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.