The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Ten

Miss Lilly, Mrs. Frick would like you to join her in the breakfast room.”

The other servants gathered around the basement dining table looked up at Miss Winnie in the doorway, then over at Lillian. “Fancy stuff,” said Bertha, who sat next to Lillian. “You’ll probably get the good coffee up there.”

She rose and followed Miss Winnie down the back hall, her swaying hips bringing to mind the Clydesdale horses that transported barrel-stacked carts around the city.

According to Miss Helen’s breathless report yesterday, the tea with Mr. Danforth had been a success—she’d remembered to ask two questions for every one he asked of her—and they had plans to walk in Central Park with Mrs. Frick later that day. Miss Helen had been brimming with happiness as she recounted the visit, and Lillian figured it wouldn’t be long before they’d announce the engagement, and she’d collect her money and head to California.

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.”

Miss Winnie let out a loud exhale. “Many, many years ago, that all was. You’d never know it, though.”

Lillian thought of the cameo and the checkbook, all those portraits spread about the house. Her heart went out to Miss Helen, for the futility of her role in the family. It wasn’t her fault that Martha had died. She ought to go off and build her library, just as Mr. Danforth ought to pursue a medical career—who cared what the rest of them thought?

Even though Lillian’s future was financially dependent on the success of Mr. Danforth and Miss Helen’s engagement, and she liked Mr. Danforth and held a tenuous respect for Miss Helen, she hated to think that her misrepresentations to them both might result in a disastrous match. Miss Winnie had been with the family forever; she knew each member inside and out. Lillian couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think this marriage is a good idea?”

Miss Winnie answered without missing a beat. “Probably not. Then again, Mrs. Frick and Mr. Frick have managed.”

Lillian hoped that Mr. Danforth and Miss Helen would do better than those two.

“Don’t let Mr. Frick and Mrs. Frick fool you, there’s still a spark between them, in spite of all the years.” Miss Winnie pointed to a pink magnolia blossom that lay at Mrs. Frick’s place setting. “Every morning, without fail, Mr. Frick selects a flower from the arrangement in the front hallway, then brings it down to the kitchen so they can deliver it up to Mrs. Frick with her breakfast.”

In spite of herself, Lillian was touched at the thought of Mr. Frick dawdling over a vase of flowers, searching for the exact right one. She could imagine Mr. Danforth doing something similar. But still, would they really work as a couple? “Mr. Danforth is not wealthy, you know.” Lillian hoped she came across as concerned, not as a gossip.

“They know all about that. There’s nothing to be hidden from New York high society. I don’t think they care. Miss Helen’s over thirty, after all.”

“Then why bother? She’s rather set in her ways.”

“Mr. Frick insists. I suppose he’s feeling his age lately. He wants to be sure she’s taken care of.” Miss Winnie paused and studied Lillian. “Why all the questions? Do you think they’re a bad match?”

If she wasn’t careful, she’d sabotage all of her hard work. She needed this marriage to happen, there was no question about that, and as Miss Winnie implied, Miss Helen and Mr. Danforth were as good a pair as any.

Now that she was embedded with the Frick family, it was easy for Lillian to forget how vulnerable she was out there in the world. She must keep in mind what was at stake: a web of scandal and possibly jail, or an escape far away with Mr. Frick’s betrothal bonus. “I’m more than happy for her.” Lillian finished her coffee and rose. “Like you said, they’ll get used to each other and figure it out. Eventually.”

Later, in Miss Helen’s sitting room, Lillian was finishing up the day’s love note from Miss Helen to Mr. Danforth when Mr. Frick entered the room.

“Is my daughter here?”

She knew better than to divulge that Miss Helen was working in the basement that morning. “She went out for an errand, I believe. Can I help you?” As she spoke, she slid the note closer to her body, but doing so only attracted Mr. Frick’s attention.

“What are you writing there?” he asked, stepping forward and looking over her shoulder. Up close, he smelled of peppermint and a woody aftershave. He let out a sharp exhale of breath and maneuvered around the desk, lowering his massive frame into the wooden chair across from her. She hoped it would hold his bulk. “You’re writing a love letter from my daughter, aren’t you?”

How to explain? “Miss Helen has directed me to do so.”

“Even better, I bet it was your idea in the first place.” He pointed his finger at her. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Today appeared to be the day she was going to upset both elder Fricks in the span of a few hours. So be it. “As her secretary, I’m hired to put her thoughts onto the page.”

