The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Lillian was told that Mr. Frick still wasn’t feeling well and the doctor had been called for. She waited with Miss Helen outside the door to his sitting room while he was examined, and they walked the doctor to the foyer when he was finished.

The man had a somber look on his face. “It’s pleurisy. That’s what’s causing his shortness of breath.”

“I hope you didn’t tell him that,” said Miss Helen.

“No. As you requested, I didn’t let on the seriousness of his condition. I told him the congestion was due to the lousy weather. Keep him on a liquid diet for now, and make sure he rests. I’ll check back tomorrow.”

Upstairs, Mr. Frick lay on the sofa clutching a royal blue comforter. He would be a shoo-in for St. Nick, with the white beard and large gut. But Mr. Frick was far from jolly, even on days he was in good health.

His valet stood nearby, writing something down.

“For lunch, I’ll have sweetbreads and au gratin potatoes,” dictated Mr. Frick. “Have a cigar ready for me after, with a hot Scotch.”

“No, Papsie, that won’t do at all.” Miss Helen turned to his valet. “He’ll have a thin consommé and tea.”

“No,” Mr. Frick thundered. “My last meal will not be soup.”

“No one has said anything about a last meal. Please, Papsie.”

The valet left, throwing Miss Helen a sympathetic look.

She sat in the chair next to her father. “You won’t listen to me, will you?”

“Why should I? Why would you know better than me what I want to eat for lunch?”

“It’s what’s healthier for you.”

“Bah. Let’s play checkers.”

“You play with Miss Lilly. There’s something I must attend to.” She rose and pointed to a polished marquetry checkerboard displayed on a small side table. “Miss Lilly, move that over near him and play. You know how to play checkers, don’t you?”

“I do.”

Mr. Frick bellowed as best he could as Miss Helen left the room, “Do not go changing my menu,” but before he could finish the threat, he began to cough.

Lillian poured a glass of water from a crystal pitcher and handed it to him. He drank it down and the wheezing lessened.

He gave one final clearing of his throat. “Sit. Play with me.”

Lillian’s value, like that of the rest of the servants, fluctuated depending on the level of stress that ran through the mansion like an electric current. This morning, here with Mr. Frick, she felt on par with Wrigley the dog, commanded about and expected to obey.

She sat opposite Mr. Frick and adjusted the pieces that had slipped out of place. He moved first.

They played in silence for a while, the only sound that of his breathing, like a coal-choked train engine. While he pondered his next move, Lillian took the opportunity to study the artwork on the walls and mentally compare each one to the entries destined for Miss Helen’s library cataloguing system. Doing so soothed her, got her mind off the fact that Mr. Danforth was expecting a decision in three days’ time. If she left the Fricks’ employ, she’d never see Miss Helen’s art history library come to fruition, which to her surprise made her feel slightly mournful. Lillian had found a deep satisfaction helping Miss Helen sift through images of the world’s most beautiful artwork, figuring out how best to categorize various landscapes and portraits, bronzes and busts. The work combined her love for order, which she’d discovered after she’d begun taking her job as private secretary seriously, with her love for art, from her previous career.

The repercussions of her decision weighed heavily on her.

Mr. Frick looked up and followed her gaze. “When I first started collecting art, I never imagined I’d end up in a house surrounded by masters.”

“You must be very proud.”

“Proud? It’s not like I painted them.” He sat back. “It all feels so ordinary now.”

Ordinary. Not the word she would have chosen. He fell into a coughing fit again, and for the first time she saw him as a vulnerable old man, his forehead creased and wide eyes fearful. Over his lifetime, he’d conquered everything he’d set out to, only to be reminded by his failing lungs that he was a mere mortal.

“What a legacy, to leave all this for the people of New York,” she said, hoping to boost his spirits.

“But will they appreciate it, seventy, eighty years from now? Who will care about the house of a dead rich man, filled with old art?” He paused. “I’ll be gone soon, you know.”

She didn’t meet his eye, not wanting to engage in such morbid talk. “The doctor is quite positive.”

“He’s lying.”

Lillian murmured a quiet dissent.

