The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Sixteen

In the dim light, Lillian noticed dark circles under her employer’s eyes. Miss Helen must have been up all night with her father, who lay facing the wall, heaving with each breath, his eyelids shut.

Mr. Frick’s bedroom was paneled in dark wood from floor to ceiling, and Lillian’s gaze was drawn to a painting on the near wall of a girl wearing a tiny blue stone on a gold chain around her narrow neck, so lifelike it was as if Lillian could reach up and pluck it right off.

“That painting is by Sir Thomas Lawrence,” said Miss Helen from Mr. Frick’s bedside. “I never liked it.”

“Why is that?” Lillian pulled up a chair. The situation didn’t appear to be as dire as Miss Winnie had portended, and in fact Miss Helen appeared more quiet and thoughtful than frantic.

“He scrunched all of her features together in the middle of her face. The effect is as if she’s smirking at the viewer, not inviting us in.”

Lillian didn’t point out all the similarities to Martha. The reddish curls, the pink cheeks. Mr. Frick was never far from his lost daughter, even when he slept.

“Where’s your mother?” Lillian asked.

“She stopped in last night. Said she needed to rest, that her head was bothering her again.”

Which left Miss Helen alone for the vigil. If only she and Mr. Childs had a better relationship and could share the burden.

“What can I do to help?”

With a groan, Mr. Frick turned over and stared at the two women, wide-eyed, his face shiny with sweat. “Who are you?”

Miss Helen tucked in his covers. “It’s me, your Rosebud.”

He heaved himself to a sitting position. “How on earth can I sleep if you’re yammering on the entire time? I was doing fine until now.” The lost expression of a second ago had been replaced with his usual businesslike mien. “Waiting for me to drop, are you? Get me something for this pain, for God’s sake.”

Miss Helen’s face crumpled. “Of course, Papsie.”

Lillian followed her out into the small hallway that connected the bedroom to the sitting room. The nurse—who Miss Helen had hired a few days ago—rose from a sofa as soon as they entered.

“Why aren’t you helping?” demanded Miss Helen. “He’s in pain again. There’s no point in us paying you to lounge around all night.” Lillian had witnessed a similar ripple effect many times now: Mr. Frick would needle or insult his daughter, sending her off on the warpath at anyone who had the bad fortune of appearing next in her periphery, whether a chambermaid dusting the bookcase or, more often, Lillian.

The nurse crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m right here.” She followed them into the bedroom, where Mr. Frick’s breathing had turned to moans. Lillian and Miss Helen stood back as the nurse examined him. He moaned again.

“You have to do something!” said Miss Helen.

The nurse turned to her, a sullen look on her face. “We did six applications of turpentine stoops at midnight, and he was given a sleeping draft soon after. For now, we must wait for Dr. Partridge’s visit, which is set for nine o’clock.”

“Nine o’clock! That’s four hours away. I refuse to let him suffer for that long. His color is off and he’s perspiring a great deal. There must be something we can do. Go and call for the doctor.”

“Miss Helen, there’s nothing that can be done.”

Lillian had to agree. The man needed rest, quiet.

But that wasn’t good enough for Miss Helen. “Go downstairs and have them call for the doctor. Now.”

As the nurse left, Mr. Frick put a hand to his chest. Miss Helen ran to his side and placed her hand over his. “What do you need, Papsie?”

“Water. Get me water.”

“Get him water!” Helen called out to Lillian. “Hurry.”

Lillian went to the bathroom, where a glass of water sat on the edge of the porcelain sink. She picked it up and caught her reflection in the mirror. In the faded morning light, all of her exuberance and youth had been drained away. Her hair, pulled back in a bun, the way Miss Helen preferred it, made her nose appear beakish, not aquiline, and her mouth too small. Haggard, that’s what Kitty would have said. You look haggard.

“What are you waiting for?”

Miss Helen appeared behind her in the mirror, wearing a nasty frown. “My father is ill and you’re admiring yourself in his mirror?”

She grabbed the glass out of Lillian’s hand and retreated into the bedroom. Lillian took one last look and let out a sigh.

