Margaret walked holding Daisy’s hand, following behind Messrs Tallis and Carson as they hurried along the darkening evening. The lamplighter was out, working his way along the street.
‘Have you ever read Mr Charles Dickens?’ Margaret asked Daisy.
‘No,’ Daisy said. ‘Or at least – a little bit. I read Oliver Twist. But his books are very long.’
‘It’s true, they are,’ Margaret agreed. ‘But they’re so good – the way he captures things. There’s a little bit in Dombey and Son, when he says, “The lamplighter made his nightly failure in attempting to light the street with gas.”’
Daisy giggled and Margaret saw Philip Tallis turn his head for a moment, as if to see what she was laughing at.
‘Imagine if you could have lights so bright that the street was the same at night as in the day,’ she said.
Margaret felt a sudden heady happiness, walking along behind the two men, as if she was on an adventure into the unknown. She had hurried into number twenty-six to see Aunt Hatt.
‘May I go?’ she’d said, after explaining the nature of the invitation. ‘I think it would be very good for Daisy.’
Aunt Hatt stared at her with what seemed a glimmer of amusement. ‘You don’t really need to ask my permission, do you?’ she said. ‘Go on – we’ll keep your tea for you. And Margaret,’ she called after her, ‘you’ll need your hat!’
Margaret had been in such a fluster she had almost dashed out bare-headed and came close to knocking her uncle down in the passage.
‘Where’s ’er off to?’ she heard Uncle Eb say in the back room as she pressed the black hat her aunt had lent her over her hair.
‘The Guild – with Philip Tallis and Daisy.’
‘Oh,’ Uncle Eb said, in meaningful tones which brought a blush to Margaret’s cheek in the dark. ‘Is she now?’
Mr Carson led them to a high building with, so far as Margaret could see in the gloom, an extraordinary number of windows in it. Other people were approaching and turning into the building and a few greetings were exchanged in the chill darkness.
As they went in, Mr Carson suddenly called Daisy to him to tell her something and Margaret found herself beside Philip Tallis as they moved towards the stairs. Glancing round her, she saw signs offering what seemed to be workshops in Ecclesiastical Metalwork and Pottery and Glazed Tiles. She would have liked to stop and look further, but the stream of people was carrying her onwards. Upstairs, they entered a room where a few curved rows of chairs were set out expectantly facing the same direction. The four of them sat together – Margaret between Philip Tallis and Daisy, who had Mr Carson the other side of her. Both the men removed their hats, revealing Philip Tallis’s bushy curls and Mr Carson’s dark waves of hair.
‘And from where do you hail, Miss Hanson?’ Mr Carson asked, leaning across Daisy. But he spoke more softly than usual, as if sensitive to the fact that Margaret was not used to his hearty style of address.
‘Oh – from a village,’ she said, flustered. ‘You won’t have heard of it. It’s not far from Bristol.’
‘I see – and you’re a niece of Ebenezer Watts, I gather?’
Margaret was nodding to this when someone tapped Mr Carson on the shoulder and, to her relief, took his attention. She found him rather overwhelming. The chairs were filling, though there was not a huge crowd. Some of them seemed to be rather outlandishly dressed in comparison to what she was used to. More than one of the men wore berets and she saw a small, dark-haired woman in a bright red embroidered cloak. Like Little Red Riding Hood, she thought, smiling at this odd garb. She sat back in her chair, conscious that she was very close to Philip Tallis, who had shrugged his coat over the back of his chair so that one flap of it had fallen across her leg.
‘What beautiful windows,’ she said, looking up at the curved shape with many panes in it, each reflecting the lamps.
‘Yes,’ he said. She could feel him looking at her. ‘It’s a fine building.’
‘But you don’t like to come here?’ The words were out of her mouth before she could think.
Philip Tallis shrugged. ‘I don’t feel the need,’ he began to explain, but at that moment there was a flurry of activity and a ripple of anticipation went through the room. Two men came to the front and with them, a very small woman, her hair fastened back severely from a middle parting, at the sight of whom everyone began clapping. One of the men, who was carrying a large portfolio, opened it on a nearby table and made a brief introduction. Everyone clapped again, then waited for Miss Jacintha Emily Hoyland to begin.