“I almost died once before, did you know that?” He moved one of his pieces to the far side of the board, and she dutifully crowned it.

She remembered Bertha’s recounting of his attempted murder, something involving a Russian anarchist. “How very scary that must have been.”

“There I was, sitting in my office in Pittsburgh, having a meeting, and I looked up to see a man with a gun. I was shot twice in the neck, stabbed multiple times in the legs and chest. I refused to be put under during the four hours it took the surgeon to remove the bullets. The doctors saved me, but you know who truly saved me?”

“Who?”

“My first daughter. When the madman pointed his gun at me, there was a flash of light, and I am certain it was Martha. She blinded him so that he misfired. Martha saved me.” He held out his right hand, the one with the tiny bite marks. “Of all my scars, this is the one that haunts me most. My daughter suffered for four years. In comparison, my wounds were nothing.” He took the last of Lillian’s checkers pieces with a satisfied flourish. “Did you throw the game on purpose, to cheer up an old man?”

“Never.”

They both smiled.

“Will you promise me you’ll take care of my daughter after I’m gone? She’ll need guidance. You have a good head on your shoulders, you understand the way the world works, I can tell. Will you watch over her?”

Before she could answer, the door flew open and Miss Helen entered, carrying a tray.

“Papsie, I’ve brought you a hot toddy. That will set you right. Isn’t that what you always told me when I was ill, that a hot toddy was the cure?”

“I don’t want it. For God’s sake, stop fussing over me. Send it back.”

Miss Helen’s face fell. She banged the tray down on the sideboard and sat at the end of the sofa. Her father refused to move his feet to make room, so she perched uncomfortably, half on and half off. “How was the game? I see you’ve bested Miss Lilly. She’s terrible at games.”

“Not because she’s terrible, but because she lets her opponent win,” Mr. Frick answered. “Miss Lilly is a smart one, you ought to listen to her.”

“What have you been talking about?” Miss Helen eyed Lillian suspiciously.

“Miss Lilly has been my confessor,” he said. “Exactly what I needed. I feel much better now.”

Lillian could have choked him if he hadn’t already had breathing difficulties. Pitting people against each other was as natural to him as breathing. Perhaps it worked in the business world, but his family, already frayed, was falling apart.

“Who knows what will happen once I’m married?” said Miss Helen. “Mr. Danforth and I may very well decide to revisit our staffing requirements.” She pointed to a chair in the far corner. “Miss Lilly, please take the New York Times and sit over there. Mark which articles you think my father would like to hear me read out loud.”

Again with the commands, not to mention Miss Helen’s not-so-subtle threat to fire her. But Lillian obeyed, planting herself in the most uncomfortable chair in the room. Mr. Frick was ill, she reminded herself. The family was under a great deal of stress, wondering how their world would go on after his death, wondering if they’d be able to manage without him at the helm.

“Papsie, while she does that,” Miss Helen said, “I will read to you from The World. Would you like that?”

“I would. Very much.” He settled back down, content at having put Miss Helen and Lillian at odds.

What if Lillian ran off with Mr. Danforth?

Richard. She’d have to get used to calling him by his Christian name if she were to elope with him. There were times, like today, when she was sure Miss Helen didn’t deserve him; Richard was far too kind and good for the likes of her. They’d be miserable within a month, and no doubt Mr. Frick would torture him in what little time he had left, as he did the others. If she accepted Richard’s proposal, Lillian would be free from the entanglement of cruelty in this house, and she’d have a decent life, as the wife of a good man. She had earned that, hadn’t she? But even as she considered her options, she knew it wasn’t right to accept a man’s hand in marriage out of spite. She had to drill down further, figure out if she was willing to take such a leap of faith. And she only had until Monday to do so.

As Miss Helen read out loud to her father, Lillian leafed through the Times. Mr. Frick preferred the business items, but she scanned the arts section first. God only knew how long Miss Helen would take, just to keep Lillian squirming in the corner.

Exclusive interview with Alan Broderick, silent film producer.

