The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Seven

Practically every night, Lillian woke in the witching hours and wandered the Frick mansion. If she didn’t get up, she’d toss and turn, thinking of her mother’s last heaving breath as she tried to pull air into her lungs, her eyes wide with feverish delirium. That image would then bleed into the one of Mrs. Watkins’s lifeless hand. The upcoming trial was still in the news regularly, but there had been no more drawings of Lillian in the papers, thank goodness.

Her lack of sleep hadn’t helped matters. In the two weeks since she’d begun working for Miss Helen, Lillian had had to be reprimanded daily for some mistake or miscue. Miss Helen’s patience was wearing thin as Lillian was always a step behind, either forgetting to update the daily expenses or misfiling a letter from the florist under Agreeable instead of Disagreeable. She had a headache at the end of every workday, and that same headache woke her up at three in the morning, full of facts and figures to remember that were soon overridden by images of death.

As she passed down the main stairwell, where the organ’s pipes gleamed in the moonlight, like the bars of some gilded jail, Lillian reminded herself that she only had two more weeks to go until she would receive her monthly wages and have enough money for a train ticket. Heartened, she ran her fingertip along the banister as she descended, pretending to be the mistress of the house checking for dust, and walked along the main passageway. If it were her house, she’d switch the paintings around, placing the oversized Turner seascape in the living hall, where it could be viewed from a distance. Yes, that would work much better. The Vermeer of the laughing girl wearing a gold-and-black bodice she’d take into her own bedchamber, and position so it was the first thing she saw in the morning and the last before falling asleep. She loved passing by her favorites every day, noticing how they looked different in the morning light versus the afternoon sun, catching the surprising details that emerged with each viewing. To think that her mother had been raised in a house like this where art adorned the walls. How much had Kitty given up for love?

Lillian had wondered about her father often, most recently right before her mother had become ill. They’d passed the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, where Angelica appeared as Beauty in a statue south of the main entrance. She’d stopped, admiring herself. Her figure sat sidesaddle on a horse that wasn’t quite to scale, but that didn’t matter. What mattered were the smooth lines of her one exposed leg, the serene expression on her face.

“I always wanted to learn how to ride,” she’d said to Kitty. “Did my father love horses?”

Kitty stiffened. “Not that I remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Do you think he would recognize me? I mean, I must appear in a dozen spots around the city by now. Maybe, if he visits, he notices them.”

“Who knows where that man is by now? Whatever you do, don’t make the same mistake I did, don’t marry for love. Find someone who will give you a leg up, not cripple you with useless drivel. Or better yet, don’t marry at all.”

Lillian knew she shouldn’t push, but she couldn’t help herself. It was like an itch that rose every so often, a scratch that had to be addressed or she’d go mad. “Do I look like him?”

Kitty’s lip lifted in a sneer. “Not at all. You take after me. And that kind of thinking won’t do you any favors. In fact, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Why?”

“Look at you up there. The only thing covered is one leg, and barely that. That’s not how a father wants to see his daughter. It’s a good thing he’s gone, otherwise you’d never be allowed to do what you do. To have become ‘Angelica.’ ”

“But then I would’ve had a father.”

Kitty stopped in her tracks. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing.”

But it was too late. “Oh, I see. You would prefer not to be the most famous artists’ muse in New York City, in the country? What, would you rather be working in a silverware factory in Providence, the two of us side by side, day after day, packing spoons for rich people? You haven’t worked a day in your life, not really.”

How dare she? “What I do is hard work, and don’t you ever say otherwise.”

“I’ll say what I like. You stand there, staring into space, doing absolutely nothing. That’s not work.”

“What about you, sitting in a corner, knitting? You haven’t had to lift a finger since I started working, don’t forget that.”

