The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Four

The steps the jowly woman had directed Lillian to led to a basement door, which opened up into an anteroom. To the left was an enormous kitchen, where she counted seven maids bent over their work, peeling potatoes or stirring pots, under the watchful eye of a man who had to be the chef, barking out orders in a French accent. The tantalizing smell of caramelized onions almost made her swoon. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

The woman reappeared and told one of the kitchen maids to fetch Lillian a cup of tea. “You may wait in there,” she said, pointing through a door to the staff dining room. The kitchen maid brought the tea in a few minutes later, barely looking at Lillian before rushing back to work.

The tea soothed Lillian’s dry throat. It was nice being below street level, in the cool of a basement. No one cared who she was, and she felt deliciously invisible. But she couldn’t stay long. She drained the cup quickly and was standing to leave, eyeing some scones cooling on a sideboard, daring herself to slip one into her pocket, when the woman’s silhouette filled the doorway.

“Follow me. Upstairs.” She turned and started out the door.

Lillian froze, trapped. How to make an excuse and get out of whatever was waiting for her upstairs?

If someone did recognize her as Angelica—and if anyone would, it would be the family who had purchased her visage to look at every time they passed under the porte-cochère—then they might call the police and she’d be done for.

“I’m afraid I must go,” she said.

The woman kept walking away, one finger up in the air. “This way. Come on.”

Lillian followed, but only so she could make excuses and leave. “I’m not well, you see. I should go. I’ll make another appointment when I’m better.”

Her words echoed up the staircase. Again, the woman didn’t appear to have heard her, tromping solidly upward.

“Hello?”

No response. Lillian was about to pull on her elbow to get her to stop, but by then they’d reached the landing, and it was all Lillian could do not to gape. After the functional trappings of the lower level, the floor above was an absolute shock. The delicately veined marble walls blended seamlessly into the marble floors like a shiny stone waterfall. Through the lacy black iron balustrade of a grand staircase, she spied some kind of grand pipe organ with a gilded console and four rows of keys, like gleaming white teeth.

Lillian had seen photos of the interiors of the Fifth Avenue mansions in the newspapers, but they were very different, the parlors stuffy and dark, the mantels jammed with vases and delicate, useless knickknacks. This place was airy in comparison, lit by giant windows. She spotted a Renoir hanging across from the organ, which she recognized from leafing through one of the many oversized art books scattered about Isidore Konti’s studio. She would have liked to stop and admire it, but the woman pulled her along, making a sharp turn into a room that, once again, left Lillian gaping like a fool.

As if she expected that reaction, the woman paused a moment, looking about with a dour expression on her face.

Silk drapes cascaded from just under the crown molding, held back by thick ties with tasseled ends. The floor was of parquet wood in a complicated pattern, and the sheen of gold gleamed everywhere, from the painted wainscot to the fireplace irons to the intricate bronze candelabras on the mantel.

But that was the least of the grandeur. The room’s wall panels depicted a cavorting couple, the woman dressed in the loveliest of gowns from the eighteenth century, lined with ribbons and flowers, the sleeves puffy, the skirts filled out with dozens of petticoats. It was a dreamscape far from the world Lillian knew, and made her want to weep with pity at her own dishabille.

The woman gave an audible tsk of disapproval as she walked over to the far window and adjusted a curtain that didn’t need adjusting. “Do your best to ignore the provocative decor.”

“I think it’s divine.”

Again, her comment got no reaction from the woman, who still had her back to her.

She must be partly deaf, Lillian finally realized. “You’re absolutely mad if you don’t agree.”

Nothing. No response. She was right.

The woman turned around and pointed to a chair. “You may have a seat here and wait. Miss Helen will be with you shortly.”

Who was Miss Helen?

An older woman, this one dressed in lustrous black silk with a bosom so pronounced Lillian was surprised she didn’t pitch forward, looked in from the doorway on the far side of the room. “Miss Winnie? Oh, there you are.” She stamped her foot once, and Miss Winnie turned, sensing the vibration.

Lillian rose from where she’d been sitting, but the woman in black gave her a disinterested glance, as if she were as inanimate as one of the porcelain vases that dotted the side tables.

“Yes, Mrs. Frick?” answered Miss Winnie.