Lillian’s heart jumped at the headline, and she quickly skimmed through the article. He was in town, scouting locations for a new movie that wasn’t yet cast. The interview had been conducted at the Plaza Hotel, where Mr. Broderick was staying until the middle of next week, before returning to California.

He was here.

She remained in the corner until Mr. Frick dozed off, and then asked Miss Helen if she could attend to the books. Miss Helen dismissed her, but instead of going to Miss Helen’s sitting room, Lillian went to her own chamber, where she put on a bright slash of lipstick and ran a comb through her hair before dashing down the front stairs.

At the hotel, she pulled her veil low and approached the clerk, asking to send a note up to Mr. Broderick. Told that he was still in his suite, she stated that she’d wait for a reply, and gave the man a tip for his trouble.

She took a seat at the base of a large jardiniere, watching the guests come and go through the lobby. The rococo interior, with walls of rose-and-green brocade, gave her a slight headache after the relative austerity of the Frick house. Right now, Miss Helen was probably stamping her feet, asking Bertha to find Lillian, angry at her sudden disappearance. She was taking a terrible risk.

After ten interminable minutes, the clerk approached her with a note. “From Mr. Broderick,” he said with a bow.

She tore it open, praying for good news. It stated that Mr. Broderick would be pleased to meet with her early next week.

Monday at eleven.

Right when she was supposed to meet Richard.

The weekend crawled by, with Miss Helen becoming more and more frantic as her father grew sicker, his body swelling with fluid, the doctor administering morphine to keep him comfortable. Mr. Childs and his family had visited his bedside on Sunday, the children wide-eyed and solemn before being delivered quickly out to their nursemaid. Mr. Childs and his wife remained by Mr. Frick’s bedside for an hour before shuttling back home to Long Island.

Miss Helen, not liking the prognosis the doctor had given the family, fired him and brought in another. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours at that point, and Mrs. Frick finally demanded that she rest, an unusual surge of motherly sentiment. At nine in the morning on Monday, Lillian sat in her room, two notes in her hand. One to Mr. Broderick, declining his invitation to meet. The other to Richard, expressing her regret. Which to send?

Kitty had bitterly cursed Lillian’s father for leaving them with nothing. As far as Lillian was concerned, men were not to be trusted easily. Not her father, nor Mr. Watkins, and definitely not Mr. Frick, who played with his family like they were puppets on a string. Richard, while he seemed kind, didn’t know who she really was, and would certainly never allow her to work as an actress. That wasn’t ladylike, not in the circles in which he traveled. In the end, he saw only a fantasy of her, as a prim private secretary, which in many ways was no different from the fantasy of Angelica.

The anonymity of being a working girl had been fine, for a time, but Lillian’s power had always lain in her beauty, her appearance. If she didn’t take this chance to be an actress now, she might wonder for the rest of her life what might have been. Looming over her still was the January trial of Mr. Watkins. Even if she accepted Richard’s offer and was a respectable married woman by then, there were no guarantees that she would remain free from the scandal. No, the only way forward was to put herself at Mr. Broderick’s mercy and leave the East Coast for good.

She tore up the note to Mr. Broderick and tossed it in the wastebasket, and handed the one addressed to Richard to the footman on the way out, with instructions to deliver it right away.

At the Plaza Hotel, a little before eleven, she knocked on a door on the fifth floor. A young man with a pronounced overbite but an eager smile showed her into a luxurious sitting room done in a soft yellow, with two windows looking out to Central Park through embroidered organdy curtains. “We’re excited to meet you,” the assistant said as he welcomed her inside.

Mr. Broderick rose from the sofa and held out his hands to her. He was younger than she’d expected, probably in his late thirties, and sported a tan that made his green eyes sparkle. The very picture of health, especially when compared with the wheezing, sickly pallor of Mr. Frick. “Very nice to meet you. Tell me your name, please.”

She looked over at the assistant and back to Mr. Broderick, confused. “Angelica.”

Mr. Broderick gave her a sly look. “Right. Early on, we heard from a number of women claiming they were Angelica. All pretty with long, dark hair. But not a one since the scandal broke. You have quite a bit of courage coming forward, whoever you are.”

