The Magnolia Palace(14)
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?”