The Magnolia Palace(32)
There was something quite satisfying about checking something off a list, about creating a plan that was broken down into its parts. Once she’d stopped feeling like it was beneath her, Lillian had embraced this part of her job wholeheartedly, and not only because of the potential payout. It made her feel competent, and she found she rather liked being in charge. The same skills she’d used as a model—patience, the ability to bide her time and then strike with a suggestion when her employer wouldn’t get defensive—had, until now, transferred quite beautifully to the role of private secretary.
“Hell’s bells and buckets of blood,” cried Miss Helen. “I look like a dowdy matron. What’s to be done?”
The histrionics were getting out of hand. Lillian dismissed Bertha and closed the door to the hallway. “If you like, I can help. Do you want my help?”
“I should be downstairs already, but I’m not even dressed.”
“Let’s try the lilac.”
She and Miss Helen stared at the reflection in the looking glass once Lillian had done up all the tiny pearl buttons at the back. The color softened Miss Helen’s edges and, with its dropped waist, could almost be considered fashionable, offsetting the lacy collar that worked better on a young girl than a woman. Miss Helen nervously tugged at the sleeves, on the verge of tears.
What to say? The answer came in a flash. “Last time you wore this, your father remarked quite favorably on it,” said Lillian.
That was enough to calm Miss Helen’s fussiness. “He did, didn’t he?” She did a half turn, admiring herself in the mirror, finally.
“Now how about I fix your hair? Perhaps we can try something new?”
“No. Papsie likes it like this.”
At least the woman was dressed. Lillian knew better than to push her luck. “Well then, shall we go down?”
Miss Helen’s chin wobbled. “I don’t want to. I don’t want this.” She walked over and sat with a thud at her dressing table, biting her lip.
“It’s a dinner party, you’ve been to many before, I bet.”
“But not like this, where everyone will be looking at me and looking at him and wondering why on earth a man like Richard Danforth would waste his time.”
“Because you are a catch, Miss Helen. You are smart as a whip and a good daughter, and let’s not forget that you were on the front lines in France during the war. Talk about courageous.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Your father told me.”
Miss Helen grew quiet. “It was the first time I felt a part of something. That I was a useful member of society.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
She managed a sad smile. “The Frick unit was in charge of refugees in more than seventy French towns. For each family, we’d take their histories, give them coal cards, explain how to find their lost relatives, help get them established. The face of one young woman was marred by dog bites. She said that when she and four others were rounded up to be sent to Germany for committing subversive acts, the French villagers came out to offer up a silent tribute. Angered, the Germans set their dogs on the five of them and laughed as they were mauled. She had been a beautiful woman—she showed me a photograph—and they’d butchered her. It still haunts me.”
Lillian’s regard for Miss Helen rose tenfold. She’d displayed a colossal courage in joining the war effort in Europe during that terrible time. Even the voyage across the Atlantic would have been dangerous, never knowing if a German submarine was headed your way.
“I did everything in my power to help everyone I could, but it took a toll,” said Miss Helen. “I became prone to fainting spells after days and nights of unending bombing. And the sirens, I’ll never forget that sound, like a pickaxe into one’s brain. After six months, I had to come home. But I assure you, the savagery committed by the Germans will not be forgotten, not by me in any case. I can’t walk these halls filled with portraits of countesses and duchesses who have not a blemish among them without remembering what was left of that poor girl.”
“That must be very difficult. But your father is quite proud of what you accomplished overseas.”
The invocation of Mr. Frick only increased Miss Helen’s agitation this time around. “If I let him down, I’ll feel terrible. Every time something like this happens, where I’m the focus of attention, I can’t help but feel how much better my older sister would have been in the same situation, if she’d lived.”
“Older sister?” echoed Lillian.
“Martha. By now, she’d be married and have children and I wouldn’t have to do this silly dance. It doesn’t come naturally to me, you know.” She placed a hand protectively on her jewelry box. “If I show you something, will you keep it a secret?”
“Of course.”
Miss Helen lifted the burl wood lid and pressed on something inside, which caused a hidden compartment near the base to slide open. A cameo lay on the red velvet interior. “This is Martha’s likeness. I was three when Martha died, just before her sixth birthday.”
Lillian leaned over her shoulder. The image of Martha on the cameo was the same as the girl on the checks and in the many portraits around the house. Miss Helen looked quite similar, but her forehead was squarer. So that was Martha dominating Mrs. Frick’s rooms and Mr. Frick’s checkbook, not Miss Helen. How horrible, to have the ghost of your dead sibling staring back at you wherever you turned. “She was lovely.”