“Her thoughts? Or yours?”

She waited him out without answering.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said with a wave of his hand. “That’s what our agreement was about, after all. I rather like your initiative. You remind me of myself, we both know how to pull strings, to get others to do our bidding. You’re a chameleon, which is what I was when I started out, working as a desk clerk, pleasing whoever was in charge, but making sure that I pleased his boss even more. I like the fact that neither of us is afraid to take a creative approach in carving out a path to success.”

One of the richest men in America had just admired Lillian’s skills, had said they were alike, and a small smile escaped her lips at the thought. Yet she didn’t want to be too much like Mr. Frick. She heartily disapproved of the way he pitted his family members against each other. Besides, her reasoning for manipulating Miss Helen and Mr. Danforth was driven by her dire circumstances, while Mr. Frick’s was more malicious, more darkly gleeful.

“Do you like living here, Miss Lilly?” he asked.

The change of subject was a relief. “I certainly do. To be able to view a Gainsborough portrait or an ethereal Hoppner day after day is one of the most heavenly experiences of my life.”

“I do like being surrounded by beautiful women.” His smile grew even wider. “Even if some of them are only two-dimensional.”

No doubt Mr. Frick preferred the mystery of the portraits to the real-life complications of his wife and daughter. “Maybe that’s the reason for their allure.” She couldn’t believe she was being so forward. But he didn’t disagree. He stared out the window, and when he finally spoke, his voice wavered.

“As I said, you are astute. I seem to have failed with the women in my life; to them I’m a disagreeable old coot. I do love them, though.” He rose stiffly to his feet and pulled out a handkerchief. “I must go. Enough of this wasting the day. Tell Helen I was looking for her.”

He was gone before she could answer.

Lillian was overseeing the packing of Miss Helen’s trunk by Bertha when Miss Helen dashed into the room with a stack of books.

“You must find room for these, Bertha.”

Bertha stared at the pile of books, then back at the trunk, which was already bursting with underclothes and dresses. “There’s none.”

“Then go to the trunk room and bring another one in.”

Bertha left, but not before giving Lillian an eye roll behind Miss Helen’s back. Lillian took the books from Miss Helen’s arms and gently placed them on the bed. “More research for the library?”

“Of course. I can’t afford to lose an entire week.”

Mr. Frick had been feeling unwell and his doctor recommended sea air as a cure, so the family was headed to Eagle Rock, their estate on the Massachusetts shoreline. Lillian was to stay behind, and she looked forward to seven days of relative freedom. It would give her time to catch up on the bookkeeping and file invoices, among other duties. To do so without interruption gave her a strange thrill of excitement. Making the monthly books balance or firmly declining an invitation with a sweet note of regret was her forte, it turned out. For now.

Even better, she planned to put on her veiled hat and head to Times Square to see Mary Pickford in the motion picture Daddy-Long-Legs, in order to study her technique. It would be good preparation for California, and she deserved a break, after all the hard work of the past six weeks.

“How did it go last night?” Lillian asked without looking at Miss Helen.

“Wonderful. We heard Rachmaninoff, and after, Mr. Danforth walked me all the way home.”

Things were going beautifully, and Lillian’s earlier worries about the match were unfounded, thank goodness. “Imagine, soon enough you’ll be walking down the aisle.” She was laying it on a little thick, but there was no time to waste. “Did you invite Mr. Danforth to Eagle Rock?”

“He can’t come along, some phooey business nonsense. Probably better he not get to know Mother and Papsie too well right off, as there will be plenty of time for that when he moves in after the wedding.”

“Moves in. Here?” Lillian couldn’t think of a worse way to begin a marriage than living in the Frick house, under the intense scrutiny of Miss Helen’s father.

“Of course he’ll move in here. This is where all of my research is. And Papsie, of course. Anyway, I asked Mr. Danforth if he’d miss me, and he said he certainly would. Then he kissed my hand.” She paused. “Then I told him I had a surprise for him.”

“What’s that?”

Her cheeks burned with excitement. She went to her nightstand and picked up an envelope with Mr. Danforth’s name written on it. “I’ve put together a scavenger hunt for him to do while I’m gone.”

“A scavenger hunt? Where?”

