The Magnolia Palace(28)
Her lack of sleep hadn’t helped matters. In the two weeks since she’d begun working for Miss Helen, Lillian had had to be reprimanded daily for some mistake or miscue. Miss Helen’s patience was wearing thin as Lillian was always a step behind, either forgetting to update the daily expenses or misfiling a letter from the florist under Agreeable instead of Disagreeable. She had a headache at the end of every workday, and that same headache woke her up at three in the morning, full of facts and figures to remember that were soon overridden by images of death.
As she passed down the main stairwell, where the organ’s pipes gleamed in the moonlight, like the bars of some gilded jail, Lillian reminded herself that she only had two more weeks to go until she would receive her monthly wages and have enough money for a train ticket. Heartened, she ran her fingertip along the banister as she descended, pretending to be the mistress of the house checking for dust, and walked along the main passageway. If it were her house, she’d switch the paintings around, placing the oversized Turner seascape in the living hall, where it could be viewed from a distance. Yes, that would work much better. The Vermeer of the laughing girl wearing a gold-and-black bodice she’d take into her own bedchamber, and position so it was the first thing she saw in the morning and the last before falling asleep. She loved passing by her favorites every day, noticing how they looked different in the morning light versus the afternoon sun, catching the surprising details that emerged with each viewing. To think that her mother had been raised in a house like this where art adorned the walls. How much had Kitty given up for love?
Lillian had wondered about her father often, most recently right before her mother had become ill. They’d passed the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, where Angelica appeared as Beauty in a statue south of the main entrance. She’d stopped, admiring herself. Her figure sat sidesaddle on a horse that wasn’t quite to scale, but that didn’t matter. What mattered were the smooth lines of her one exposed leg, the serene expression on her face.
“I always wanted to learn how to ride,” she’d said to Kitty. “Did my father love horses?”
Kitty stiffened. “Not that I remember. It was a long time ago.”
“Do you think he would recognize me? I mean, I must appear in a dozen spots around the city by now. Maybe, if he visits, he notices them.”
“Who knows where that man is by now? Whatever you do, don’t make the same mistake I did, don’t marry for love. Find someone who will give you a leg up, not cripple you with useless drivel. Or better yet, don’t marry at all.”
Lillian knew she shouldn’t push, but she couldn’t help herself. It was like an itch that rose every so often, a scratch that had to be addressed or she’d go mad. “Do I look like him?”
Kitty’s lip lifted in a sneer. “Not at all. You take after me. And that kind of thinking won’t do you any favors. In fact, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Why?”
“Look at you up there. The only thing covered is one leg, and barely that. That’s not how a father wants to see his daughter. It’s a good thing he’s gone, otherwise you’d never be allowed to do what you do. To have become ‘Angelica.’?”
“But then I would’ve had a father.”
Kitty stopped in her tracks. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing.”
But it was too late. “Oh, I see. You would prefer not to be the most famous artists’ muse in New York City, in the country? What, would you rather be working in a silverware factory in Providence, the two of us side by side, day after day, packing spoons for rich people? You haven’t worked a day in your life, not really.”
How dare she? “What I do is hard work, and don’t you ever say otherwise.”
“I’ll say what I like. You stand there, staring into space, doing absolutely nothing. That’s not work.”
“What about you, sitting in a corner, knitting? You haven’t had to lift a finger since I started working, don’t forget that.”
All of Kitty’s bluster disappeared. “You think I’m taking advantage of you? I thought we were a team all this time. Perhaps I was mistaken.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. Kitty was the one who should have been an actress, not Lillian. She could cry on cue—Lillian had seen her do so when an artist tried to lowball them on their fee—and her emotions tended to the mercurial. When pushed, she pushed back, harder.
Lillian should have never brought up her father. “Sorry, Mother. Of course we’re a team.”
Kitty had smiled and flung her arm around Lillian’s waist, and then bought some caramel candies for the walk home.
That fight had been in January, right before her mother began coughing and took to her bed. Right before the end.
By now, Lillian had come to the doorway to the art gallery and Mr. Frick’s study, where Bertha had first come upon her and warned her to steer clear. Bertha had begun to sit next to Lillian at the servants’ meals, and her bright cheer helped make life at the Frick household a little more bearable. At night, she’d knock twice on the shared wall in between their rooms, a signal to say “Good night,” and Lillian would knock back. Lillian thought it was as close as she might ever get to having a friend.
Lillian was drawn to the partly open doorway, unable to walk past without peeking in. She knew from the street view that the space was enormous, like a giant ballroom. It seemed a shame to not know what was inside when she’d become so familiar with the rest of the house. She inched closer, and stood where she could peer in without moving the door.