Back in the bedroom, Miss Helen had lifted her father’s head. “Drink this, you’ll feel much better. Dr. Partridge is on his way and then you’ll feel good as gold again.”

“Thank you, my girl.”

Lillian watched from the doorway as the father and daughter shared a quiet laugh. She’d overheard the doctor talking to the nurse a few days ago, saying that his heart was giving out. It couldn’t pump enough blood to keep his lungs going, and they were filling with fluid. It wouldn’t be long, the doctor said. One or two weeks, at most.

Poor Miss Helen. She was going to need Lillian more than ever very soon, and Lillian refused to let the woman’s bad behavior bother her. Now was the time for compassion. When Lillian had been in mourning, Mr. Watkins had tried to take advantage, but Lillian would be there to protect Miss Helen in her grief, protect her from people who wanted something from her. And they would crawl out of the woodwork, for sure, with the inheritance she’d be left with.

Maybe, with Mr. Frick gone, Miss Helen would be free to figure out where she stood in the world without a parent scrutinizing her at every turn, comparing her unfairly to a long-dead sibling. It might be exciting, thrilling, to watch Miss Helen come into her own. She had every advantage—intelligence, social standing, a passion for her library, money—and maybe that would be enough to eradicate her pettiness and quell her temper so that she would become a softer version of herself. A kinder version.

“Papsie?”

Mr. Frick’s head thumped back on the pillow, his eyes closed.

Miss Helen looked over at Lillian, confused, then back at her father. “What’s happened?”

Lillian joined her at the bedside. She stared at the figure under the comforter, waiting for movement. Nothing.

“Papsie?” Miss Helen patted his cheek, leaned in close, and kept calling to him.

The nurse reappeared and wrapped her fingers around Mr. Frick’s thick wrist. Lillian could tell by the heavy weight of it that there would be no pulse, and the nurse soon confirmed it. “I’m sorry, Miss Helen.”

Miss Helen looked vacantly over at the nurse. “You were too late. He’s gone. Useless woman.” She rose. “We should go tell Mother.”

The disconnect between what had just happened and Miss Helen’s muted reaction was most likely due to shock, Lillian knew. She put her arm around Miss Helen’s shoulders as they walked to the door. “I’m very sorry,” she said.

She looked back at the nurse and shot her a look of what she hoped was apology for her employer’s behavior, though no doubt she had seen worse.

But the nurse wasn’t looking at her. She had lifted the empty glass on the bedside table and was sniffing it strangely.

Lillian turned her attention back to Miss Helen and guided her into the empty hall, in the house that Mr. Frick had spent his entire life imagining, and enjoyed for only five short years.

Lillian spent the morning and early afternoon frantically organizing a viewing that same day for Mr. Frick. The internment was to take place at the family’s cemetery plot, outside of Pittsburgh, but they wanted an opportunity for an intimate group of his New York friends and business acquaintances to pay their respects at the Frick mansion before then.

Mrs. Frick had hidden away on the second floor, leaving Miss Helen and Lillian to manage the details. Or, to be honest, Lillian to do so, as Miss Helen tended to burst into tears every ten minutes or so and run out of her sitting room. Lillian raced through the to-do list she’d drafted up soon after Mr. Frick took a turn for the worse a couple of weeks ago. An artist was brought in to make deathbed studies; then the body was sent off to the funeral home. In the afternoon, the undertaker would deliver the coffin with Mr. Frick’s remains, which would be taken to the art gallery and covered in roses, lilies of the valley, and tulips. At precisely five thirty, the guests would gather in the living hall, where they would listen to a reading of the Sermon on the Mount before being invited to partake in the viewing, during which time Mr. Graham would play the organ. The invitations had been sent out first thing, and Mr. Danforth’s butler had returned word that his employer was out of town but sent his condolences. Lillian wasn’t sure if Mr. Danforth was lying about his whereabouts, but was relieved to strike him off the list.

The entire family would then leave by train, along with Mr. Frick’s coffin, later that evening, for Pennsylvania.

Lillian was in the front hall, handing various correspondence to the driver to deliver, when Miss Helen called out her name from the second floor.