“Here, of course, all around the house. There are twenty clues hidden about, and in here is the very first one. When he comes, you can give him the envelope and then let him wander about. It will get him acquainted with the items that are most dear to Papsie and me. If he’s going to join the family, we must make sure he’s fluent in the collection. That’s requisite number one.”

Lillian put a smile on her face, not letting on how little she wished to have to babysit Mr. Danforth this week. “How nice of you. Do you know when he’s going to visit?”

“No. But he promised he’d find the time. You’ll be here to receive him, of course. And you have Thanksgiving dinner to plan. I’ve left some notes with my ideas for the menu.” She pointed to a messy pile of papers. “Somewhere in there. You can straighten out my desk while you’re at it.”

So much for her free time. Lillian swallowed a sigh and continued packing.

The day after the family left, the house quieted down, as if it were going into hibernation without its owners around. There was no organ music, no food service, and the staff were allowed to take mornings or afternoons off, as long as the basic needs of the mansion were met. Lillian did manage to get out one afternoon, merrily shirking her duties and spending the hours in a dark picture palace. She adored everything about Daddy-Long-Legs—the costumes, the shining eyes of Mary Pickford, the elaborate sets. She could see herself right there in the middle of it all. Angelica, no longer a frozen creature of stone but a live woman, thinking and feeling and saying lines out loud, even if the audience wouldn’t be able to hear her voice. She could do this; she was certain of it.

When she’d posed as Angelica, the artists would often ask her to step down from the raised platform during a session and ask her opinion of their work, listening carefully to what she said. She’d relished being part of the artistic process. In fact, the more she considered it, the more she realized that her command of the art world had given her a leg up not only as an aspiring starlet, but also as an employee of the Frick household. She instinctively knew what role she should play at any given time: confidante when speaking with Mr. Frick, older sister when talking about courtship with Miss Helen, trusted secretary when handling Miss Helen’s affairs. She was already an actress, in many ways.

After the film, she walked to Grand Central and asked one of the clerks in the information booth the best way to get from New York to Los Angeles. He handed over the schedule for the 20th Century Limited, which headed to Chicago, where she would transfer to the Los Angeles Limited. She imagined the landscape of America rolling by from the train window, leaving the entire Frick family farther behind with every passing mile.

She bought a newspaper on her way home, and leafed through it before chucking it in the trash can. There was only one mention of Angelica in connection with the Watkins murder, and at the very bottom of the article. The trial was scheduled for January, but she’d be long gone by then.

The next day, Mr. Danforth arrived promptly at four o’clock, looking wary. Lillian met him in the library, where she handed over the sealed envelope and gave him Miss Helen’s instructions, including the fact that Lillian was not to assist Mr. Danforth in any way.

“I’m sorry, I-I’m supposed to do what?” he stammered.

“It’s a scavenger hunt. I’m not sure, exactly, what she had in mind. She didn’t let me in on the planning. You’re to read whatever’s in this and follow it, and then you’ll be directed to the next clue. And so on.”

“How many clues are there?”

“Twenty.”

He laughed. “Leave it to Miss Helen to keep me occupied while she’s away. I assured her that a week was not an imposition in the least, that she should go and take care of her father and enjoy herself at the sea.”

“I don’t think she means to keep you occupied. She wants to share the treasures of the house with you, so you understand the passion that she and her father have for their art collection.”

“Right. Hand it over. I shall begin.”

She did so and watched as he opened it. “Best of luck to you.”

Within a half hour, one of the parlor maids knocked on the door to Miss Helen’s sitting room, where Lillian was working. “Mr. Danforth is asking for you,” she said. “He’s in the art gallery.”

“That didn’t take long,” she joked as she entered.

“This is some kind of a test and I am sure to fail it,” Mr. Danforth said, a note of panic behind his words. “I don’t know much about art, and I haven’t even found the first clue. I worry about disappointing Miss Helen. I know you’ve been given strict rules, but will you help?”

The note was dated November 1919 at the top, with 1/20 written in the top right corner.

You’re about to set out on a quest for the magnificent magnolia treasure

To offer you this puzzle gives me great pleasure

A tiny box holds the first clue

To find it, search for the putti

Where my father used to fulfill his duty.

Lillian didn’t know much about poetry, but she knew it was a terrible rhyme.

“A tiny box? This house is enormous,” said Mr. Danforth. “If all the clues are like this, I’ll still be looking when they return.”

