The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Nine

1919

Angelica,” Mrs. Whitney repeated, “isn’t that you?”

Lillian clutched her clipboard to her chest and stared at Mrs. Whitney, who stepped even closer. Inside the gallery, a bell rang, signaling that the Fricks’ dinner party guests were to make their way to the dining hall. They moved as a herd, and Lillian stepped into the back entryway to let them through.

To her dismay, Mrs. Whitney joined her in the small space. “You look exactly like an artists’ model I’ve met several times downtown. Her name’s Angelica.”

“You must be mistaken. I work for Miss Helen.” Lillian looked down at her clipboard and checked something off. “Please, if you’ll walk this way, dinner is being served.”

But the woman wouldn’t be put off. “It’s remarkable, really. You could be twins.”

Only then did Lillian notice a man standing close by, having just come down the back stairwell. It was the organist, Mr. Graham. She was trapped.

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of her.” Lillian was perspiring in her dress. This couldn’t be happening.

Mr. Graham stepped forward and touched her lightly on the elbow. “Miss Lilly, can I see you upstairs, please?”

He retreated into the stairwell, and Lillian, relieved, hastily excused herself from Mrs. Whitney and followed him. On the second floor, he headed south at a decent clip, a thick stack of music tucked under his arm. Had he heard Mrs. Whitney call her Angelica? She couldn’t tell.

“That woman was awfully rude, I thought.” Mr. Graham looked briefly in Lillian’s direction but kept walking. “I didn’t like the way she was looking at you, as if you were one of Mr. Frick’s enamels.”

“Thank you for that. I suppose my face rang a bell. It tends to do that.” By now he’d turned left, toward the front stairwell. They descended together, side by side. He wore a tweed suit with a matching striped blue tie and pocket square, the trim cut of his jacket the latest in fashion. At the bottom of the landing, he placed the papers on the organ’s music stand.

She should be checking in on the dining room, ensuring that the first course was ready, but first she needed to get a better sense of how much he’d overheard. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Graham?”

“It’s been four years. Now tell me the truth.”

The room blurred around her and then came back into focus. “The truth?”

“Yes. How did you like it?”

She blinked in confusion. “Like what?”

“ ‘The Rosary.’ I played it the other day and Mr. Frick was quite pleased. I was hoping you were as well.”

He was smiling, flirting with her, and something about the set of his face and the crinkle of his eyes made her smile back. “Right, yes, it was lovely.” Not that she had any idea of how the melody went, of course. She hoped her response sounded convincing.

“I’m thrilled to hear it. I don’t get much feedback, tucked away under the staircase.”

She looked down at the organ, unnerved at his attention. “It’s quite an instrument.”

“You don’t see many like these in a private residence,” he said with a touch of pride, like a jockey bragging about his fastest racehorse. “She’s a beauty.”

Lillian gestured to the brass pipes that rose up above the stair landing. “They’re a work of art in themselves.”

“Believe it or not, that’s just a pretty facade.”

“A facade? Then where are the real pipes?”

He pointed to a door one floor up. “Behind the false ones, through that door. All four thousand seven hundred of them.”

He settled in, but Lillian remained standing, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. If he’d heard any mention of Angelica, he’d hidden it well. She prayed that he’d missed that part of the conversation, or, if not, that the significance hadn’t registered.

He sat down, fiddled with some of the stops, then took a deep breath before letting loose a chord that was so loud she almost fell down the last two steps of the landing.

“Mr. Graham!”

He smiled at her. “Just kidding.” He adjusted the stops, looked back at the sheet of music, and eased gently into a Bach sonata.

She frowned and headed to the dining hall, hoping that no one had spilled anything when that silly man blasted their ears off. Peering inside, she first located Mrs. Whitney, who was deep in conversation with Mr. Frick, her back to the door. At the table near the fireplace, Miss Helen sat looking miserable, an empty chair beside her.

Where was the man of the hour?

As if on cue, a blast of cold air swept through the hallway from the opening of the front door. A gentleman in formal attire handed his coat and hat to the butler. He walked the first few steps with an uncertain gait, as if the marble beneath might turn to quicksand, but when he saw Lillian staring at him, he quickened his step and offered a broad smile. “I apologize for my lateness.” He gestured to the clipboard. “Mr. Richard Danforth, present and accounted for.”

The final piece of the puzzle.