Margaret had expected something rather grand, a lady dressed in flowing silks at the least. Miss Hoyland, middle-aged with a thin, tired-looking face and plain clothing, seemed rather disappointing. An odd little body, Margaret thought. She looks as if she might have just removed her apron and be about to peg out her washing. Wasn’t she supposed to be an artist? Daisy was wriggling this way and that to take a good look.
When Miss Hoyland began to speak, though, a rich, well-spoken voice rolled out into the room, which, coupled with the woman’s wrung-out appearance, soon drew Margaret in with fascination. Above all, she was astonished by the confidence with which Miss Hoyland addressed a room full of strangers, most of them men.
‘Let me begin by saying to those of you not here earlier, that it has been my immense privilege to address this Guild once already this afternoon – this place which is a cauldron of ideas harnessing beauty, innovative thinking and, most importantly, the deeply felt expression of our human soul, put to admirable social use.’ She spoke briskly, as if keen to get to the main meat of her talk.
‘It has been my privilege to voyage to the United States, where I was able to make a number of photographic reproductions of Mr Tiffany and the work of his staff. I break no confidences in showing you elements of the work itself, which is, of course, already recorded in the company’s catalogue. However, I have also been able to photograph some of Mr Tiffany’s workshops, to see the creation of these extraordinary pieces being carried out . . .’
She went on to say that while she had developed the photographs to as large a size as possible without losing the best production of colour, nothing could of course match the reality of the original objects. However, her audience might want to move a little closer in order to catch the best of them. After due amounts of shuffling had taken place, she began to hold the photographs up one by one and talk about them.
Margaret was lost in whatever she was saying. Before her eyes moved a display of beauty which, even in the soft gaslight, brought her hand to her racing heart. She had to remind herself not to sit with her mouth gaping open. Miss Hoyland showed them pictures of stained-glass windows of exquisite colours, portraying landscapes and patterns, trees whose every leaf and flowers whose every petal had been wrought in coloured glass; a peacock, its tail aflame; lampshades of coloured glass, patterned with the iridescent bodies and wings of dragonflies; a shade fashioned as a trailing glory of wisteria, like cascades of blue drops of water. And jewellery: brooches of butterflies and snail shells, fine gold necklaces like webs set with stones, more glass, bright, singing colours of flowers . . . By the time Miss Hoyland was drawing to a close, Margaret felt half drunk on the beauty of it.
There were a few pictures of the workshop, a woman bent over a bench. Margaret watched, fascinated. Imagine doing such a thing – making these astonishing designs!
‘This is one of the glass-cutting departments,’ Miss Hoyland was saying. Margaret felt her attention sharpen even more as she went on. ‘What many people do not realize is that much of the creative vision and skill behind most of these pieces is the work of one woman – Miss Clara Driscoll. In this workshop she oversees a good many young women who implement her designs – such as the Butterfly lamp and the Wisteria lamp that we have seen. And last year’s exquisite Peony shade.’
She held up another astonishing picture of lush pinks and greens. What must they look like when you really see them? Margaret thought, exchanging a delighted smile with Philip Tallis. She drank in Miss Hoyland’s words.
‘These girls – whose backgrounds are very widely varied – are known as the “Tiffany girls”.’ Her voice took on a dry note. ‘All these items are listed for sale under the name Tiffany, that of course being the company name. But in fact most of the lamps which have come to appear as familiar Tiffany creations were designed by Clara Driscoll.’
By the time questions had been asked, more applause given and they had filed back down on to the street where everyone set off in their own direction, Margaret was still in a daze.
‘Come along, Daisy,’ Mr Carson said. ‘You take my hand and tell me all about it.’
‘All about what?’ Margaret heard Daisy say, and Mr Carson laughed.
‘Will he be going out of his way?’ Margaret asked Philip Tallis.
‘Oh – no,’ he said easily. ‘He lives just round in Vittoria Street.’
They set off again. The streets had filled with fog and Mr Carson and Daisy were already ghostly figures ahead of them.
‘Look – take my arm,’ Philip Tallis said. ‘I know the way all right.’