Lillian took off at a trot up the stairs toward her. “What is it?”

“I want my father’s bed moved into my bedroom.”

“You want what?”

“You heard me.”

“Right now the servants have their hands full preparing for the service.” The chambermaids had been brought downstairs to help rearrange furniture for the viewing, and the parlor maids were stationed in the kitchen assisting the cooking staff. “Can it wait until tomorrow? Remember, you’ll be gone for almost a week in Pittsburgh.”

“No. It must be done right now.”

Lillian stifled a sigh of impatience, but she understood the strange impulse. The day after Kitty had died, she’d lain down in her mother’s bed and breathed in what was left of her essence, a mix of menthol and Pears soap, of sickness and health. Her mother’s body had been taken away and disposed of quickly—it had been the height of the second wave of influenza, and every doctor, hospital, and undertaker was overwhelmed with the dead and dying. She hadn’t even been able to put a rose on her grave.

“Very well. I’ll have the chore man see to it.” She asked Kearns to send the chore man upstairs with a few of the footmen, and watched with Miss Helen as they disassembled both Mr. Frick’s and Miss Helen’s beds, then brought Miss Helen’s down to a storeroom in the basement before reassembling Mr. Frick’s in Miss Helen’s room. The whole time, Miss Helen fretted about, warning them not to scratch the wood.

After they left, Lillian half expected Miss Helen to throw herself on the bed in a fit of hysterics, but instead, she went to her dressing table and sat staring out the window, the bed switch-around entirely forgotten.

“Have my father’s remains come back from the undertaker yet?” she asked.

Lillian checked the clock on the mantel. “Very soon.”

Miss Helen opened a drawer. “I want this to be buried with him.” She held Martha’s cameo in her hand.

Lillian considered all the things that diamond hidden inside could buy: clothes, food, rent money. The thought of it being buried underground, lost forever, seemed indecent. “Are you sure? What if you buried the cameo, but sold the diamond and donated the money to one of Mr. Frick’s causes instead?”

“No. He loved Martha best. This will be like he’s being laid to rest with a small piece of her.”

A valuable piece of her.

Lillian was concerned that Miss Helen would toss it away so cavalierly. She could never get it back, and Miss Helen was never one for having much foresight. What if she regretted it? “What if you had it made into a ring for your mother?”

“No. Papsie would want this, I’m sure of it. Come with me.”

They walked together down the back staircase. “When I get back from Pennsylvania,” said Miss Helen, “I’m going to insist that Mr. Danforth and I marry as soon as the mourning period is over.”

Lillian’s stomach dropped. “But what of our talk yesterday, about remaining independent?”

“My father wanted me wed. He very strongly wanted me wed, as we can see from his arrangement with you. So, wed I will be.”

Which meant Lillian would soon be caught in the middle once again. Would Mr. Danforth reconsider, now that Lillian had removed herself from the running, and choose Miss Helen after all? Her first reaction was no, he would not, but the more she considered his histrionics in the driveway—threatening to go down on one knee—the more she realized how little she knew him. His presence in the house would make her own untenable.

Bertha was exiting the art gallery as they approached.

“Are the flowers here yet, Bertha?” asked Lillian.

“No, miss. Not yet.”

“Have them brought in as soon as they arrive. We don’t have much time.”

The casket had been set up at the far end, near the enamels room, just below a melancholy Rembrandt self-portrait.

“How he would love this,” said Miss Helen. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

Lillian had to admit that this was the ideal send-off for Mr. Frick. Surrounded by the works he loved most, and his family, in the palace he created with his wealth and eye for beauty. “It is.”

“Thank you, Miss Lilly, for taking such good care of him. And of me.”

Lillian shifted uncomfortably. She’d put everything she had into the preparations for Mr. Frick’s viewing, ensuring that they were executed precisely to her specifications, mainly because she hadn’t been able to do so with Kitty. On that cold February day, the undertakers had clumsily maneuvered the stretcher carrying her mother’s body down the stairs of their apartment building, slid her into the back of a dirty truck caked with mud, slammed the doors shut, and driven off. Miss Helen’s father would receive a very different send-off; Lillian would make sure of that.