“Let me think.” Lillian looked around. “Mr. Frick’s office is there at the far end of the gallery, where I assume he fulfills his duty. I remember Miss Helen telling me that it used to be on the opposite side, before they acquired J. P. Morgan’s collection of Limoges enamels.”

They walked over to the enamels room, which Lillian had never liked. It was heavily paneled and cave-like, the opposite of the simplicity and clean lines of the other rooms on the first floor, as if the architect had focused all of his fussiest inclinations on one of the smallest spaces.

“Could that be it?” He pointed to a tiny jewel-colored box. Lillian recognized it immediately from Miss Helen’s cataloguing.

“I think you’re right. As far as I know, it’s a marriage casket, decorated with putti, or cherubs.”

“Marriage casket—what an odd combination of words.”

“I agree. It’s enamel, from the mid-sixteenth century.” She was amazed at what she’d retained.

Mr. Danforth drew close and let out a whistle. “They appear to be playing instruments, or flirting.”

“I don’t know what the inscriptions say. How’s your French?”

“Quite good, but this is Old French. Loves give joy. Defeated by love. Do you think the next clue’s inside?”

Carefully, Lillian lifted the lid to reveal a piece of paper, which she handed to Mr. Danforth.

He refused to take it. “You can’t leave this only to me. I promise not to tell Miss Helen you assisted, but you simply must.”

“I’m not sure I should.”

“Please.” He paused. “And before you say yes or no, please accept my apologies for what happened at our last parting. At the fountain. I did not mean to imply anything untoward.”

If he only knew. She allowed herself a maidenly blush and bit her lip the same way Mary Pickford had in Daddy-Long-Legs. “Of course, Mr. Danforth. No offense taken, I assure you.”

“Thank you.” He read the next clue, labeled 2/20, out loud: “Stay where you are / Halt / And look for the pillar of salt. Hmm, is there a saltshaker here?” Mr. Danforth looked about.

“She’s referring to the biblical story of Lot and his wife.” Lillian turned and spotted her prey: a wide copper cup. “Over here.”

They stood side by side, staring down at a wide cup of brilliant blue enamel. Lillian pointed out the details. “There’s Lot, with his wife as a pillar of salt off in the distance.” Her Catholic school upbringing had finally paid off.

“Right. She looked back at Sodom when the angels warned her not to. Never a good idea.”

The scene was full of movement. Flames licked a city in one corner, trees with roots like fingers appeared in another, yet the eye immediately went to the exposed breast of one of the daughters, the flesh tone like a beacon in a colorscape of greens and blues. At the end of the story, Lillian remembered, Lot’s two daughters get their father drunk and seduce him.

Good Lord. Only Miss Helen would find this sordid scene appropriate for inclusion. But Lillian knew why. Miss Helen only saw the beauty of the object, not the awkward seduction scene depicted, never mind how it might put off a potential suitor.

Mr. Danforth cleared his throat. “Um, right.”

Before he could run screaming from the room, Lillian lifted the cup’s base, where another clue lay, which led them to an eighteenth-century bronze bust in the library. From there, they were directed to a Degas oil painting of ballet dancers in the north hall. It was no easy task, and figuring out which work Miss Helen was referring to required multiple sweeps through each room. Soon enough, the sun was setting.

Mr. Danforth looked rather ragged. “I might as well move in and spend the week here instead of working.”

Lillian had to do something if she wanted the engagement to come off successfully. “Why don’t you come back each day, and I’ll assist you until it’s completed? We’ll take a bit at a time.”

“Would you do that?”

“Of course. And you should know that Miss Helen is planning on creating a library for art, which is another good reason for you to become familiar with the collection.”

“A woman running a library? Would her father allow such a thing? I’m surprised.”

She disapproved of his reaction, but didn’t want to put him off. “If you want to win her over, I suggest you not denigrate the idea.”

“Of course, you’re absolutely right. Because I do want to please her. If you don’t mind my taking you into my confidence, I’m planning on asking her to marry me on Thanksgiving.”

Two weeks away.

Not long at all.

Once Mr. Frick paid up, Lillian would make some excuse about a sick aunt in California and be on the next train out. The nuptial arrangements would have to be taken care of by the next private secretary they hired. Lillian hoped whoever it was would be able to guide Miss Helen to an appropriate bridal dress, as Miss Helen might very well show up in a bustle-backed monstrosity if left to her own devices.