Surprised, but realizing this was only practical, Margaret laced her arm through his. It did not feel over-intimate – it would have been a struggle to stay together without it, and she knew it was what he would have suggested to Daisy. It felt safe and companionable.
The constraint Margaret would have felt walking with him was also pushed into the background by her excitement.
‘I’m so glad we went!’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that stained glass. So beautiful – I had no idea there were such things in the world!’
Philip Tallis gave a low chuckle. ‘I’m glad you liked it. But you must have seen stained-glass windows – in churches?’
‘Well, once or twice – but not in ours. Our church is very plain. And never like those – so . . . Oh, like windows into heaven! We never really had very beautiful things at home, you see. Because we’re such a religious household they were looked upon as . . . superfluous. Vain. We never thought about it, I suppose. We did have the beauty of nature around us – but there were always so many things to do. Even though my mother was from here . . .’
‘Was she?’ Philip Tallis sounded surprised. Margaret was gratified that no gossip seemed to have reached him.
‘Yes – she was Uncle Eb’s sister. In fact, she worked for their father here for a time. And she did wear jewellery sometimes, even though she was religious! But that was how she met my father.’ She glanced round at him. ‘But our mother died when I was thirteen.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘No wonder you have a feeling for Daisy.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘though I was lucky enough to have my sister Annie.’
They walked in silence for a moment, Margaret still awash with all that she had seen, and was somehow drawn out of herself.
‘Beautiful things like that change you,’ she said suddenly.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. And though that was all he said, by the tone of it, she knew he understood what she meant. ‘We’ll cross now,’ he added.
They were soon home. Mr Carson said his goodbyes and headed cheerfully into the night. Margaret was about to do the same and began saying her thank yous, when Philip Tallis stopped her.
‘Just one moment.’ He opened the front door. ‘In you go, Daisy – scoot up to bed quickly now, it’s late.’
‘Goodnight, Pa, goodnight, Miss Hanson!’ Daisy said and disappeared inside.
Once more they were out on the front step. The street was mostly quiet, except for Mr Carson’s receding footsteps.
‘Margaret,’ Philip Tallis said. She could not see his expression but he sounded nervous. He stopped.
‘Yes?’ Her heart kept up a thump, thump that she was suddenly aware of, as if everything, its sound and feeling, were suddenly exaggerated.
To her surprise, she heard him let out a sharp sigh.
‘You’re so young. How old are you?’
‘I’m nineteen,’ she said. ‘Twenty in February.’
‘Well, I’m thirty-four.’
She was not sure what to make of this. ‘That’s not so very old,’ she said, unsure how else to reply. There was a moment’s silence, before she heard him say, very quietly, ‘Do you think it’s too old for you?’ Before she could set this straight in her mind he had stepped towards her and said stiffly, almost angrily, ‘Heaven help me, I’m a fool. But you’ve . . .’ It came out in a rush. ‘You’ve disturbed my heart, woman, that you have.’
He was close, a looming shadow in front of her. Her body was palpitating as the blood pumped round it so hard she thought he must hear it. She must say something. I’ll love you . . . I can love . . . No, not that – that sounded ridiculous.
‘And . . .’ she managed.
His hand came to her chin, very gently, tilting her face up to look at him through the darkness.
‘Have I spoken out of turn?’ he said humbly. ‘I can’t stand the thought of you going.’
She shook her head. ‘I was trying to say . . .’ She swallowed. Was it safe? Was he safe? Hadn’t Charles seemed safe? But this was now – she must take this moment, the way she must let beauty and all it implied into her life. And what she meant to say was, You have disturbed my heart too. Every time I see you or I am close to you, you disturb me with tenderness. But what she said was, ‘You’re beautiful.’
She heard a faint sound come from him, a chuckle, no, a sob.
‘Beautiful,’ he said. His voice was choked with emotion. ‘Well, I’ve never been called that before, you lovely, lovely girl.’
He drew close and looked down at her, seeking her permission to draw her into his arms. Very gently he removed her hat and handed it to her, before bringing her head against his chest with his hand, so tenderly that it made her want to weep.