“Thank you, Mr. Danforth.” She crossed his name off her list with an exaggerated swipe. “We are delighted to have you.”

“May I ask who is expressing this delight?”

“I’m Miss Helen’s private secretary, Miss Lilly.” It gave her a zing of pride, saying the words private secretary out loud. She stood straighter, eager to get him over to Miss Helen’s side. He was a nice-looking man, with a cleft chin and mild blue eyes. Would he find Miss Helen frumpy? Or would he be able to see the vulnerable, accomplished woman beneath her veneer of haughtiness?

She passed Mr. Danforth off to a footman, not wanting to attract Mrs. Whitney’s attention again by entering the room herself, but peeked through a crack in the door as he was brought around to his setting and graciously took Miss Helen’s hand. Miss Helen said something and they both laughed, and then Miss Helen looked over and spied Lillian staring. She winked and turned back to her guest, ever the gracious hostess, as if she did this kind of thing twice a week.

Lillian spent the entire dinner sitting in the main hallway, listening to the strains of the organ. Across from her hung a large Turner oil of the Rhine as it flowed through Cologne, Germany. On the left side of the canvas, a tourist-filled ferry boat floated serenely on calm waters, but her eye was drawn to a scraggy-looking dog drinking river water near a black drainage pipe in the bottom right-hand corner, as workers toiled on the sandy banks. New York had that same mix of beauty and ugliness, the mansions of Fifth Avenue and the slums of the Lower East Side.

The sharp sound of Miss Helen’s laughter brought her to her feet. The pitch veered toward hysterical, which Miss Helen fell into whenever she was overstimulated or overtired. Lillian edged to the doorway and looked in. Miss Helen was giggling helplessly by now at something that Mr. Danforth had said, and while he smiled at her mirth, he had turned slightly away, perhaps embarrassed at her unsightly display. Mr. Frick frowned from across the room, staring hard at his daughter.

Lillian ran to the butler’s pantry. “Go in there and let Mr. Frick know that it’s time for the men to move to the drawing room,” she said to Kearns.

“That’s not the way it’s done,” Kearns said. “Mrs. Frick or Miss Helen are to rise first, and encourage the ladies to join them in the Fragonard Room.”

Mrs. Frick was too timid to do anything so bold, and it appeared that Miss Helen had lost all sense of time and comportment. “You must. I will explain to Mr. Frick if he complains.”

Reluctantly, Kearns entered the room, and she watched as he whispered to Mr. Frick, then pointed right at Lillian.

She locked eyes with him and he nodded, understanding, and rose to his feet.

Miss Helen wasn’t going to make this easy.

The next day, Miss Helen was in a good mood, humming to herself as she sat on the chaise longue in her sitting room, leafing through an oversized book on early Renaissance art while Lillian sifted through the thank-you letters from the guests. By all accounts, the dinner party had been a success, and Mr. and Mrs. Frick had even come down to the staff dining room during breakfast and thanked them all for their service. Mrs. Frick had pulled Lillian aside and clasped Lillian’s hand in hers. “You’ve been taking such good care of my daughter,” she’d said, as Miss Winnie beamed from behind her.

Miss Helen hadn’t brought up their intimate conversation from the night before, and Lillian knew better than to make reference to it. She sliced through another envelope, recognizing the name immediately. “This one’s from Mr. Danforth, would you like me to read it out loud?”

Miss Helen slammed the book shut. “No. Hand it over. I’ll read it myself.”

As she did so, Lillian stacked the others in a neat pile, as she’d been trained to do that first day. By now, it came naturally, and Miss Helen rarely corrected or admonished her.

“Oh my.” Miss Helen had one hand to her mouth, so Lillian couldn’t tell if she was smiling or frowning.

“What is it? What does his note say?”

“It says that he’d like to call on me.” She looked up, her eyebrows knitted with concern. “What shall I write back?”

“You should encourage him. In fact, why not ask him to tea tomorrow?”

“I can’t, that would be improper.” She let the note fall into her lap. “Perhaps in a week.”

“Perhaps in a week you’ll have him for tea?”

“Perhaps in a week I’ll respond.”

That wouldn’t do at all. If it were up to Miss Helen, the courtship would go on for years. “But you had such a nice time together.”

“I don’t know what I’d talk about at tea.”

“What did you speak of during dinner?”