“I need you.”

Miss Winnie followed her, Lillian all but forgotten.

Frick. That’s whose house she was in. The Fricks, Lillian knew from the gossip columns, made their fortune in steel, and had two grown children. The newspapers had made a grateful fuss out of the fact that Mr. Frick had designated that his house eventually be left to the city and turned into a museum.

In any event, having Miss Winnie pulled away gave Lillian a chance to escape. She needed to get out, now. But as she was exiting, yet another woman lurched in. She was shorter than Lillian, perhaps a few years older, and had a spaniel with doleful eyes tucked under one arm. Her dress was plain but well-made, her frizzy ginger hair messily arranged in a puffy pompadour several years out of style. She stuck out a hand and shook Lillian’s like a lumberjack might. Her complexion was dotted with freckles that grew darker right under her eyes, like copper tears.

“I’m Helen Clay Frick. You may call me Miss Helen.” She placed the dog on the floor. “This is Fudgie. Do you like these paintings?”

The question threw Lillian off-balance. She answered truthfully. “Very much.”

“The Progress of Love, by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. The poor man created them as a commission to the twenty-eight-year-old mistress to Louis XV, to be placed in her pleasure pavilion near Versailles. Mother hates it when I use that term—pleasure pavilion.” She paused, as if imagining the discomfort it caused with relish. “In the end, the mistress rejected them, and eventually they made their way to J. P. Morgan, from whose estate my father purchased them.”

The purchase had made the news. Lillian remembered her mother clucking over the sum: over a million dollars.

Miss Helen continued on with her lecture. “They are arranged in order: The man goes after the woman, they meet in secret, they marry, and then happily read through the letters of their courtship. It’s the progress from early passion to long-term friendship.” Her tone was dry, flat, as if she’d given this speech many times before. She probably had, as every visitor to this room must wonder about the artwork. It demanded attention. “The key in studying them is to notice the sculptures that are drawn in the background of each one.”

Sculptures. Lillian rose and walked from one to the other, no longer distracted by the frippery of the main figures. One depicted a nude female looming on a pedestal in the very center of the composition, shown in the act of turning her back to Cupid.

“Venus,” Lillian said under her breath.

“Yes. The goddess of love. You’ll see that she’s keeping the arrows away from Cupid, the god of love. Cupid is impatient, while Venus is holding things back. Why do you want this job?”

The sudden change in topic threw Lillian. She didn’t know what the job was, but she wanted to stay in this room as long as she possibly could, surrounded by wealth and beautiful objects. “Because I think it suits my nature.”

“And what is your nature, Miss—?” She sniffed. “I forgot my notes upstairs in my study. Remind me of your name again?”

“Lillian Carter.”

She regretted saying her real name as soon as it escaped her lips. At least, in her stunned state, she hadn’t answered Angelica.

“I don’t like Lillian. I’ll call you Miss Lilly. And I’ll tell you right off that you’re the eighth applicant I’ve interviewed this week and we have three more to go. I don’t say this to discourage you, but to let you know that you have stiff competition for the position of private secretary.”

A private secretary. Lillian had no idea what one did, or how. She rose to go. “Thank you for seeing me, then. I’ll be on my way.”

“Wait. You’re leaving?” Miss Helen’s mouth fell open.

“I think I ought to.”

“But you haven’t asked anything about it.” She seemed disappointed.

Lillian imagined the other applicants had rushed to impress, not to leave. “I know when my services are not wanted.”

“The pay is one hundred and forty dollars a month.”

Lillian tried not to react, knowing that Miss Helen was expecting that. One hundred and forty dollars. Thirty-five bucks a week. She’d never made that much as a model. One month’s pay would easily cover a train ticket to California, with enough left over for her to get settled.

“Do you type?” asked Miss Helen.

“No.”

“Good. I prefer handwritten notes. Is your penmanship readable?”

“Barely.”

“Even better. I like to make things difficult for other people. You should know that right off: I’m known to be difficult.”

“I see.”

There was something raw about Miss Helen that Lillian found strangely refreshing. Few women she’d met spoke with such candor.