All of Kitty’s bluster disappeared. “You think I’m taking advantage of you? I thought we were a team all this time. Perhaps I was mistaken.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. Kitty was the one who should have been an actress, not Lillian. She could cry on cue—Lillian had seen her do so when an artist tried to lowball them on their fee—and her emotions tended to the mercurial. When pushed, she pushed back, harder.

Lillian should have never brought up her father. “Sorry, Mother. Of course we’re a team.”

Kitty had smiled and flung her arm around Lillian’s waist, and then bought some caramel candies for the walk home.

That fight had been in January, right before her mother began coughing and took to her bed. Right before the end.

By now, Lillian had come to the doorway to the art gallery and Mr. Frick’s study, where Bertha had first come upon her and warned her to steer clear. Bertha had begun to sit next to Lillian at the servants’ meals, and her bright cheer helped make life at the Frick household a little more bearable. At night, she’d knock twice on the shared wall in between their rooms, a signal to say “Good night,” and Lillian would knock back. Lillian thought it was as close as she might ever get to having a friend.

Lillian was drawn to the partly open doorway, unable to walk past without peeking in. She knew from the street view that the space was enormous, like a giant ballroom. It seemed a shame to not know what was inside when she’d become so familiar with the rest of the house. She inched closer, and stood where she could peer in without moving the door.

At least thirty paintings hung in intricately carved frames along the long, velvet-covered walls. The furniture was minimal, some sofas and a few tables with sculptures on top, but the focus was on the artwork. Light from the full moon seeped in from the large skylights and gently illuminated the room.

There was no movement, no sign of life. She stepped inside, lured by so much beauty.

“Miss Lilly.”

She jumped, turning in the direction of the unmistakable baritone of Mr. Frick.

He sat on one of the sofas against the near wall, dressed in a dark suit, legs wide to accommodate his belly. “You can’t sleep, either?”

“Sorry, sir. No, sir.”

“I prefer to visit my beauties late at night, when there are no other people about to bother me.”

She stepped back. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, no.” He indicated the cushion next to him. “Why don’t you join me?”

Only then did she notice what was on his lap: Miss Helen’s art book. Her heart sank.

It was supposed to be his December birthday gift, after Lillian had left.

“Turn on the lights before you do. It wouldn’t be proper to sit in the dark with a pretty young lady now, would it?”

She flicked on the switch. Individual spotlights gently illuminated each painting so that the landscapes seemed like windows to the outside and the portraits breathed with life. Lillian took a seat on the sofa, a respectable distance away from Mr. Frick. He touched the book on his lap with his hand, and her eye was drawn to a dotted white scar, like tiny teeth marks, that curved along the webbing between the index finger and thumb.

“My daughter gave me my birthday gift early this year. I accused her of thinking that I wouldn’t last that long—jokingly, of course—and that set her off crying, poor girl. She said she’d done it because she simply couldn’t wait to share it with me.”

But Lillian knew the real reason. Mr. Childs’s wife had given birth to a boy a few days earlier, and Miss Helen wanted to prove her own worth to the family, offer up her own contribution. “She’s a kind woman,” she offered.

He laughed. “I don’t know how many people would say that. My Helen is like me, temperamental, at times. When we have to be.” Another long look. “What do you think of that painting?” He pointed to the right, to the one hanging near the doorway.

She swallowed hard. “It’s quite grand.”

“Let’s walk over and study it, shall we?”

He got up with a loud exhalation, carrying the book with him. She and Mr. Frick were about the same height, although he must have weighed twice as much.

“Do you know what it’s called?”

Of course she did. It was one of the paintings that Miss Helen had asked her to write about in the bowling alley that long night. The last one in the book. “The Choice Between Virtue and Vice,” she said.

“Exactly right. By Veronese, painted in 1565. So long ago. My daughter wrote about it in her gift, would you like me to read it out loud?”

“You don’t have to, sir. It’s very late, I should go to bed.”

“No, I’d like you to listen.”

