The Magnolia Palace(27)
Lillian laid the ball carefully upon a narrow wooden rail at hip height and let go. It began rolling, picking up speed, traveling the whole length of the alley as if an invisible engine were propelling it. The effect was quite magical, and Lillian gave a little hop of delight once it reached its destination, right where Miss Helen had first picked it up.
Maybe if she showed enough enthusiasm, she could convince her employer to play a few games with her each day, to break up the monotony. “What fun! So you enjoy bowling?”
“Goodness, no,” sniffed Miss Helen. “That’s not why we’re here.”
Or not. “Then why are we here?”
“That.”
To the left of the bowling alley, under a series of archways, was a narrow passageway. Several trunks and crates were lined up along the far wall, next to a wooden table and chair. On top of the table, amid piles of documents and photographs, was a handsome leather-bound book.
“This is my secret project.” Miss Helen walked over to the table and opened the tome with great care, like it was a sacred text. “The boxes contain research materials that tell the history of several of my father’s very favorite artworks. I’ve been compiling them into this book, so that he has the provenance behind the acquisitions at his fingertips. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Lillian peered over Miss Helen’s shoulder as she leafed through it. The top of each page contained the name and artist and the date created, followed by a list of who had owned it previously, and then a paragraph explaining the worthiness or story of each piece.
Someday, maybe someone would compile a similar book of all of the statues that Lillian had posed for. Simply thinking about it made Lillian stand up a little straighter, even after what had been one of the longest days of her life. They’d mention how she got started, working for the famous sculptor Konti on the Three Graces, how she’d disappeared for a time, only to reappear as a star of motion pictures.
“Miss Lilly, you’re not listening to me.” Miss Helen threw up her hands in exasperation.
“Sorry. You’re creating a book about your father’s artwork.”
Miss Helen nodded. “It’s a gift for his birthday in December.”
“It’s remarkable. He’ll love it.”
“Do you think so?” Miss Helen gave a childlike smile. In many ways, she was quite witchy, but then, all of a sudden, the perpetual frown on her face would disappear and Lillian could imagine what she’d been like as a little girl, trying to cajole her mother out of her melancholy, or please her father with her intelligence and wit. What a lot of pressure for one girl. Her brother appeared to have taken the opposite route, finding an interest that had nothing to do with the family and then creating a family of his own. How easy that must have been for him, being a man, while Miss Helen was still living at home, unmarried, her life a prism of others’ needs.
“He’ll treasure it, I’m sure.”
Miss Helen looked so pleased with herself, happier than Lillian had seen her since they’d met.
“You ought to do this for all of his artwork,” said Lillian. “The home is to be a museum after his death, isn’t that right? That sort of compilation would be an asset for any museum.”
Miss Helen clapped her hands together. “I could do that. Why, I have all of the background material.”
“It would be like a library for his art.”
“Wait a minute, I have a very good idea.” Miss Helen was now pacing the room, hands on her hips. “What if I created a library for art history?”
“That’s what I just—”
Miss Helen spoke over her. “There’s a similar library in England, which I visited during my travels. I can base it on that. A library filled with books about art, a project of my very own, one that will live on after my father’s death, or even mine. I’m sure I wrote something about that London library in my diary. It’s upstairs. I’m going to go find that now. A library for art history. Brilliant, right?”
“Brilliant, Miss Helen.”
Miss Helen pointed at the table. “You stay here. Papsie’s book should be finished up right away so I can put all of my energy into the library idea. There are three paintings left—they’re listed at the top of the last three pages. Go through the trunks and crates and find any mention of them, and then fill it out in the book as I’ve done in the previous entries. And do try to match the handwriting best you can. No mistakes. I’m going upstairs.”
All of Lillian’s pity for Miss Helen vanished. The woman had a very short attention span, and now was on to the next thing, like a dog going after a squirrel.
Wearily, Lillian sat down and spoke through gritted teeth. The thought of being stuck in the basement for the rest of the evening, with no supper, rankled.
“Of course, Miss Helen. Whatever you need.”
Chapter Seven
Practically every night, Lillian woke in the witching hours and wandered the Frick mansion. If she didn’t get up, she’d toss and turn, thinking of her mother’s last heaving breath as she tried to pull air into her lungs, her eyes wide with feverish delirium. That image would then bleed into the one of Mrs. Watkins’s lifeless hand. The upcoming trial was still in the news regularly, but there had been no more drawings of Lillian in the papers, thank goodness.