Joshua stepped forward. She grabbed at his shirt to pull him back, but the fabric slipped through her fingers.
Slowly, she stepped out as well.
There was nothing there. Only the plants and the quiet gurgle of the fountain.
Maybe it was just the sound of the snow falling off the roof. She looked at Joshua, and was about to tell him that, when a shadowy apparition appeared on the steps at the opposite end from them.
In the dim light, Veronica could make out a woman, dressed in black. Her mouth was clenched in fury, her hands like claws. They weren’t alone, possibly hadn’t been this entire time.
And now she was barreling toward them, screaming.
Chapter Fifteen
1919
Lillian replayed the meeting with Mr. Broderick in her mind as she hurried up Fifth Avenue. How stupid to think that a film producer could solve all of her problems, save her from ruin. The hours she’d spent in the sculptors’ studios had been for the sake of art; this was something else entirely. What Mr. Broderick had in mind for Angelica the actress was far from the comedic genius of former model Mabel Normand or the spunky sweetness of Mary Pickford. He wanted her to debase herself for a chance at stardom.
Back at the Frick mansion, Lillian tucked herself into the ladies’ dressing room just off the foyer to collect herself. It was tiny, a place for female visitors to shed their coats and hats and check their reflection in the mirror before being received by the hosts. The family had hardly seen any guests since Mr. Frick had fallen ill, so the room was a forgotten hideaway for Lillian to recover her composure. She needed time to think before having to transform from failed starlet into Miss Helen’s private secretary.
She took the pins out of her hat and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup looked garish in the afternoon light, and she pulled a handkerchief out of her handbag and wiped it off, cleaning herself up as best she could.
Lillian had no one but herself to blame. She’d burned both bridges, with Mr. Danforth—no longer “Richard,” not after he’d received her note of rejection—and with Mr. Broderick. Which only left her job as private secretary, and the threat of exposure if anyone recognized her. An avalanche of tears threatened, but she swallowed hard. There was no time to mourn her lost dream.
She walked out of the room to find Mr. Graham setting up at the organ.
“Good day, Miss Lilly.” She hoped he would turn back to his music, but instead, he paused and studied her. “Is everything all right?”
To her horror, her face crumpled.
“Please, sit down, take a moment.” He gestured to the organ bench.
It was imperative she collect herself, fast.
Lillian slid onto the bench, grateful to not have to make eye contact. She placed her hands gently on the lower keyboard and let her breathing settle down. How soothing it must be, to run one’s fingers over the keys and become the conduit of beautiful music.
“Is it Mr. Frick?” Mr. Graham asked.
She shook her head. In the span of one hour, she’d turned down a marriage offer as well as a chance to be in the motion pictures. Now it was back to placating Miss Helen. The ludicrousness of her morning made her laugh out loud, the sound echoing under the arched niche, and she didn’t care that she came across like a madwoman.
“Do you love your job, Mr. Graham?” she asked. “Playing music all day?”
“There are aspects I love, yes. Some not so much. But it’s a privilege to live a life that’s full of music. I try to remember that when things get difficult.”
“I live a life of menial tasks performed to please others.”
“I suppose that must be difficult, even in a home that’s brimming with beautiful art around every corner.”
She thought of the Vermeer hanging not twenty feet away in the hall, the one of the laughing girl that she loved so much. “That does help. And I admit not all of my work is menial.”
“What is it you like about it?”
“When Miss Helen allows me to help out with her library research, I’m in my element.”
Mr. Graham’s eyes lit up. “A library?”
“An art reference library,” she said. “The Frick Art Reference Library.” Miss Helen had settled on that name just a few days ago.
“Now, that’s a surprise.” Mr. Graham tapped his chin. “Miss Helen, never to be underestimated, that one. What a splendid idea.”
A tiny barb of jealousy rose up in Lillian. “It was my idea, actually.”
“A brilliant one, Miss Lilly. Nothing like that exists in the States, as far as I know. A library for art.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. Say, my cousin works at the art and architecture division at the New York Public Library, and this would be right up her alley. When Miss Helen starts looking for head librarians, do let me know.”
Head librarian. A distinguished title. What did one have to do to become a head librarian? Or any sort of librarian? If Lillian was going to be stuck working for the Fricks, she might as well aim for a more professional role than head toilet-paper-orderer. Before she could ask Mr. Graham more about his cousin’s job, Miss Winnie’s voice rang out, calling her name.
Lillian slid off the organ bench and looked up to find her leaning over the banister.
“Where on earth have you been? Miss Helen needs you at once. She’s with Mr. Frick in his bedroom.”
“On my way.”
Upstairs in the hallway, she gently knocked on Mr. Frick’s door before entering.
Mr. Frick was asleep in his bed, snoring slightly. Miss Helen sat beside him, a folder in her lap.
“How is he?” asked Lillian, quietly.
“He’s finally sleeping. I’m thinking of finding another doctor to see him. I don’t like the new one.”
Lillian doubted a third doctor would be able to give them a more hopeful prognosis, but she knew better than to say so. “Would you like me to call for one?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure.”
Lillian waited. “Can I take those papers for you?” she asked.
Miss Helen looked down at the folder, as if she didn’t recognize it. “These are some old debts my father wanted taken care of. He thinks it’s the end. I told him he’s a silly goose, that he’s perfectly fine. I mean, he’s not yet seventy. It’s simply indigestion, right?”
“I’m sure that’s all it is.” Lillian laid a hand on Miss Helen’s shoulder. At that, Miss Helen burst into tears, much in the way that Lillian almost had with Mr. Graham. Neither of them was used to kindness, to gentleness. Which meant when someone reached out, softly and with care, it was enough to bring the walls of defiance and defensiveness crashing down.
She stood there, rubbing Miss Helen’s bony shoulder for a couple of minutes until she had composed herself.
“Thank you, Miss Lilly.” Miss Helen took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her nose. “I can count on you, like no one else.”
If she only knew. A knock sounded on the door, and Miss Winnie stuck her head in. “Mr. Danforth is here to see you, Miss Helen.”
“Goodness, no. I can’t see him at the moment.” She looked up at Lillian. “Will you go down and explain, tell him about Papsie? I can’t leave his side.”
“Perhaps it’s better if I stay with you,” countered Lillian. “Miss Winnie can relay the message.”
“No. Better it come from you. Go on. Tell him I shall reach out when I’m ready to receive visitors.”
As Lillian descended the stairs, Mr. Graham was in the midst of a dangerous-sounding fugue. Mr. Danforth had his hat in his hands and looked up at her. His face was pale.
“Miss Helen can’t see you right now.” Lillian found herself speaking too loudly, both to compensate for the music and as a warning to Mr. Danforth to be careful what he said. “Her father is ill. She’ll send word when she’s receiving visitors again.”
He moved closer to her. “What happened?” He wasn’t referring to Miss Helen.
“Not here.”