The painting was large, around five feet wide by seven feet tall, and featured a medley of bright colors and bold movement. In it, a man was twisting away from a woman in blue silk, and toward another in green, who clutched at him with both hands. Lillian squirmed beside Mr. Frick as he read out loud, his voice echoing around the room, a man who was used to being listened to and obeyed.

“A young man on his wedding day is lured into the arms of a woman in green, signifying envy, and away from the beautiful bride, whose hair is decorated with white flowers, signifying purity. The bride holds a piece of wedding cake in her left hand, and is about to toss it at him.”

What was she to say? It had been a very long night in the bowling alley after Miss Helen had left. Lillian had just wanted to go to bed, so instead of finding the correct description for the last entry, she’d quickly made something up, confident she wouldn’t be around for its unveiling.

“I noticed something interesting about this page, and the two before it,” said Mr. Frick.

“Is that right?” Her shoulders rose, like she was about to be tackled.

“The handwriting is different from the prior entries, which I know to be my daughter’s hand.”

“Right.” Better to be honest. “She’d asked me to help out, and I’m afraid I—”

He cut her off. “You made it up. This beautiful gift, ruined by a jokester.”

She’d been close, and then gone and ruined everything by her laziness. First thing in the morning, he’d point out her pathetic description to Miss Helen and she’d be back out on the streets.

Mr. Frick stood waiting for her response.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Frick. By the time I got to this entry, it was midnight, and I had a full day of work ahead of me. I know art means so much to you and your daughter, and it does to me, too, more than I can say. But I was simply so tired, I couldn’t think straight.”

She expected him to bellow at her. Instead, he stared at her kindly, gently even, his blue eyes a little watery. “My Helen is a taskmaster, like her father. But there is much more to her than that.”

Lillian stayed quiet.

“Did you know my daughter was at the front lines in France during the war?”

A vague memory of Miss Winnie mentioning Miss Helen and the Great War during Lillian’s first evening at the Frick house floated back. To be honest, the idea of Miss Helen with her poufy hair meandering around war-torn France seemed ridiculous, an impossibility.

“She went as part of the Red Cross for seven months, helping women and children refugees,” said Mr. Frick. “After returning home, she created a thrift shop, with proceeds going to the veterans, raising over fifty thousand dollars. I don’t tell her enough, but she’s a remarkable girl.” He coughed a couple of times. “What she saw in Europe affected her, and I often wonder if it was a wise decision. She’s delicate, prone to fainting. In Grand Central, she can only walk around the perimeter of the concourse now. Otherwise, she suffers a spell.”

That explained why Miss Helen rarely went out on calls or appointments, even though she was often invited. “I had no idea.”

“Before the war, she was an unusual child, but she had friends and interests, would go on sleigh rides with girls from school, took dance lessons, that sort of thing. The first month after she came back from Europe, she would wake up at three a.m., screaming, night after night. I would set my alarm for two thirty and wait in a chair by her bed so I could calm her and get her back to sleep. Then I’d creep back to my bedchamber.” He sighed. “I’m a much better businessman than I am a father. Neither of my children like me, not really.”

His abject honesty touched her, but she had to disagree, at least on one count. “Miss Helen is quite devoted to you.”

“My employees are devoted to me as well. It doesn’t mean they like me.”

They stood for a moment, without speaking.

“Do you mind if I illuminate you with the correct story behind the art?” Mr. Frick’s low baritone made it clear that declining was not an option. “You see, I find the history of the paintings as valuable as the paintings themselves. And the paintings, as you know, are quite valuable.”

“Of course, Mr. Frick.”

“You had it backwards. The woman in green is Virtue, and is guiding Hercules away from Vice, whose dress is partly undone. Her fingertips end in sharp talons, which have ripped his stockings, drawing blood. The work depicts the lure of pleasure versus the difficult ascent to true happiness.”

“Oh. That’s quite good.” She hadn’t even noticed the blood on the man’s calf in the small reproduction she’d had to study in the bowling alley. Nor Vice’s talons, which on the actual painting looked quite savage.

