has been offered to me, which I’m keen to pursue. It’s to assist in managing a coffee plantation owned by a stock company in Mexico near Veracruz. I want you to come with me, Clara. As my wife.”
My throat and face burned as though I had gulped hot coffee. Yearning and skepticism and the incipient love I had kept at a distance tumbled chaotically, each holding an instant’s sway.
“We would have a plantation house built to suit us.”
Mexico. I had always been fascinated by Mexico. Artists needed travel to deepen their well of creative sources. Was I to limit myself to Tiffany as my sole source of inspiration?
“If I accept for two years, I would earn enough to set us up in a fine apartment like we saw tonight overlooking Central Park—I know how you love it. I’ve thought of little else for half a year. It has taken me that long to muster the courage to ask. If I had let this chance slip by, I was afraid I’d never ask. Please, Clara, tell me you will.”
“I … This is too much to grasp all at once. I’m so fully involved at the studio. Mr. Tiffany has a policy not to keep on any married women.”
I felt him back away on the carriage seat. “You never told me that.”
“I never had occasion to.”
He rallied enough to say, “You do care for me, don’t you? Tell me that.”
I touched his smooth cheek in the darkness. “Yes, I do care for you.” And I felt myself caring more and more.
“You know that I’m reliable. My parents in Connecticut are in favor of the plan and will provide for our needs in the transition.”
“How can you leave your work at the settlement house?”
He was quiet a moment. “It’s draining, sometimes overwhelming. Itwill still be there when I, when we, come back, and I’ll be in a better position then to help in larger ways. In politics, I mean.”
I felt his hands tight around mine.
“And George? He knows about this?”
“Yes. He will come twice a year to paint. You could paint with him. Will you at least consider it?”
I gave him the slightest of nods, and instantly felt the turn of the kaleidoscope, a faint clatter of glass in colors of emerald and ruby and sapphire.
CHAPTER 10
ROSE
“ T HE REAL ART, AFTER THE PRELIMINARY DESIGN OF A WINDOW , is in the hands of the glass selector,” I said to the three I was promoting to glass selection, among them my friend Alice Gouvy, who had finished at Art Students League and had come to work here.
“Mr. Tiffany says the first thing a person sees in a window isn’t the subject. It’s the color,” I continued.
It was a perfect day to be teaching glass selection because light was pouring in through the big windows. I demonstrated by choosing an outlined shape from a cartoon, peeling off the corresponding pattern piece stuck on the clear-glass easel, and holding a large, uncut panel of multihued glass up to the cartoon and then to the easel to see what that glass would look like with light shining through it. I moved it around, turned it over, rotated it, and found an area on it that suited that section of the cartoon.
“One wrong piece, wrong in color or in texture or in degree of opacity or transparency, can ruin a window. By its disharmony, it will attract the eye.” I showed them pieces that would be mistakes.
“What if we can’t carry on because there isn’t a piece
An instant of perilous pleasure flared in me and then subsided just as quickly.
“What’s more, I want you to love me. There’s a kind of love that makes you feel like you can do anything. That’s what I feel for you. Have I only imagined that you could give that love to me?”
I wasn’t going to answer that. I certainly didn’t know.
“I have a plan for us. A business opportunity has been offered to me, which I’m keen to pursue. It’s to assist in managing a coffee plantation owned by a stock company in Mexico near Veracruz. I want you to come with me, Clara. As my wife.”
My throat and face burned as though I had gulped hot coffee. Yearning and skepticism and the incipient love I had kept at a distance tumbled chaotically, each holding an instant’s sway.
“We would have a plantation house built to suit us.”
Mexico. I had always been fascinated by Mexico. Artists needed travel to deepen their well of creative sources. Was I to limit myself to Tiffany as my sole source of inspiration?
“If I accept for two years, I would earn enough to set us up in a fine apartment like we saw tonight overlooking Central Park—I know how you love it. I’ve thought of little else for half a year. It has taken me that long to muster the courage to ask. If I had let this chance slip by, I was afraid I’d never ask. Please, Clara, tell me you will.”
“I … This is too much to grasp all at once. I’m so fully involved at the studio. Mr. Tiffany has a policy not to keep on any married women.”
I felt him back away on the carriage seat. “You never told me that.”
“I never had occasion to.”
He rallied enough to say, “You do care for me, don’t you? Tell me that.”
I touched his smooth cheek in the darkness. “Yes, I do care for you.” And I felt myself caring more and more.
“You know that I’m reliable. My parents in Connecticut are in favor of the plan and will provide for our needs in the transition.”
“How can you leave your work at the settlement house?”
He was quiet a moment. “It’s draining, sometimes overwhelming. Itwill still be there when I, when we, come back, and I’ll be in a better position then to help in larger ways. In politics, I mean.”
I felt his hands tight around mine.
“And George? He knows about this?”
“Yes. He will come twice a year to paint. You could paint with him. Will you at least consider it?”
I gave him the slightest of nods, and instantly felt the turn of the kaleidoscope, a faint clatter of glass in colors of emerald and ruby and sapphire.
CHAPTER 10
ROSE
“ T HE REAL ART, AFTER THE PRELIMINARY DESIGN OF A WINDOW , is in the hands of the glass selector,” I said to the three I was promoting to glass selection, among them my friend Alice Gouvy, who had finished at Art Students League and had come to work here.
“Mr. Tiffany says the first thing a person sees in a window isn’t the subject. It’s the color,” I continued.
It was a perfect day to be teaching glass selection because light was pouring in through the big windows. I demonstrated by choosing an outlined shape from a cartoon, peeling off the corresponding pattern piece stuck on the clear-glass easel, and holding a large, uncut panel of multihued glass up to the cartoon and then to the easel to see what that glass would look like with light shining through it. I moved it around, turned it over, rotated it, and found an area on it that suited that section of the cartoon.
“One wrong piece, wrong in color or in texture or in degree of opacity or transparency, can ruin a window. By its disharmony, it will attract the eye.” I showed them pieces that would be mistakes.
“What if we can’t carry on because there isn’t a piece
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