Miss Helen rattled on. “Miss Winnie is my mother’s private secretary, but she won’t be of much help to you, keep that in mind. She’s a sweetheart, but she can’t hear a thing unless you’re standing right in front of her. She’s more of a companion, basically sits there while my mother drones on, but she’s been part of the household for years—came on as a nursemaid—and Mother adores her. I do everything in this household, I might as well be called the mistress of the place.”

“That must be very difficult.”

“You have no idea. We’ve been in this house for five years, and it feels like five decades. I don’t like New York City much at all. I proudly consider myself something of a social outcast.” She sniffed. “But my father is the exact opposite. Today, for example, Papsie is giving a luncheon for his business colleagues, and it was up to me to figure out the menu, send out the invitations. I’m exhausted. And utterly bored.”

Probably not as exhausted as the staff in the basement, cooking and arranging centerpieces and setting the tables for the luncheon, but Lillian held her tongue. “Perhaps a private secretary might be able to lift some of the responsibility from your shoulders.”

Miss Helen studied her closely. Lillian did her best to keep her expression neutral, not to flinch under the scrutiny. Miss Helen shook her head. “You’re too pretty. I don’t want you running off with the footman after two weeks.”

The woman was like a changeable two-year-old. Lillian wouldn’t last a day working for her. “Well, thank you, then. I’ll be off.” But as she turned to go, a bust in the corner caught her eye. She drew close; it was as if a magnet was pulling her.

For the second time that day, she was staring at her own likeness. The sculptor Daniel Farthington had carved it a few years ago. He’d opened the large windows of his studio and told her to let down her hair so that it flew around her face as she posed, making her nose itch and leaving her irritable. She’d never seen the final product. Here it was. Curls danced around her head in frothy waves; her head was turned slightly to one side, lips curved in a smile. The wildness of the hair hid her features, so Lillian wasn’t worried about being identified. Besides, she’d caught sight of herself in a mirror in the hallway, and she looked worn and wan after a night of sleeping in the park. Nothing at all like this sparkling nymph.

“Do you like that one?” asked Miss Helen. “It’s—”

Lillian interrupted. “By Daniel Farthington. Done a few years ago, an homage to Houdon’s Comtesse du Cayla. This is about flight and wind, movement and light. It’s perfect for this room.”

Miss Helen walked over and stood beside her. “You’re right. I’m impressed.”

Miss Winnie entered. “The next candidate is here, Miss Helen.”

“Send her away. Send the rest of them away when they come.”

She scrutinized Lillian until Lillian looked away. “This one will do.”

“The Fricks are generous, kind employers, if you behave decently.”

Lillian followed Miss Winnie’s retreating backside along a hallway that ran the length of the building with a view to the driveway to the right. They passed through a living hall where a green velvet couch sat opposite a grand fireplace. The next open door offered a peek into what looked like a library, with low bookshelves running around the perimeter and grandly framed paintings above.

The rush of what had happened blew through her like a cold wind. What had she done? She’d gotten a job doing something that she had absolutely no experience for, for a woman who seemed this side of barmy.

If you behave decently, Miss Winnie had warned. Somehow, Lillian didn’t think being associated with a murder investigation would be considered decent, and then there was the matter of her past employment. While the Fricks obviously took great pride in their statues of nubile young women, having a living, breathing one on the household payroll might raise some eyebrows. They entered a small anteroom and went up a back staircase. On the second floor, another long hallway ran north to south. The floor plan of the Frick mansion was rather simple, an off-kilter I shape, as if Mr. Frick preferred to showcase his artwork instead of how many square feet he could squeeze in between the property lines.

“The family’s sleeping quarters are on this floor, along with Miss Helen’s sitting room, which is the third door on the left,” Miss Winnie boomed. “That’s where you’ll be working.” They didn’t go down the hallway, but continued up the stairs to the third floor. “The female servants are up here, the men are down in the basement. You’ll see a bathroom on the left. You’re in here.”

She opened a door and stood back, a small smile on her face, letting Lillian enter first.

The room was larger than the bedroom in Lillian’s apartment, and furnished simply, with a brown-painted iron bed with a bedside table, a small chiffonier topped by a mirror, and a hooked rug on the floor. A chair with a rush seat sat in one corner. The sensible objects were even more so, after the extraordinary display on the two floors below.