“I do not find your interpretation amusing.”

Would she get what they owed her—two weeks’ pay—if she was fired right now? There was no one to complain to if they refused. No one to stand up for her.

He paused. “Well, slightly amusing. You have quite an imagination. Particularly the bit about the wedding cake.”

She jumped at the opening. “We’d worked so hard all day and then she wanted me to finish the book because she decided to create an entire library instead.”

“Right, the library idea. She said you gave it to her.”

Lillian was stunned that Miss Helen had sought to give her any credit at all. That wasn’t in her nature. “She enjoyed doing the research for your book so much, you see. It made her happy.”

Mr. Frick frowned. “I don’t want her creating a library, it’s too much for her. We must keep her safe. I forgive you for the made-up entry in my book. I understand that it was not what you were hired to do, it was out of your bailiwick. My Helen is not your typical woman, and I want to see her happy.”

“I think creating the library would make her very happy.”

“It would tax her considerably. Like my wife, you see, who has a delicate disposition. What would make us both happy is to see our daughter married, like her brother.”

This was an unexpected turn of conversation. “May I ask how old she is?” Lillian hadn’t dared to ask the question of Helen.

“Thirty-one.”

Most girls were married off by twenty, at the latest. Lillian’s face must have shown her surprise.

“My daughter hasn’t had many offers, it’s true, but it didn’t help that we uprooted her and moved to New York. She’s never been happy here. Perhaps a husband will help settle her, find a new social circle. I won’t mention your lapse, your invention, to my daughter if I get something from you in return.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I need your assistance. My daughter has edges that require softening. I’ve spoiled her and relied on her too much over the years, and she does not have any innate ability to attract a mate. We will be introducing her to someone shortly, and I’d like you to guide her through the process.”

How odd, that Miss Helen ruled her territory within the house with an iron hand, but yielded to a delicate disposition out in the larger world. Lillian didn’t pity her, not exactly, but this conversation had made her understand Miss Helen slightly better. “I’ll do what I can, but your daughter is determined, in many cases, to go her own route.”

“I’m a businessman, and I think like a businessman, so I’d like to make you an offer, an incentive, if you will.”

An incentive. Now this was getting interesting. “What’s that?”

“If my daughter is engaged by Christmas, I’ll give you a bonus of, say, a thousand dollars.”

One thousand dollars. An enormous sum, on top of her salary. But getting Miss Helen engaged to be hitched would take time.

Lying low in the Frick mansion had worked this far, so maybe it would be worth the risk to stay on. Worth the extra money, for sure. She’d be able to afford a first-class train ticket, and as many new clothes as she pleased. That way, she’d show up at the producer’s offices looking like a starlet in the making, not a boring private secretary.

As a model, Lillian had learned to be patient, and she’d have to tap into that skill in the coming weeks if she was going to pull this off. It was important that she carefully bide her time and wait for the right circumstances to align to make her escape, not pull the plug either too soon or too late.

“I promise I’ll do my best. Thank you, Mr. Frick.”

She would get Miss Helen engaged, collect the money, and be on her way.

“Oh, no, I can’t possibly wear that!”

Miss Helen grabbed the dress Bertha was holding in front of her like a shield and tossed it onto the floor. From the mass of frocks on the floor, they’d been at it for some time.

“Miss Helen.” Lillian assumed her disappointed schoolteacher countenance as she stepped around the sea of silks and lace. The tone sometimes snapped her employer out of an impending tantrum. “Why won’t that one do? It’s beautiful.”

“It’s the wrong color. I can’t wear mauve or pink.” She grabbed a thick chunk of her hair. “I’m a strawberry blonde, this will make me look like a giant tomato.”

Miss Helen often wore mauve and pink, but Lillian didn’t bother pointing that out. “What about the lilac one? It shows off your figure.”