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “Have you asked for Miss Helen’s hand from Mr. Frick yet?”

“I did, right before they departed for Eagle Rock. All is on course. That reminds me, Mr. Frick sent me this letter, to give to you.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here.”

The letter asked that Miss Lillian give Mr. Danforth the check that sat on the desk in his sitting room, the sum of which was to be used to purchase Miss Helen’s engagement ring.

“It’s rather embarrassing, to be honest.” Mr. Danforth didn’t meet her eyes. “I would have used my mother’s ring, but it’s not nearly as elegant as someone like Miss Helen should wear. Mr. Frick is aware of my reduced financial circumstances, which I’m sure you noticed during your visit. I know things are not typically done this way, and I hope that you, as a private secretary who probably knows the rules of courtship inside and out, aren’t too shocked.”

She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “What is most important is that Miss Helen is happy, and I’m sure whatever you choose will give her great pleasure. I’ll retrieve your check now.”

As Lillian passed Miss Helen’s bedchamber on the second floor, she remembered the Magnolia diamond tucked inside Martha’s cameo in the jewel box. That would make a perfect engagement ring, but of course doing so would probably be considered a desecration to the girl’s memory by Mr. and Mrs. Frick. How terribly unfair it all was to Miss Helen.

The check sat in the center of Mr. Frick’s desk, the image of Martha looming up at Lillian. Back downstairs, she presented it to Mr. Danforth, who was waiting outside under the porte-cochère.

“You are a treasure, Miss Lilly, for your understanding and kindness. I will not forget it, I promise.”

She watched, smiling, as he walked away. Only two weeks to go.

Three days into the scavenger hunt, Lillian and Mr. Danforth had culled through only ten of the twenty clues. Miss Helen’s missives were hidden on the backs of frames, under bronzes, and in table drawers. One was discovered tucked under a corner of the rug in the living hall, where they stood staring at the dour Holbein portrait of Thomas Cromwell. When she and Mr. Danforth both knelt down at the same time to retrieve it, they bonked heads, hard. Each fell back on the floor, sitting on their rumps, Lillian not caring that she looked as unladylike as she’d ever done, with clothes on, of course.

“How’s your head?” Mr. Danforth asked.

“Now it hurts as much on the outside as it does on the inside, from figuring out these absurd clues.”

Mr. Danforth froze, his mouth open, before he burst out in laughter. “You are not what I expected from Miss Helen’s private secretary.”

“No, I suppose not. But then, Miss Helen is a rather unique individual herself.”

He stood and held out both hands to help Lillian up. Once she was standing, he remained holding on to her hands. “I want to thank you, sincerely. I don’t have the same appreciation of art that the Frick family has, and you’ve given me the opportunity to not seem such a dolt as I truly am.”

For all her early bluster at having to manage Mr. Danforth, over the past few days she’d begun to look forward to their afternoon appointments. She found herself eager to see what they’d discover next, and relished the satisfaction of figuring out the answer. Especially enjoyable were his baffled reactions to each awful poem, which were usually followed by a grandiose reading of it in some vaguely European accent. His utter commitment to such ridiculousness made her laugh every time.

She took a seat on the sofa, still rubbing her head. “First of all, the Fricks don’t appreciate art, they are ravenous about it, in a way that is not usual in the least. Mr. Frick and his daughter treat all of these masterworks like a pictorial stamp collection. They buy paintings worth thousands of dollars on a whim. No, not thousands, millions. The Fragonard panels were one and a quarter million dollars. Can you imagine?” She worried she’d gone too far, rattling on like that about the family’s personal finances. “I’m so sorry, that was not very kind,” she said.

He joined her on the sofa. “Another reason why you’re a breath of fresh air. No need to apologize to me. Those Fragonards would take care of the renovations my townhouse is in dire need of. Along with modern furnishings.”

“I understand that you’ll move into the house after the wedding.”

“Yes. That’s the plan.” He grew silent.

“Are you worried about that? I assure you, the staff are lovely and it’s a divine place to live.”

“Oh, no, of course, you’re right. I guess it’s a matter of parting with my parents’ objects, having to disburse them. It’s like letting go of a piece of them. If I’d seen them before they died, I might not be so maudlin about it. But the last time we spoke was before I left for Europe, two years earlier. I always assumed they’d be here when I returned. It’s hard to move on.”

She thought of her mother’s clothes. “I know. I had to leave everything of my mother’s behind when I fled.”