Miss Helen took the cameo out of her pocket. Inside the coffin, Mr. Frick appeared serene and pale yet still strangely present, as if he’d just closed his eyes to remember something important and would open them at any moment.

Miss Helen placed the cameo in his palm and closed his thick fingers around it. The same hand with the scar from Martha’s pain now held Martha’s pink diamond. A fitting pairing. Maybe Miss Helen had been right, and this would be a way to lay to rest the ghost of the lost daughter and her father at the same time, to let them both go.

Bertha popped back in to say that the florists had arrived, and Lillian oversaw the placement of the arrangements while Miss Helen went up to dress. Then it was down to the kitchen to check in with the cook and back up to the gallery to go through the final checklist.

As the notes of the organ floated down the hall, Lillian stood next to Miss Winnie and watched as the family gathered around the coffin in a quiet moment before the other guests arrived. Mr. Childs stood next to his wife, Dixie, at the foot of the casket. Mrs. Frick blew loudly into a handkerchief as she and Miss Helen approached and took up a position on the side.

But Miss Helen immediately jumped back, as if pushed by an invisible force.

“It’s gone!” She turned to look at Lillian. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Mrs. Frick blew her nose again.

“Martha’s cameo, with the diamond!”

Now she had the family’s attention. “What diamond?” asked Mrs. Dixie.

“What on earth did you do with it?” demanded Mrs. Frick.

“I put it in Papsie’s hand, to take with him,” said Miss Helen. “But it’s not there.” She pointed into the coffin. Miss Winnie and Lillian drew close. It was true: Mr. Frick’s lifeless fingers were outstretched, not curled around the cameo the way Miss Helen had left them. Miss Helen reached in and lifted the hand, but there was nothing underneath.

Someone had taken the cameo.

The week the family was away for the burial, the whole house felt dark and muted, as if it were draped in velvet. Lillian went about her duties, assembling the towering stack of condolence cards for Miss Helen to respond to, watching as the flowers in the art gallery faded away, selecting which ones ought to be tossed out.

Before they’d left, Miss Helen had instructed the head housekeeper to search every servant’s room, but the cameo remained missing. Someone had taken it right out of Mr. Frick’s hand, a gruesome thought. How did whoever took it know what they were looking for? Only Lillian knew that Miss Helen had placed it there. She prayed it would turn up soon.

Lillian spent the afternoon before they were to return working among the archives in the bowling alley. She’d done everything she possibly could with regards to her regular household duties, and knew that Miss Helen had been planning on examining the contents of several crates filled with archival documents before her father had taken ill. She figured she’d get a jump on it and please Miss Helen with her initiative, get her enthused about creating a library instead of rushing into an ill-advised marriage. The quiet of the room, deep underground, soothed Lillian, as did the act of arranging the many invoices for art purchases by date. Degas, El Greco, Manet—the total value for the bronzes and paintings had to be in the tens of millions.

Yet Miss Helen valued that cameo with the diamond most of all. If they didn’t find it, she didn’t know what would happen.

“Miss Lilly?”

A man’s voice called out from the stairway, and Mr. Graham came into view. Even though he was silhouetted by the lamps in the stairway, his thick shock of hair gave him away immediately.

“Mr. Graham. What are you doing down here?”

“Kearns mentioned I might find you. I came to pick up my paycheck.”

She’d completely forgotten, which wasn’t like her. But the week had been a strange one. “I do apologize for that. I’m a little topsy-turvy, and I’m afraid I forgot to ask Miss Helen to sign the check before she left.”

“That’s all right. I can pick it up next week. You look like you’re well in the weeds down here.”

“Yes, just going through some old records.”

She waited for him to excuse himself and leave, but he hesitated, hovering over her.

“Is all this for the new library?” he asked.

“Hopefully. To be honest, I don’t know if Miss Helen will be interested in continuing the project now that her father’s gone.”

“That would be a shame.”

“Is there something else I can help you with?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. His usual boyish charm was gone, replaced with something darker. “I was wondering, do you think the Fricks will still want me to play for them during the dinner hours? I know it was Mr. Frick’s idea in the first place, but I’m hoping you might convince them to keep me on.”