Whoever she was? But he knew who she was. “You were so kind in your letters, I figured I could trust you.”

“Letters?” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, right. I don’t handle the correspondence. That’s up to my assistant.”

She looked over at the toothy kid. That was who she’d been exchanging letters with? Who she’d confided in with great detail about her life as Angelica, as a way to prove her identity?

And who’d replied with such an enthusiastic response?

Mr. Broderick had neither written nor read any of it.

“I think she’s the real deal, Mr. Broderick,” said the assistant. “I think this is her.” He gave Lillian an encouraging and slightly apologetic smile.

“You don’t say?” Mr. Broderick looked her up and down.

Well, Lillian was certainly getting her just rewards, having forged many a note herself these past few months. But she wouldn’t let this hitch stop her; she’d made it this far. “I am her. Angelica, I mean.”

Mr. Broderick sent away the assistant and offered her a seat on the sofa. “In that case, how are you doing, my dear Angelica?”

Such a simple question, yet she found herself tongue-tied. So much was at stake on the answer. Mr. Broderick was looking at her so deeply, with such compassion, that, much to her own surprise, she burst into tears.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a monogrammed handkerchief. She pressed it to her eyes, careful not to smudge the kohl liner. The makeup she’d applied that morning felt like a thick mask on her skin after months of sporting a clean face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“There, there.” He took her hand in his. His touch was as soft as a kid leather glove. “You’ve been through so much lately, I’m sure. Tell me all about it, my dear girl.”

Dare she? He could call the police at any moment. She had to earn his sympathy, make him see her value and agree to take her back to Hollywood with him. “I’ve been lying low, after all the articles in the press. Again, thank you for seeing me.”

“I feel like I see you whenever I’m in New York. You’re outside my hotel, above a fountain, up on a pedestal near the park, embedded in the library’s facade. You’re everywhere, Angelica.”

“Lately, I’ve wished that wasn’t so. That terrible murder, I didn’t have anything to do with it. The man was my landlord, but that was all.”

“Of course. Where have you been all this time?”

“I found a job working for a family and stayed out of sight. My plan was to come to you in California, but then I read in the newspaper that you were in the city, and here I am.”

Mr. Broderick leaned in closer. “What a time you’ve had of it, my girl. Trust me, I know these reporters, and they don’t care what the real story is. Nor do the police. You were right to stay out of sight and then seek me out. I will take care of you. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

“You will?” Opening up to him had been the right decision. “I’d be happy to audition for any role, no matter how small.”

He stood and began to pace. “I can already see it in my mind’s eye, which is always a good sign. This is how I work, I wait until the story comes to me. One can’t rush the creative process.”

A ripple of courage zinged through her. “You remind me of the artists I posed for,” she said. “The best ones often circled me in the studio for an hour before they even began. They’d mumble to themselves, make sketches, that sort of thing. Once they started work, it became a partnership, in many ways. I’d often offer up suggestions that came to mind as I posed.”

“You were a muse to them and you’ll be a muse to me, I can see that. Do you have anything that’s keeping you here in New York?”

She thought of Miss Helen and Richard. It was better for her to leave so they could figure out whatever arrangement would work best without her muddying things up. “No. I have no one.”

“I meant, this investigation. Do the police have a warrant out for your arrest?”

“I believe I may be wanted for questioning, or at least that’s the way it’s been written about in the press.”

“Fine. Then you can leave with me tomorrow, and we’ll put you up somewhere quiet near the studio while we figure out the best story for the press. We’ll say that you fled the big, bad city for the sunshine of Los Angeles, and that you’ve been reborn.”

“Reborn?”

“I’d prefer to give you a screen test in the studio, with the proper sets and costumes, but I’m willing to make do with what we have here. Stand there.” He pointed to the center of the room.

She did so and waited. He backed away, holding out his hands in two L shapes, and knelt low. “That’s right, bring your chin up, look above me, over me.”

For a fleeting moment, her nerves kicked in again, but she reminded herself she’d been studied closely before, that this was no different from the hundreds of other times she’d been inspected, scrutinized. She hoped the bags under her eyes from the weekend of sleep deprivation didn’t show.

