In the breakfast room, a buttery sun streamed through the windows. Above the sideboard hung a Millet painting of a peasant woman sewing by lamplight. The simplicity of her dress and the gloominess of the setting were an odd fit for this room, which boasted a fireplace of two different types of Italian marble, silk patterned wall hangings, and an elaborate folding screen in one corner.
Mrs. Frick noticed Lillian’s stare. “Mr. Frick insisted the Millet be placed in the breakfast room, as a daily reminder that he came from nothing. Please, sit down.”
Lillian and Miss Winnie took their places at the table. Mrs. Frick had stayed mainly out of sight these past weeks, only appearing when she was absolutely required to. Now that Lillian had gotten to know how the house was run, part of her couldn’t help but resent the woman’s lack of participation. Everything fell on Miss Helen’s shoulders—and thereby Lillian’s—when it really should have been Mrs. Frick’s responsibility.
“Mr. Frick has certainly accomplished a lot.” Lillian unfolded her napkin. “I didn’t know that he came from nothing.”
“He only went to school in the winter months, yet owned his first company by the age of twenty-two. I think that’s why sometimes he gets frustrated with the children, with their silly squabbles.” A maid poured coffee into cups and saucers patterned with magnolias. “My daughter says you have an eye for art.”
“Not really. Her expertise is far beyond mine.”
“Well, I must say that you appear to be working magic with her, in more ways than one. We hear the tea with Mr. Danforth went well, yesterday.” Mrs. Frick looked over at Miss Winnie, who nodded sagely.
“I believe so.” Lillian suppressed the temptation to knock wood.
“My husband will be pleased to hear it.”
Lillian took a sip of the coffee; it was indeed much better than the kind they served downstairs. Or maybe the fine china only made it seem so.
“I’m curious, Miss Lilly, what you think of Mr. Danforth,” Mrs. Frick asked once the maid had left.
“He appears to be a quite suitable suitor,” said Lillian.
Miss Winnie chuckled but stopped when Mrs. Frick didn’t crack a smile.
“A suitable suitor,” echoed Mrs. Frick. “You’re making a joke. Do you not find him a suitable suitor?”
“Not at all,” said Lillian quickly, backtracking. Mrs. Frick was difficult to read. “I believe they might make a good match. Of course I haven’t been employed here long, but Miss Helen seems to be as excited about Mr. Danforth as she is about the library.”
“The library.” Mrs. Frick put down her cup and grimaced. “Mr. Frick and I both say better to leave such an undertaking to the scholars and universities, not our silly Helen. Especially once she’s married. We can’t have that.”
Lillian hoped she could make her see otherwise. “These days, things are different. Women are encouraged to have outside passions, just as men are. After all, we have the right to vote. Why stop there?”
“A woman’s passion should be her husband and children.”
Funny for her to say that, considering that Mrs. Frick rarely left her rooms and didn’t show much of a passion for anything, leaving it to her daughter to act as her husband’s companion.
Mrs. Frick sat back in her chair, hands in her lap. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m not a good example of what I preach. But I’m ill, you see.”
As far as Lillian could tell, Mrs. Frick’s color was a healthy pink, her build sturdy and strong.
“When the children were very young, I was different.” She looked at Miss Winnie. “You remember? How light and gay I was.”
“Such a gay young thing,” Miss Winnie repeated.
“When Helen was a child, she took on the impossible burden of trying to make me and her father happy after a grueling time. She succeeded with one of us.” The words trembled on her tongue.
“Now, now, Mrs. Frick,” Miss Winnie said. “Let’s not dwell on the past.”
But Lillian wanted to know more. Something awful had rocked this family to its core, and her curiosity was piqued. She’d asked Bertha the other night about the long-dead sister, but Bertha had only offered up what Lillian already knew, that there had been some lingering illness.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Frick,” Lillian said. “Miss Helen speaks very fondly of Martha.”
Mrs. Frick’s eyes turned red. She grabbed her handkerchief from under her sleeve and covered her mouth. “I can’t.” She shoved her chair back from the table and trundled to the door, her skirts swishing beneath her. Miss Winnie tried to follow, but Mrs. Frick waved one hand behind her, the other still pressed to her mouth. “Leave me alone for now,” she mumbled into her fist. She paused at the doorway. “But in a half hour bring me my rose water.”
Lillian remained seated at the table, stunned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset Mrs. Frick.”
Miss Winnie poured herself more coffee. “She gets this way, sometimes. It always passes.”
The tragedy had occurred decades ago, yet the child’s name still couldn’t be raised without sending Mrs. Frick running from the room. Lillian had known other families who’d lost children, from accidents, scarlet fever, mumps—there were so many ways for vulnerable young children to succumb—but the surviving relatives eventually soldiered on. Then again, maybe Lillian couldn’t understand, not having had children, or even siblings, herself. She’d never really had an itch to get married and settle down, as there was so much else out there to experience, and Kitty’s sour outlook on the subject undoubtedly influenced her own.
Miss Winnie waited a moment before speaking. “Before she became ill, Martha was a joy of a child, with pink lips, curls, a delightful disposition. To think I was barely a girl myself when I joined the household back then. All of thirteen years old, imagine that? Unfortunately, the first three years of Miss Helen’s life were the last three of her sister’s, which meant Miss Helen was surrounded, every day, with pain and illness. You may have seen Martha’s image scattered about the house.”
That was an understatement. “She was a pretty child. May I ask what happened to her?”
Miss Winnie glanced toward the door, as if checking that Mrs. Frick was truly gone. “When the family was on tour in Europe together, they hired a foreign nursemaid. For two years after that fateful trip, our Martha was in terrible pain, and no one knew why. Her symptoms came and went, so they’d think she was fine one day, before falling ill the next. The Fricks brought in doctor after doctor, who told them she was teething, or it was acute indigestion, but no cure ever worked. One morning, a strange bump appeared on her hip. It was filled with pus, and, to the doctor’s astonishment, a dressmaker’s pin emerged from the wound. Without proper supervision in Europe, Martha had picked up and swallowed this tiny, deadly piece of metal, which had slowly wound its way through her body and worked itself back out. But it was too late by then. She had two more years of lingering sepsis, and passed away in terrible agony. On the anniversary of Martha’s death every year, Mr. Frick calls me into his study, takes out a lock of hair that belonged to her, and pours us both a drink. Then we toast to her memory.” A dark shadow crossed her face. She lowered her voice, even though no one else was around. “Don’t tell Mrs. Frick about that, she wouldn’t approve.”
How interminable it must have been for Mr. and Mrs. Frick, when Martha was in pain but no one could figure out why, and then the grisly discovery of the pin? There were no words. Lillian understood now why Miss Helen was always fighting her way up from feeling second best. She was the daughter who’d lived, and whose close resemblance to Martha only reminded them of their loss. “I’m so sorry.”