She considered it. The music might only serve to remind the family of their loss. Still, Mr. Graham had been part of the staff for some time now, and deserved at least some notice. “I will speak with Miss Helen and her mother.”

“Also, I wanted to say—this is difficult and I don’t want to alarm you—” He paused. “But just be careful.”

“I’m sorry?” She couldn’t read the expression on his face. Was he threatening her? Or trying to help her? “What are you talking about?”

“Not long ago, I overheard a conversation that bothered me. One that might cause you trouble.”

He had to be referring to her fraught conversation with Mr. Danforth, when she turned him away by acknowledging her past.

Was Mr. Graham hinting that he knew what had gone on? Would he tell the family if she didn’t convince them to keep him on the payroll? Lillian had come so far, and wasn’t about to be blackmailed by the family’s entertainer. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, Mr. Graham.”

He recoiled slightly at her aggressive tone. “No, what I’m trying to say—”

She cut him off. “If you don’t mind, I really ought to get back to work. I’ll leave your paycheck with Kearns on Monday.”

“But, Miss Lilly—”

“Enough. I said, enough.”

She stared down at the papers on the table, frozen, until she heard his steps disappear up the stairwell.

There was only so much she could handle. As soon as Miss Helen returned, Lillian had to convince her that it was in her best interest to cut all ties with Mr. Danforth and fire Mr. Graham. If not, both men would have leverage on Lillian, and could come forth with the truth about her identity at any time. The walls of the basement suddenly felt like they were closing in. A wave of desperation threatened to crash down on her, but instead, Lillian threw herself back into her work researching the provenance of the Fricks’ assemblage of Gainsborough portraits. Anything not to think of the present.

The reading of the will was scheduled for the day the family returned. Lillian got the Fricks’ lawyer settled in the library with coffee, then, once the entourage arrived, rushed with Miss Helen up to her rooms.

“Have they caught the diamond thief?” Miss Helen asked as soon as the door was closed. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her freckles flaming.

“I’m sorry, not yet.”

“There was hardly any time from when I placed it in his hand to when it went missing.”

That was true. It was as if one of the figures in the paintings had stepped down from the wall and snuck it away. “I hope it will turn up soon.”

“I don’t trust Childs, so I want you to come to the reading of the will and take notes,” said Miss Helen. “Bring something to write on.”

Lillian did as she was told. In the room, a palpable tension hung in the air between Miss Helen and her brother, who didn’t say a word to each other. He and Mrs. Dixie settled into the armchairs, while Miss Helen remained standing behind the wingback chair where her mother sat with a straight spine and her chin held high, as if on a throne. Earlier, Lillian had spoken briefly with Miss Winnie in the upstairs hallway, and asked how the week had gone. Miss Winnie had put her hand to her ear, and Lillian had asked again, louder than she would have liked.

“They want to kill each other,” Miss Winnie had shouted back.

Exactly as Mr. Frick would have desired, really. He was always one for riling them up, and even after his death he held all the power. Never mind that there was probably enough money in the estate for everyone. While the mansion and the art collection were to be left to the city, the remainder was a large sum, to be sure.

The lawyer sat behind a Chippendale table with Mr. Frick’s last will and testament laid out before him, wearing spectacles that slid partway down his nose. Lillian retreated to a chair by a window, where she could take in whatever unfolded discreetly. Everyone was still and silent, other than Mrs. Dixie, who swayed ever so slightly and hummed under her breath. Nerves, or perhaps Bertha’s gossip that she liked to regularly dip into the sherry was true.

“Shall we begin?” intoned the attorney.

“Please do. We know he wanted all this”—Mr. Childs gave an expansive wave in the air around him, as if he were conjuring spirits—“to be left to the City of New York.” He gestured for him to go ahead, a smug smile on his face.

“That is true. Now, if we are all assembled, I will read aloud the last will and testament of Mr. Henry Clay Frick, dated June 24, 1915.”

“What?” Mr. Childs leaned forward. “Nineteen fifteen? He told me that he was going to draft a new one.” He stared wildly at his mother. “You remember, don’t you? You were there, Mother. Remember?”