“My God, you look good from every angle,” he said. “I’m going to talk, and I’d like you to react to what I’m saying in whatever way feels natural. Are you ready?”

She nodded.

“Go to the doorway.”

She walked to where she’d first entered.

“Here’s what I envision. I want to tell your story.”

“My story?”

“Yes. This will be a collaboration. Angelica, the Artists’ Muse.”

A collaboration. Her name in the movie’s title.

He continued. “We must capitalize on what you’ve done before, show that you’re an emblem, embedded in the culture of New York City. That you’ve been persecuted and called vile names, but that your essence is still pure.”

Vile names? She didn’t want to draw attention to the scandal with her landlord. The whole point of going to California and acting was to get beyond all that, move forward. She was about to volunteer that she’d be happy to act in a movie that had already been written, but she couldn’t get a word in. He was backing up, talking quickly.

“Let’s pretend it’s the first time that you’ve come to an artist’s studio and been asked to pose. Go ahead, action.”

“Action?”

He stood and blew out a breath. “Yes. Enter the room as if it was a studio. Can you do that?”

“My mother was always with me.”

“No mother. We need to raise the stakes, heighten the narrative. You’re all alone, and this is the first time you’ve done this. Can you remember that?”

She could, and shivered a little at the memory.

“Yes! Exactly what I’m looking for. What you did there. Keep on going.”

She’d impress him with her acting skills, even if this was not what she had expected. Lillian entered the room and stood, looking about with wide eyes, as if she were surrounded by finished statues and works in progress.

“Wonderful! Now here comes the artist. He’s circling you.”

She stiffened, watching the imaginary man as he passed by.

“Terrific. Now, we’ll have to re-create what happened to you in the studio. You sense that he wants more than just a model, and it frightens you. Show me that.”

She broke out of character, confused. “But that never happened. All the sculptors I worked with were working artists, not seducers. My mother made quite sure of that.”

“Again with the mother. There is no mother, all right?”

“But if it’s going to be my story, then shouldn’t we be true to it? I’m not ashamed of what I did, posing as a model. There was nothing untoward about it.”

Mr. Broderick plunked down in a chair, knees wide, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. He spoke evenly, like a disappointed parent patiently explaining the rules to a young child. “You’re not some farm girl from Omaha who no one has heard of before. If you are the true Angelica, we have to embrace your recent notoriety.”

“I’d like to get beyond my notoriety, if I can.”

“It’s too late for that. But if you can make the audience fall in love with you, feel like they understand your plight and empathize with you, then you’ll have all the power in the world. Power will get you out of a pickle, and that’s what you’re in, at the moment.”

She crossed her arms, uncertain.

“The studio wouldn’t allow me to film anything that’s the least bit distasteful or gauche,” Mr. Broderick offered. “You’ll be safe with me. But you have to trust me, can you do that?”

She eyed him warily. “I guess.”

“I’m going to demand a lot from you, Angelica. You’ll need to expose yourself, and I want to know now, right now, if you’re going to be able to do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, I’ll need you to offer up raw, undiluted emotion. Really dig deep. And there should be at least one shot of your legendary dimples.” The last sentence was said almost to himself, as if she weren’t even in the room.

Her heart sank, but maybe she could put him off. “Like this?”

She smiled.

“No, not those dimples.” His voice hardened. “Yes or no, Angelica? You decide. If you are in fact the real Angelica, why would that be a problem? Are you the real Angelica?”

Mr. Broderick wasn’t interested in working together to create something wonderful. He wanted to take her story and turn it into something sordid. To portray her as a victim, a childlike creature with no power, instead of a muse to the best artists in the world who had, in fact, done quite well for herself. For a while.

“I lied.”

“What?” he asked.

“I lied. I’m not Angelica. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

He swore under his breath. “Stupid girl. I knew it the whole time. Your nose is far too big. You’d never last one day in an artist’s studio, never mind a film lot.”

As she left, she heard him bellowing for the assistant to send in the next girl.