“He asked about my dogs, and so I described each one that I’ve owned over the years, starting with Charlie and ending with Fudgie, and how each had a completely different personality. He said he loves dogs, you see.”

Lillian managed a weak smile. “How many dogs have you had over the years?”

“A dozen.”

Dear God. “I’m sure he was entranced.”

“I couldn’t tell, really.”

“Well, if you had him to tea, perhaps you could ask him if he’s owned any dogs, and listen to what he says?”

Miss Helen considered the idea. “I suppose I could. Here, take a look at what he wrote.”

The letter was more than a thank-you note, certainly. Mr. Danforth spoke of Miss Helen’s graciousness for the invitation to dine at the residence, but also noted her winning smile and quick wit.

“Oh, Miss Helen, he’s interested in you. I can tell.”

“Is that right?” Miss Helen looked at her art history book longingly, as if she’d much prefer to dive back into its pages rather than deal with the vagaries of courtship. “Will you write back for me? You’ll know what to say better than me.”

Lillian jumped at the opportunity. She’d be able to make Miss Helen appear less nutty than she was, and create a foundation that might stick. If it was left up to Miss Helen, goodness knew what she’d say. Something about Fudgie’s beefy dog breath, probably.

She sat for a moment, gathering her thoughts, before penning the return note. As Miss Helen, she thanked him for his kind words, which no doubt revealed a doubly kind heart, and asked him to visit tomorrow, when she hoped she could learn more about his interests and desires. The word desires was a strong one, but time was of the essence, and she signed it and sealed it before Miss Helen could ask to see it.

“I’ll have the footman deliver it this afternoon,” Lillian said, “along with the rest of your correspondence.”

“No.” Miss Helen smoothed her dress. “Take it to him now, yourself. That way I can tell Papsie at luncheon of his response.”

Lillian checked the address. He lived in the East Fifties, an easy walk, and she wouldn’t mind getting some fresh air. She’d pull the veil of her cloche down over her eyes in case she passed an acquaintance. Or Mrs. Whitney.

“Your advice last night helped me immensely, Miss Lilly,” said Miss Helen. “At first, when I walked into the gallery and all of those people turned to stare at me, I wanted to run away, back to my room. But then I imagined them all in the altogether, and it made me smile and then they all smiled back.”

“Well done!”

“However, I didn’t do so with Mr. Danforth. First of all, it wouldn’t be proper, and second of all, I didn’t need to. By then, I was feeling ever so confident.”

Good girl, Lillian almost said, before correcting herself: “I’m sure you were, Miss Helen.”

Lillian collected her hat and handbag and headed out. It was unseasonably warm, and the October sun brightened the facades of the shops along Madison Avenue. At a florist, she stopped to admire some rust-colored chrysanthemums, and vowed to buy a bouquet for her room on the way back. She’d been saving every penny of her paycheck, and deserved a little pleasure for all of her hard work.

Mr. Danforth’s residence was in the city’s Turtle Bay neighborhood, one of a long line of brownstones. Lillian let herself through the wrought iron gate to ring the bell.

A manservant, stooped with age, answered. She explained her errand and asked if she might wait for a response to take back to her mistress. He paused a moment before ushering her into a parlor of dark wood walls and overstuffed chairs. After he left, she slowly turned around, taking in the room. It was as different from the Fricks’ mansion as could be, a throwback to the Victorian era, with almost every space filled with vases, framed photographs, and lace doilies. There was barely room to maneuver without knocking over a table topped by a bulbous glass lamp, or tripping over an embroidered footstool that had seen better days.

Mr. Danforth rushed into the room holding the note in his hand. He saw Lillian, and a look of relief washed over his face. “Hello, Miss Lilly. The private secretary, is that right?”

“It is.”

“For a moment, when my man told me we had a female visitor, I thought Miss Helen might have come to deliver her invitation in person.”

She wasn’t sure if his relief was due to not wanting Miss Helen to see the state of his residence, or not wanting to see Miss Helen. “My mistress is otherwise occupied this morning.”

“Of course, she must be a busy woman, no doubt.”

“Her social calendar is quite full,” Lillian lied.

“Well, thank you. I see she sent along an invitation to tea.”

“She asked that I wait for a reply, if that doesn’t inconvenience you.”

“I suppose not.” He gestured around the room. “I hope the surroundings don’t cause you too much distress. I can only imagine what it’s like coming from the Frick mansion to my humble abode. A study in contrasts.”