“You what?”

“When I left.”

He didn’t seem alarmed by her misstatement. “Well, I look forward to working with you once I’m here for good. Miss Helen and I may need an interpreter, at times. I have to confess, she’s a funny one. Then again, I’m a little off myself. Maybe we’ll make a good match.”

A prickle of guilt washed over her, knowing that she wouldn’t be here when he moved in. He’d have to find his own way around his new wife and in-laws. Still, she wanted to help. “Mrs. Frick doesn’t say much, and rarely leaves her rooms, but Miss Helen more than makes up for it. When she’s chatting, it’s best to let her run out of steam at her own time. If she’s interrupted, she can get quite short. You can never tell what Mr. Frick is thinking, so don’t assume because he’s quiet and listening that he’s not about to erupt in anger, usually about a delinquent payment or an unexpected bill. If he thinks he’s being taken advantage of, watch out for the fireworks.”

Mr. Danforth had gone pale. She’d said too much.

“This is from my perspective, of course, as an employee. As a son-in-law, you’ll be treated quite differently.”

When he looked at her, his eyes were slightly glazed. “I don’t think I’m up to this.”

“Well, we can take a break, come back first thing tomorrow. They’re returning on the afternoon train.”

“No. I mean any of it.”

Was he implying he wasn’t up to the marriage? Lillian was causing damage, speaking so openly. At this rate, Mr. Danforth would be running for the hills and the engagement would never happen. And she was so close. “Please don’t say that.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “It’s stifling hot in here, don’t you think?”

“Look, let’s take a quick walk in Central Park. The air will do us both good.”

To her relief, Mr. Danforth accepted the offer.

His color returned in the brisk autumn air, and his spirits rose the farther they got from the mansion. “I have an idea,” he said. “This way.”

They followed the pathway along the East Drive, and as they walked along the southern edge of Turtle Pond she guessed where they were headed. “The castle?”

“Exactly.”

Belvedere Castle loomed ahead of them. The first time Lillian and her mother had wandered by it during one of their few walks in the park—Kitty had never been one for meandering constitutionals—Lillian had been entranced. The castle had been constructed upon one of the highest points in the park, a giant cropping of schist that rose out of Turtle Pond, surrounded by elm and plane trees, a fairy-tale fortress in the dead center of a busy American city.

“I’ve always wondered what it was built for,” she said as they climbed the steps that led to one of its terraces. “I imagined that they figured the mayor of New York could live here, like a king reigning over his fiefdom.”

“In fact, it was built in the 1870s as a folly, a decorative structure with no real use. Something pretty to look at.” Mr. Danforth gently guided her by the elbow to the edge of a terrace facing north, where the great rectangular reservoir of water just beyond Turtle Pond sparkled in the sunlight. “Although now the castle serves as a weather station.”

“I’m glad it has a purpose,” said Lillian. “Everything ought to have a purpose.”

“Including people?”

“Most definitely.”

“Miss Helen says that you’re quite good at your job, so you can count yourself among the purposeful.”

The thought that Miss Helen had complimented Lillian to Mr. Danforth came as something of a shock. “She did?”

“She did. And said that you were quite knowledgeable about art, as I’ve discovered during our scavenging sessions. Where did you learn so much?”

“Reading books,” she answered crisply. “I suppose that means the Frick mansion is the opposite of a folly since Mr. Frick has already designated it as a museum for the city. He built it with a purpose in mind.”

Mr. Danforth didn’t reply right off. “To gild refined gold, to paint the lily / To throw a perfume on the violet / Is wasteful and ridiculous excess,” he recited.

“What’s that from?” she asked.

“Shakespeare. King John.”

The words were beautiful but the sentiment unnerving, coming out of the mouth of the man designated to marry Miss Helen. “So you’re saying that Mr. Frick’s collection is one of ridiculous excess?”

“One of his paintings could feed an entire Lower East Side tenement block for years and years. I would add that there’s some question whether or not the decision to leave his paintings and mansion to the city springs from guilt.”

“Guilt about what?”

“Something that happened ages ago, probably thirty years or so. Long forgotten except by a few, probably.”

She waited, and eventually he continued. “Mr. Frick and his rich friends had a private lake for their fishing club upriver from a town called Johnstown in Pennsylvania. There was a dam, which needed repairs, and it burst and pretty much wiped out the entire town. Over two thousand people died.”