But the view! A small square window looked out across Fifth Avenue, across Central Park, all the way over to the west side of the city. She recognized the ochre husk of the Dakota over on Seventy-Second Street, rising over the sea of green treetops. She imagined herself leaning on the windowsill and staring out as the clouds skidded by, like a princess at the top of a castle.

The job came with room and board. She beamed with delight, unable to suppress her joy. She’d make money here, and not have to return to her apartment. Before long, she’d have enough money to afford a ticket to California, as well as spending money to get her back on her feet, and her troubles would be behind her.

Miss Winnie was studying her, a strange look on her face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine. This is lovely.”

“Well, you can settle in. I’m glad Miss Helen finally found a girl, as this has been quite a trial for Mrs. Frick and me. She’s not easy, I’ll warn you.”

“You’re Mrs. Frick’s private secretary, is that right?”

“I am.”

“Do you mind telling me what your duties are?”

“The usual duties.”

“Of course.” She had to find out more, even if Miss Helen had warned that Miss Winnie wasn’t exactly up to the task. “I’m afraid my former employer didn’t enjoy the same level of prosperity as the Fricks. I don’t want to make any silly mistakes.”

Years of modeling had made it possible for Lillian to hover outside herself in a way that regular people didn’t. She knew exactly what position of the shoulders indicated strength, what indicated maternal softness. If she raised her chin a smidgen, a royal haughtiness would manifest; if she lowered it, a romantic invitation. No doubt part of the success in the interview with Miss Helen was due to her ability to remain still and straight, to not let a single, fleeting sign of insecurity or anxiety cross her face. Lillian looked down, exactly as she’d done for the Titanic memorial, letting a touch of sorrow and unease pass over her features.

Miss Winnie drew close and touched her arm reassuringly. “For Mrs. Frick, my job is fairly simple. She prefers to remain in her sitting room most of the day, and rarely receives visitors.”

Lillian wondered why not, what was wrong.

Miss Winnie continued. “Miss Helen is in charge of the household, although I’ll be honest, her heart’s not in it. She worked with the Red Cross in the Great War, and the adjustment back to civilian life has been hard. So it’s up to you to run the household, which will be similar to what you did before, I’m sure, but on a larger scale.”

“Run the whole household?” said Lillian, bewildered. All that had been her mother’s job, figuring out the weekly budget, rousing Lillian out of bed so they showed up to her appointments on time.

“You’ll order whatever supplies are needed: tea, Virginia hams, the special soaps that the Frick ladies prefer, that sort of thing. The information will be on the prior invoices, of course. You’ll keep the employment records, coordinate payroll. Oh, and they have two other houses, one in Pittsburgh, one on the coast of Massachusetts, and you’ll be in charge of maintaining those as well.”

By now, Lillian’s head was swimming. There was no way she could manage all this.

“Miss Helen, as I mentioned, can be difficult. When she pitches a tantrum, it’s best to wait it out, she comes around eventually. She’s known to throw things, so I hope you have quick reflexes. She clocked a parlor maid in the head with a diary last week. Apologized after, of course. She never means it.”

Lillian put her duffel down on the bed, her earlier enthusiasm fading away. She’d have to enjoy these amenities while she could, as she had no doubt she’d be back out on the street in a few days, once Miss Helen realized she was a fraud.

“May I make another suggestion?” asked Miss Winnie. Her tone was soft and good-hearted, as if she knew Lillian was panicking inside.

“Of course.”

“No face paint. And your hair, it’s better pulled back, out of the way. They don’t like the newfangled styles. Unpack your things, and then come downstairs for the staff meal.”

As soon as Miss Winnie left, Lillian stood in front of one of the sinks in the communal bathroom and scrubbed her face clean. Without the vestiges of blush on her cheeks and the remaining traces of kohl around her eyes, she looked younger, more fragile. She pulled her hair back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Hopefully what had made her successful as a model—the fact that she could take on multiple personas—would work here and keep her from being recognized. It helped that no one in this grand house, from the kitchen maid to Mr. Frick himself, would imagine that Angelica could be living and moving among them. Angelica, with her flowing cascade of dark hair, painted lips, and defined eyebrows, no longer existed, other than in the plazas and fountains of the city. She was Miss Lilly now, the demure private secretary to Miss Helen. She’d make this work, somehow. She had to.