He had been worried about the decor, then, not Miss Helen’s presence.

“This is my family’s home,” he continued, “where I grew up, and where my parents lived until they passed away earlier this year, from the Spanish flu.”

He was most likely still mourning the loss, then. Unable to throw anything out. She understood the inclination to keep things as they were. After Kitty died, Lillian didn’t get rid of any of her clothes or shoes. Whenever she opened the armoire, a wave of sadness would wash over her. But then, as she glanced at the individual items, the memories would bring her a muted joy. Like that of her mother dancing around the flat in her alligator-trimmed, Louis-heeled shoes, which Lillian had bought as a surprise after a particularly lucrative session.

By now, all of their belongings had probably been left out on the street to be picked over by scavengers. The thought of her mother’s slips and stockings, dumped into the trash to clear out the apartment for the next tenant, made her want to weep.

“Miss Lilly, are you all right?” He gestured to the sofa. “Would you like to sit down? It’s warm out there, I know.”

She sat as he poured her some water from a pitcher. She took several sips, letting the cool liquid revive her, bring her back to the present.

“Thank you, this helps.” She placed the glass on a side table, next to a photograph of a handsome-looking couple. The man had the same sharp chin as Mr. Danforth. “Are these your parents?”

“Yes. Taken several years ago.” He avoided looking at the photograph as he answered her.

“My mother died in February of the flu,” Lillian volunteered. “She was getting better, I thought, and then she declined so rapidly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. So you understand.”

She nodded.

“In any event, I assure you I am planning on updating the decor, as soon as I have time. I don’t plan on living in an homage to the last century forever.”

“One can’t rush mourning.”

He studied her in the dim light. “You’re very wise. How long have you been Miss Helen’s secretary?”

“It’s a month today.”

“You did a bang-up job organizing last night’s festivities.”

“Thank you. Really, Miss Helen is the one in charge, I simply carry out her instructions.”

“She seems to enjoy her hounds greatly.”

His face remained neutral. She couldn’t tell if he was making fun of Miss Helen or not. His actual response to the invitation hadn’t been forthcoming, not yet, and this might be Lillian’s only opportunity to convince Mr. Danforth to accept it, especially if the conversation last night hadn’t been quite as successful as Miss Helen believed. “She does love her dogs. But she’s also well traveled, well versed in the arts. Miss Helen has a more forceful personality than other society ladies, but I find it refreshing. Did you know she went to France during the war?”

“Miss Helen?”

“Yes. She volunteered with the Red Cross, and was practically on the front lines with the soldiers.” Lillian couldn’t believe she had to be the one supplying this vital information. Miss Helen should have brought it up herself; it would have been easy enough to do.

“Well, that makes me admire her even more. What a terrible time, for all of us.”

“I do believe that you and Miss Helen might find you have a great deal in common, if you give her a chance. Will you give her a chance?”

“You’re quite a fierce advocate of your mistress.”

A thousand dollars bought quite a deal of advocacy. Probably better not to share that tidbit with him. “Will you come?”

He studied Lillian for a moment before heading to the writing desk near the front window. “I shall. I’ll compose a note for you to take back to her now. If you like, I can have some coffee sent up while you wait.”

“That would be most kind.”

She watched him as he took a pen out of a drawer along with a page of stationery paper. He was quite handsome, in a boyish way, but his movements were tentative, reminding her of the way he’d entered the Frick house, the uncertainty of his gait. It was as if he were trying to maintain control of himself, to become neither too excited nor too sad, fighting for a middle ground that didn’t upset the equilibrium of the moment.

She sipped the coffee the butler brought and studied the room more closely, noticing that the wallpaper curled down from the crown molding in sections, and the rugs were quite worn. Miss Helen’s fortune would certainly help matters, if the household’s disarray was an indication of the state of his finances. The grandfather clock chimed eleven, yet Mr. Danforth had only scribbled a few words, and was now staring out the window, lost in some other place or time.

“Mr. Danforth.” When she spoke, he jumped as if she’d broken the silence with a loud cry.

“Yes, sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I really should be heading back.”

“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “May I admit something?”

“Of course.”

“Miss Helen’s letter was quite charming. I feel my response will be rather dull in comparison.” He stared down at the note. “What do you think I ought to say? I want to convey my interest, but not appear unseemly.”