“How awful. And it was Mr. Frick’s fault?”

“His and the other club members’, for their negligence in not making the repairs. Afterwards, the members formed a relief committee to help the survivors, but it’s rumored that they used their influence to pressure the investigators. No charges were ever made.”

Over two thousand people dead. An utter catastrophe. Mr. Frick’s reputation had been whitewashed in the ensuing years as he solidified his power, and his increasing wealth made him untouchable.

“So you see, Miss Lilly, the Fricks are the gilded ones of this great city. How lucky for them.”

She gave him a look.

“Right, it probably comes across as ludicrous, me saying such a thing. But we Danforths are upper class only in name. My family’s business has been in trouble for a long time, preceding my father’s death. I have only my butler on hand these days, having had to let go of the valet, the cook, the whole lot of them.” He laughed. “In many ways I’m a folly myself, with no purpose other than saving my family’s name and fortunes by marrying up. Although, don’t get me wrong, I am quite grateful that Miss Helen has found me worthy. She will keep me on my toes, of that I have no doubt.”

That Mr. Danforth would feel comfortable enough with Lillian to confide such intimacies gave her a tiny jolt of pleasure, but she was saddened to hear his low consideration of himself.

“You’d mentioned the other day that you wanted to pursue medicine,” she asked. “What drew you to that?”

“It’s not a pleasant story, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right.”

“During the war, we were told to be on guard for the smell of garlic, to put on our gas masks at the first whiff. One of my fellow soldiers didn’t have a sense of smell, it turns out, and while we were suiting up, he was shuffling a deck of cards, ready for another round of gin rummy in the trenches. Two hours later, he was in blinding pain, throwing up, screaming, and we got him to the medics, where all they could do was pour water over his face to try to flush it out. I’m sure there is more we could have done, instead of watching as he bled out of his nose and mouth, gasping for air as his lungs became ravaged with ulcers. I don’t want to stand idly by ever again.”

“This is your chance then, Mr. Danforth. Think of what power you’ll have to change the world once you’re a member of the Frick family. Miss Helen showed as much, during the war, helping refugees by the hundreds. I think you’ll make a smashing couple.”

He smiled wanly. “I suppose so. Can I confide a secret to you?”

She nodded.

“Before all this started to happen, this business with Miss Helen, I had applied to medical school. A few days ago, I learned that I was accepted.”

“That’s splendid. Then you must go.”

“Well, that may not be so easy, now. The medical school’s up in Boston.”

A sudden gust of wind blew the scarf off her neck. They both reached for it and missed. Instead, it fluttered down to the rocks below, a slash of crimson amid the gray stone.

“Here, take mine.” Mr. Danforth wouldn’t accept Lillian’s refusal, and before she knew it, his scarf, still warm from his own neck, was wrapped around her own as they headed toward the Frick mansion.

They spoke easily on subjects less fraught than war and gilded lilies during the walk back, the spell of their quiet exchange on the Belvedere terrace broken by the rambunctious presence of other park-goers.

Standing once again in the living room, Mr. Danforth nodded at the drinks trolley. “Do you think I might help myself to some brandy? My nerves.”

“Of course.”

He rose and poured himself a drink. “I insist you join me,” he said.

That wouldn’t be prudent. She didn’t want the housekeeper or Kearns reporting back that she’d been imbibing the Fricks’ good alcohol. Also, it would be scandalous for her to share a drink with Miss Helen’s soon-to-be husband with no one else about.

Yet, she reminded herself, she was only playing at being a proper private secretary, a fact she really ought to remember if she was going to make a clean break after the engagement announcement. Back when she modeled, her mother would often join the artist in a quick drink after the session, and as she grew older, she was allowed one as well. Even if she’d been freezing cold for three hours straight, the first sip always fired her right back up. She could use that bolt of courage right now. “I accept.”

Mr. Danforth took a couple of sips and let out a peaceful sigh. “This is nice. Thank you.”

“No thanks are necessary.”

He stared out the window at the lawn. “What is it you like about this house?”

She waited a moment before she answered. There was so much to say. The artwork, the carved floral garlands that climbed up the chimney in the library, the park view from her room, and the way the sun made everything turn to gold as it set. “The sense of possibility. That Mr. Frick came from very little and now lives like a king. That anything can happen. For example, if you really wanted, you could be a doctor. There’s nothing stopping you.”