Normally, Miss Helen wouldn’t think twice about her clothes. It was one of the aspects of her character that Lillian secretly admired, the fact that she put all of her energy outward, and couldn’t be bothered to cover up her freckles, which most women would do, or that her hairstyle made her look like a frump. How many hours had Lillian spent bathing in milk or smoothing olive oil on her skin? Sure, it was part of the job of being an artists’ model, but the obsession with whether or not she was showing herself off to her best advantage always weighed heavily. Miss Helen didn’t bother with all that. Sure, it meant she was a spinster at the age of thirty-one, but with Lillian and her father’s help, that could change, and fast.

The past week, Lillian had thrown herself into the preparations for tonight’s dinner party, a supposedly “impromptu” gathering of the Fricks’ friends and business acquaintances, but in truth an excuse for Miss Helen to be thrown together with the beau her father had chosen for her, a man named Richard Danforth. To be honest, the work had helped take Lillian’s mind off the Watkins murder. News of the case had been on an uptick lately, as Mr. Watkins’s lawyer had begun granting interviews to reporters in an effort to sway public opinion before the trial. “Angelica” came up repeatedly in the press, and Lillian gave another silent prayer of thanks for Miss Helen’s reclusiveness. She rarely had to leave the house. In fact, Miss Helen preferred to have her by her side most of the working day, as she corresponded with the art librarian in England for her project. This morning, for the first time in ages, Lillian had not woken up wondering what would become of her, whether or not the police would knock on the door that day and summon her off to jail. Instead, she found herself thinking of the roses she’d picked up for the centerpieces that were expected to arrive that morning, and making a mental note to check with the chef downstairs about the presentation of the caramel cake for dessert.

At first, organizing a dinner party for thirty-two guests felt similar to what a general might go through in planning an attack during wartime. The final menu, which the chef concocted and then defended madly against any of Miss Helen’s suggested changes, began with melons, followed by potage petite marmite, filet of sole, jambon de Virginie, and asparagus with hollandaise butter. He allowed the caramel cake for dessert only because Lillian spent a good hour smoothing over his ruffled feathers after Miss Helen bluntly rejected an upside-down pineapple cake, calling it “gauche and tropical.”

The invitation list was drawn up and sent around for approval from all three Fricks, and then changed three times over. Same for the seating arrangement, where almost every guest was moved about repeatedly on the large chart that Lillian had drawn up, other than two chairs, the ones belonging to Miss Helen Frick and Mr. Richard Danforth.

But now, watching Miss Helen fall apart in her bedroom before the event had even begun, after all of Lillian’s toil, vexed her to no end. Lillian needed the match to work. She’d already begun imagining a luxurious California lifestyle appropriate for a movie star, financed by Mr. Frick’s generous offer. Her reveries involved renting a bungalow with a swimming pool where she’d lounge after long days on set, acting alongside Douglas Fairbanks or Lillian Gish. While many girls might dream of such a thing, it was very much within Lillian’s grasp. Once she put her mind to something—acting on Broadway, or becoming Angelica—she’d always attained it. So far.

Downstairs, the guests were already assembling from the sounds of chatter rising up to the second floor from the main gallery. Cocktails and a viewing of the art began the festivities, before continuing down the hall to the dining room, where four tables of eight burst with roses and lilies set in heavy crystal vases. According to the schedule, which Lillian had tucked into the clipboard she’d carried with her all day—to the point that it had become almost another appendage—after dinner the men would retreat to the library and the women to the Fragonard Room, both of which had been dusted and swept, then inspected by Lillian before the tasks were checked off her master list.

There was something quite satisfying about checking something off a list, about creating a plan that was broken down into its parts. Once she’d stopped feeling like it was beneath her, Lillian had embraced this part of her job wholeheartedly, and not only because of the potential payout. It made her feel competent, and she found she rather liked being in charge. The same skills she’d used as a model—patience, the ability to bide her time and then strike with a suggestion when her employer wouldn’t get defensive—had, until now, transferred quite beautifully to the role of private secretary.