Lillian rose and stood behind him, looking down at the note. All that was written on it was Miss Helen’s name and the date. Did she have to do everything? For goodness’ sake, she was a Cyrano de Bergerac squared, writing love letters to herself. “I’d be happy to help.”

She rattled off a couple of sweet sentences, followed by a request that he use the occasion to meet Fudgie the hound. “That should do it.”

He signed it and sealed it in an envelope, his relief palpable. “That’s that, then. Are you walking back or taking a car?”

“It’s a lovely day, I was planning on walking.”

“Do you mind if I join you part of the way? I have a luncheon at the Plaza, which is on your way. I’d be happy to escort you.”

“Of course.”

The fresh air and sunshine revived Mr. Danforth, and he spoke freely, giving Lillian a behind-the-scenes account of some of the guests at the dinner. He also described his upbringing, having attended a posh boys’ school in Manhattan, followed by four years at Harvard. His mother had come from the South, and her family owned a number of cotton mills. Mr. Danforth’s father had run the business until his death.

“Have you taken over the family business, then?”

“For now. It’s been sadly declining in production and revenue, even before my father died. I was supposed to go into the office today, but I simply couldn’t bear it. I’m glad I stayed home, though, as your appearance has certainly brightened it.”

“What would you prefer to do, if not the family business?”

He hesitated before speaking, as if trying to decide whether it was safe to confide in her. “I believe this century is going to be an exciting one when it comes to medicine. I’d like to be a doctor. Help people who are ill.”

“Is it too late to switch careers?”

“It appears to be.”

Meaning, if the match came through, he’d be swept up into the Frick family business. Then again, Miss Helen was attempting to fashion her own life with the library idea, independent from her family, in spite of her father’s opposition. She might enjoy having a husband who worked in medicine. Lillian made a note to herself to mention it as a topic of conversation for tomorrow.

By now, they had reached the fountain in front of the Plaza. It always reminded Lillian of an aquatic wedding cake, with tiers of water splashing down, one over the other, and at the very top, the bronze statue of the goddess Pomona.

Mr. Danforth stared up at it. “I’m always curious why they chose the goddess of fruit trees for this particular location.”

“I’m impressed that you know that,” she said.

“I mean, she is holding a basket of fruit.”

Lillian laughed. She recalled the weight of it, of having to hold it off to the side and slightly bent over, which had sent her back into spasm. How lovely it was to see it out here, in the fresh air, where anyone who wanted could walk right up and study it. That was what she’d loved most about being reproduced in marble to adorn the city’s buildings and bridges, that the works of art weren’t hidden away in private houses or fancy museums; they were for anyone to enjoy. “The fountain was designed by Thomas Hastings, the same architect who designed the Frick house. The statue was by Karl Bitter. Pomona, the goddess, represents abundance.”

Mr. Danforth turned to her. “Now I’m impressed. I see why you’re a good fit for the Frick household.” He looked back up at the statue. “Pomona.” He looked at Lillian. “I’ll say, that’s incredible.”

She shouldn’t have drawn attention to it. What had she been thinking? “I really should go.”

“No, hold on.” He put a hand on her arm and pointed upwards. “You have the same profile as our goddess there. Do you see it?”

On one hand, it sent a surge of pride through Lillian that he’d recognized her. It was like when she was at the height of her modeling career, feted and heralded as a great artists’ muse, almost as well-known as the artists themselves. She’d imagined traveling to Europe to pose for Degas and Picasso, using her fame as a springboard to film acting. The possibilities had been endless.

But Mr. Danforth was heading into dangerous territory. Lillian didn’t answer, but instead made herself blush. It wasn’t difficult. After all, he was comparing Miss Helen’s private secretary to a naked woman. In public.

“Oh my. I’m sorry. That’s very forward of me. But I wasn’t talking about, well, the rest of her. I meant the shape of the face. Oh, God. I’m making it worse, aren’t I?”

She should respond like a blushing maiden and leave quickly, but she couldn’t stand the idea of the poor man twisting in the wind. He didn’t deserve that. So she looked at him straight in the eye, a reassuring smile on her face. “It’s fine, Mr. Danforth. Miss Helen will see you tomorrow, yes?”

“I’ll be there, I promise.”

At that, she headed uptown, eager to escape further scrutiny.