“What about you? What would you do, Miss Lilly, if you weren’t a private secretary?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’d be a silent film star.”

She expected him to laugh, to spill his drink from the foolishness of her statement. But he didn’t. “You are lovely enough for the stage and screen.”

His words hung there, the only sound the ticking of the ebony barometer clock on the table behind them. Neither looked away from the other for a moment, and Lillian’s pulse beat double time.

He finished his brandy. “Between our walk and the drink, I’m newly invigorated. Let’s get one more clue in. Then I’ll head home.”

He pulled out the pile of clues from his dress coat pocket. “We’re on number ten. The sound of music is a devious feat / Here at One East Seventieth Street / Find the true source / And you’re halfway to the end of the course / Of clues.”

Lillian made a face. “Please, no Slavic recitations of that one. I couldn’t bear it.”

“I’ll try not to be offended.”

“Luckily, I think I know what she’s referring to. Follow me.”

She led him up the front stairway to the first landing and pointed to the organ’s pipes, which were divided by four marble colonnettes. “I have it from a trusted source that these pipes are fakes.” Up on the second floor, she turned left past the elevators and pushed open the wide mahogany door at the end of the hall. “This room is called the organ chamber, although I admit I’ve never been in here before.”

To the left was a narrow aisle lined on either side with layers of pipes, thousands of them. They were of various heights and diameters, some no bigger than a drinking straw, others as wide as a man’s leg, rising right to the ceiling. Unlike the fancy facade on the other side of the wall, these were utilitarian, but to Lillian, they were beautiful, even dizzying. It was like walking inside a three-dimensional work of art.

They ventured carefully. A misstep would be disastrous, to both the organ and the person who fell. “Our organist, Mr. Graham, says that there are four thousand seven hundred pipes in here,” she said.

While she’d tried to avoid Mr. Graham after the encounter with Mrs. Whitney, a couple of weeks ago he’d stopped her in the hall and asked for a suggestion to freshen his repertoire. She’d jokingly suggested a popular song called “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.” Soon after, he’d played a superb classical-style variation of that very tune, one that Mr. Frick had made a point of requesting regularly ever since, unaware that it was a modern hit. Whenever Mr. Graham played it, Lillian couldn’t help but smile.

“The clue could be anywhere,” said Mr. Danforth. “This is a nightmare.”

They worked their way along opposite ends of the narrow pathway, and ended up facing each other in the very middle. There was very little room to maneuver.

He smiled down at her, his breath sweet with brandy. “If we don’t find it, may I join you and run off to Hollywood?”

“Of course. We wouldn’t want to face Miss Helen’s wrath.”

Lillian was light-headed from the brandy, and she wobbled slightly. Mr. Danforth lifted his hands to her elbows to steady her, and the intimate gesture caught her off guard. Her mother used to brush Lillian’s hair each evening, but since Kitty had died, no one had physically reached out to her, other than Mr. Danforth helping her up from the floor when they bumped heads earlier. And now.

“Look, here it is.” He let go of her and half turned, extricating a piece of paper that was sticking out of one of the pipes.

Right. The next clue.

But he didn’t even glance at it, instead tucked it beneath the other clues before folding them all in half. “I’m tired of all this.” He placed them on a small wooden bracket that ran between the pipes, a precarious spot, to be sure, and turned back to Lillian.

They stared at each other, unmoving, for what felt like hours. When he leaned in close, she didn’t flinch or back up or do anything to stop him. Partly because she didn’t want to trip and fall, but mainly because she was curious to know what his mouth felt like on hers. After all, she rationalized, she’d have to kiss on-screen, and should know how to do it properly. She would be gone soon, and it could be their secret. They shared a common grief, and it simply felt right, here in such tight confines, to do this. To kiss.

Their lips touched and everything else fell away: the Frick mansion, the paintings, the scavenger hunt. The only thing left was the marvelous sensation of Mr. Danforth’s hands on the small of Lillian’s back, of how he opened his mouth ever so slightly and she responded in kind.

Somewhere far away, the muffled grumbles of Kearns sounded. Probably a delivery had arrived at the wrong door. The servants’ entrance via the basement often made it confusing.

When a shrill voice called out, “I’m home,” Lillian quickly came to her senses.

Miss Helen was back, a day early. And from the sound of it, she was coming up the stairs.

Where the door to the organ room was wide open.