“Hell’s bells and buckets of blood,” cried Miss Helen. “I look like a dowdy matron. What’s to be done?”

The histrionics were getting out of hand. Lillian dismissed Bertha and closed the door to the hallway. “If you like, I can help. Do you want my help?”

“I should be downstairs already, but I’m not even dressed.”

“Let’s try the lilac.”

She and Miss Helen stared at the reflection in the looking glass once Lillian had done up all the tiny pearl buttons at the back. The color softened Miss Helen’s edges and, with its dropped waist, could almost be considered fashionable, offsetting the lacy collar that worked better on a young girl than a woman. Miss Helen nervously tugged at the sleeves, on the verge of tears.

What to say? The answer came in a flash. “Last time you wore this, your father remarked quite favorably on it,” said Lillian.

That was enough to calm Miss Helen’s fussiness. “He did, didn’t he?” She did a half turn, admiring herself in the mirror, finally.

“Now how about I fix your hair? Perhaps we can try something new?”

“No. Papsie likes it like this.”

At least the woman was dressed. Lillian knew better than to push her luck. “Well then, shall we go down?”

Miss Helen’s chin wobbled. “I don’t want to. I don’t want this.” She walked over and sat with a thud at her dressing table, biting her lip.

“It’s a dinner party, you’ve been to many before, I bet.”

“But not like this, where everyone will be looking at me and looking at him and wondering why on earth a man like Richard Danforth would waste his time.”

“Because you are a catch, Miss Helen. You are smart as a whip and a good daughter, and let’s not forget that you were on the front lines in France during the war. Talk about courageous.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Your father told me.”

Miss Helen grew quiet. “It was the first time I felt a part of something. That I was a useful member of society.”

“What kind of work did you do?”

She managed a sad smile. “The Frick unit was in charge of refugees in more than seventy French towns. For each family, we’d take their histories, give them coal cards, explain how to find their lost relatives, help get them established. The face of one young woman was marred by dog bites. She said that when she and four others were rounded up to be sent to Germany for committing subversive acts, the French villagers came out to offer up a silent tribute. Angered, the Germans set their dogs on the five of them and laughed as they were mauled. She had been a beautiful woman—she showed me a photograph—and they’d butchered her. It still haunts me.”

Lillian’s regard for Miss Helen rose tenfold. She’d displayed a colossal courage in joining the war effort in Europe during that terrible time. Even the voyage across the Atlantic would have been dangerous, never knowing if a German submarine was headed your way.

“I did everything in my power to help everyone I could, but it took a toll,” said Miss Helen. “I became prone to fainting spells after days and nights of unending bombing. And the sirens, I’ll never forget that sound, like a pickaxe into one’s brain. After six months, I had to come home. But I assure you, the savagery committed by the Germans will not be forgotten, not by me in any case. I can’t walk these halls filled with portraits of countesses and duchesses who have not a blemish among them without remembering what was left of that poor girl.”

“That must be very difficult. But your father is quite proud of what you accomplished overseas.”

The invocation of Mr. Frick only increased Miss Helen’s agitation this time around. “If I let him down, I’ll feel terrible. Every time something like this happens, where I’m the focus of attention, I can’t help but feel how much better my older sister would have been in the same situation, if she’d lived.”

“Older sister?” echoed Lillian.

“Martha. By now, she’d be married and have children and I wouldn’t have to do this silly dance. It doesn’t come naturally to me, you know.” She placed a hand protectively on her jewelry box. “If I show you something, will you keep it a secret?”

“Of course.”

Miss Helen lifted the burl wood lid and pressed on something inside, which caused a hidden compartment near the base to slide open. A cameo lay on the red velvet interior. “This is Martha’s likeness. I was three when Martha died, just before her sixth birthday.”