After she’d hung her clothes in the small armoire, she tucked the duffel with the letters in it beneath her bed. Starving, she took the back stairs down all the way to the basement, and followed the sound of silverware and the aroma of stew to the kitchen, although with all the twists and turns of the hallways on that lower level, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find her way back.

The staff were well into their midday meal when she appeared at the door of the dining hall, and Miss Winnie waved at her to take a seat at the long mission oak table in the center of the room. The butler, an Englishman called Kearns, introduced himself, and then quickly ran through the twenty-some employees so fast that she could barely catch their positions, never mind their names. In addition to a butler, there was an under-butler, three footmen, a valet, and a flock of parlor maids, chambermaids, and laundresses. The Fricks also employed an engineer, two watchmen, and a car steward. In the kitchen alone, she counted the chef and three cooks, including one whose sole focus was preparing vegetables. Of course a grand household like this would require an army of people to run it, but she’d have to know who they were and what they did if she was going to do payroll. Whatever that entailed. The whole idea terrified her.

If only they’d been in the process of hiring a vegetable cook. That she could handle, peeling carrots and chopping onions. She’d work in the basement all day, hidden away from the general public and any acquaintances she might accidentally run into, and then retreat to her bedroom upstairs under the eaves at night.

Still, as Helen Frick’s private secretary, she would make far more money than a vegetable cook might. She had to keep her eye on her long-term plan of getting out of the city, and this would be a useful platform from which to do it. With the salary, she could afford to buy a couple more dresses to replace the ones she’d left behind at the apartment. She’d make herself presentable and then abscond as soon as she could for Hollywood. Only once she was in the hands of Mr. Broderick and had dazzled him with her abilities would she’d be truly safe. But for now, she’d have to figure out how to fit into this strange household.

A blast of sound made her drop her spoon into her stew, splattering gravy over the lace inset of her dress. The kitchen maid sitting next to her laughed and offered up her napkin. “That’s our dreamy Mr. Graham on the organ. He plays every day for Mr. Frick. After a while you won’t even notice the music anymore.”

What rolled through the room was not music, to Lillian. It was a wall of sound, as heavy as a giant tsunami, emanating from that massive organ in the front hall. How could anyone bear it? The music stopped all conversation, and one by one the employees rose and went back to their duties.

Miss Winnie had told her that Miss Helen would not expect her in her sitting room until the next morning, and to take the day to settle in. Lillian hid in the safety of her bedroom, staring out the window of the room, wondering what her mother would think of her now. She was respectable, a working girl. Would Kitty be disappointed that she was no longer the shining Angelica? Or would she be thrilled that Lillian was putting all of Kitty’s lessons in the method and madness of the upper classes to use, especially if it ultimately led to a shot at a film career?

It was a means to an end.

She skipped the staff supper, her appetite diminished by her nerves, but around midnight her stomach rumbled and she decided to see if she could find a piece of bread and cheese to tide her over until morning. The house was quiet and dark, but in the basement a dim light from the kitchen shone like a beacon. The night watchman sat at the staff table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He stood and greeted her, saying that he was finishing up his break.

She pulled her wrap tightly around her. She hadn’t expected anyone to be up at this hour. But of course, with the treasures inside the house, a night watchman was required. After he was gone, she picked up the newspaper he’d left behind.

The murder wasn’t mentioned on the first page. Nor the second. Not until page eleven, along with the Broadway play listings, did she spot a headline: Seeking Watkins Witness. The article only contained two paragraphs, but it still sent chills through her. The artist model known as Angelica is being sought by the District Attorney to give information regarding the murder of Mrs. Eileen Watkins by her husband, Mr. Walter Watkins. Angelica lived at the New York home of Mr. and Mrs. Watkins on West Sixty-Fifth Street, according to investigators.

The way they worded it, it sounded as if she lived with them. She was a tenant in the building, for goodness’ sake. Still, page eleven was better than the front page, and the fact that there was no photograph or illustration was even better. The nonsense was dying down, would die down.

As long as she could hide out in the Frick mansion, she’d be safe.