Mrs. Frick looked up at her daughter, then over at her son. “I do remember, but he’s been so ill . . .” She trailed off and turned to the lawyer. “What does this one say?”

“This one,” he answered, “is the only one. Let me make that perfectly clear.” He began reading in a monotone, perhaps hoping to offset the volatile effect the document might produce.

Mr. Childs interrupted after only one page. “Summarize it, please. Get to the point.”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “Very well. According to the will, Mrs. Frick receives life tenancy of One East Seventieth Street and the Eagle Rock residence, as well as one million dollars outright and five million dollars in trust.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Mr. Childs. “A paltry sum.”

Mr. Smith didn’t answer, just waited for Mr. Childs to settle. Mrs. Frick stayed mute, although her hands clenched and unclenched in her lap.

“Mr. Childs will receive one million outright and two million in trust.”

“No! What?” Mr. Childs cried out, and his wife went pale.

Miss Helen bit her lip as she tended to do when she was excited. “What else?”

“For you, Miss Helen, there will be five million outright, title to Eagle Rock and its contents upon your mother’s death, title to the Pittsburgh mansion, and, um, several million in securities.”

Mr. Childs pulled his lips back, baring his teeth. “Good God. How much, total, does my sister get?”

“Thirty-eight million dollars.”

Even Lillian was shocked at that. The unevenness of the distribution was cruel. Mr. Frick’s wife and son were being punished, it appeared. Yet for most of her life, Miss Helen had acted as her father’s confidante, more than her mother, and certainly more than her brother. So perhaps this was her reward.

Mr. Childs rose. “Mr. Smith, I demand to see his revised will. Not this one. This one is invalid.”

Mr. Smith tapped an index finger on the document. “This is it, I’m afraid. He did reach out to me in late November, and I assumed it was to go over his final requests. But then he fell ill, and asked to postpone it.”

“That’s not right! What will people say when they see that the younger sister, who doesn’t even have an heir, who is worthless, gets everything?”

“Worthless?” Miss Helen looked down her nose at Mr. Childs. “They will say Father knew what he was doing, and that he knew that I would carry on his legacy as he wished, not waste his money on fossils and rocks.”

Mr. Childs glanced over at his wife, who gave a tiny shake of her head.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Not now. We don’t know for sure yet.”

“What’s that?” asked Miss Helen. “You can contest the will if you like, but Mr. Smith says Papsie didn’t draw up another one.”

“Because you made sure he couldn’t.” Mr. Childs rose and began pacing the room, his words punctuated with a finger that he jabbed in Miss Helen’s direction. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to bring this up, but circumstances have forced me to.”

“Bring up what, my dear?” said Mrs. Frick.

“The nurse approached me the morning he died. She said she noticed a faint film of residue, much like when a sleeping draft is added to water, in the bottom of his drinking glass. The one that Helen gave him right before he stopped breathing.”

Miss Helen laughed. “That’s ridiculous. I gave him water. I knew he’d been given a draft already several hours earlier.”

“The nurse came to me, concerned that you’d administered another.”

Miss Helen looked over at Lillian, as if for confirmation. “It was a glass of water. I remember seeing it by the sink. You gave it to me.”

All eyes turned to Lillian.

“Yes. I remember.” She pictured the glass, three-quarters full, perched on the edge of the sink. A simple glass of water. “I picked it up from the edge of the sink and gave it to you.”

Lillian remembered the way Mr. Frick had gone limp not long after drinking from the glass. Miss Helen was probably replaying the moment in her own mind as well.

“If there was a sleeping draft in it, then the nurse made a mistake,” Miss Helen insisted, her face flushing with anger. “A deadly one. I’ll have her license revoked if that’s so, I’ll have her tossed in jail.”

“The nurse said she didn’t leave any draft out for him,” answered Mr. Childs. “Which was why she was so worried when she noticed the residue. She told me he passed away soon after he’d taken it.”

“How dare you!” Miss Helen shuddered. “I would never do such a thing. I thought it was water. Besides—” She turned to Lillian.

“It was Miss Lilly who went into the bathroom before me.”