Lillian leaned over her shoulder. The image of Martha on the cameo was the same as the girl on the checks and in the many portraits around the house. Miss Helen looked quite similar, but her forehead was squarer. So that was Martha dominating Mrs. Frick’s rooms and Mr. Frick’s checkbook, not Miss Helen. How horrible, to have the ghost of your dead sibling staring back at you wherever you turned. “She was lovely.”

“Martha was Father’s favorite,” said Miss Helen with an air of melancholy. “I will never measure up.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is, and I can prove it.” Miss Helen turned Martha’s cameo over and clicked it open. Inside sat a pink diamond the size of a large pebble, glittering in the lamplight with the most remarkable of colors, from the softest pastel to a shimmering rouge. “My father bought it for Martha to celebrate her birth. It’s known as the Magnolia diamond, and quite rare. When I was born, they didn’t bother with such extravagance.” She tucked the jewel back into the cameo, then laid it gently in the drawer of the jewelry box and closed it all up. “I’m not feeling well, can you tell my father I won’t be able to join?”

Sympathy and frustration warred within Lillian in equal measure. She knew what it was like to feel like you couldn’t please a parent, but Lillian needed Helen to not only attend but dazzle if Lillian was to meet her end of the bargain with Mr. Frick. Yet if she let her irritation show, Miss Helen would only feed off it. She took a deep breath.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Miss Helen looked up at her, surprised at the sudden turn in conversation. “A secret?”

“Yes. I’m not one for crowds of people, either. Whenever I have a difficult time of it, I imagine that all the people around me are wearing absolutely nothing at all.”

“What!” Miss Helen put a hand over her mouth. “Without any clothes on?”

It was a trick that Lillian put to use whenever she posed in the nude for an unfamiliar artist. She’d imagine what he looked like under his smock, all those dangly parts that she’d only seen on statues, which made her less self-conscious and helped her focus on remaining still, although every so often she found herself prone to giggles.

But Miss Helen didn’t need to know the details. “Yes. They’re the ones who are ridiculous, not you.”

Miss Helen burst into peals of laughter. “How risqué! My mother would be mortified at such an idea. You say it works?”

“I promise.”

“Very well. I want to go downstairs now, to try your technique out. But I’m coming back up if it doesn’t work.”

After she was gone, Lillian let in Bertha to clean the mess. She was tempted to ask her about the story of Martha—certainly Bertha would know what had happened; she knew all the gossip—but there was no time, so instead, she rushed downstairs, her heart beating fast. The guests still had fifteen minutes left before dinner. In the butler’s pantry at the far end of the hall, Lillian spied the three footmen assembling slices of melon on silver trays. She turned back and peered in through a crack in the door into the main gallery.

Inside, New York City’s finest citizens were engaging in self-consciously sophisticated conversation with each other in between sips of champagne. The evening gowns on the younger women in attendance ventured to the modern, shimmering with delicate beads, the waistlines barely existent, or lightly draped with a loose tie. A woman in turquoise and black whispered to another wearing a daring clementine-colored chemise dress, while above their heads a framed Van Dyck noblewoman in a bulky neck ruff smiled demurely down, as if listening in.

She’d done it. She’d organized and pulled off a high-class soiree in the Frick residence. If only Kitty were still alive to see what her daughter had accomplished.

“Excuse me.”

Lillian turned to see a woman with a long, pale face punctuated with dark eyebrows and topped with a jet-black head of hair. She recognized her instantly: Mrs. Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, the well-known patron of the arts and a skilled artist in her own right. They’d met a few times before, when Mrs. Whitney had stopped by the studio of the sculptor Karl Bitter as he developed a figure based on Lillian, one that now stood in front of the Plaza Hotel. Mrs. Whitney had expressed interest in Lillian posing for her, but nothing had ever come to fruition.

Mrs. Whitney narrowed her eyes and held up a shiny gold lorgnette.

“Angelica? Is that you?”