The Magnolia Palace(39)

“It’s been four years. Now tell me the truth.”

The room blurred around her and then came back into focus. “The truth?”

“Yes. How did you like it?”

She blinked in confusion. “Like what?”

“?‘The Rosary.’ I played it the other day and Mr. Frick was quite pleased. I was hoping you were as well.”

He was smiling, flirting with her, and something about the set of his face and the crinkle of his eyes made her smile back. “Right, yes, it was lovely.” Not that she had any idea of how the melody went, of course. She hoped her response sounded convincing.

“I’m thrilled to hear it. I don’t get much feedback, tucked away under the staircase.”

She looked down at the organ, unnerved at his attention. “It’s quite an instrument.”

“You don’t see many like these in a private residence,” he said with a touch of pride, like a jockey bragging about his fastest racehorse. “She’s a beauty.”

Lillian gestured to the brass pipes that rose up above the stair landing. “They’re a work of art in themselves.”

“Believe it or not, that’s just a pretty facade.”

“A facade? Then where are the real pipes?”

He pointed to a door one floor up. “Behind the false ones, through that door. All four thousand seven hundred of them.”

He settled in, but Lillian remained standing, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. If he’d heard any mention of Angelica, he’d hidden it well. She prayed that he’d missed that part of the conversation, or, if not, that the significance hadn’t registered.

He sat down, fiddled with some of the stops, then took a deep breath before letting loose a chord that was so loud she almost fell down the last two steps of the landing.

“Mr. Graham!”

He smiled at her. “Just kidding.” He adjusted the stops, looked back at the sheet of music, and eased gently into a Bach sonata.

She frowned and headed to the dining hall, hoping that no one had spilled anything when that silly man blasted their ears off. Peering inside, she first located Mrs. Whitney, who was deep in conversation with Mr. Frick, her back to the door. At the table near the fireplace, Miss Helen sat looking miserable, an empty chair beside her.

Where was the man of the hour?

As if on cue, a blast of cold air swept through the hallway from the opening of the front door. A gentleman in formal attire handed his coat and hat to the butler. He walked the first few steps with an uncertain gait, as if the marble beneath might turn to quicksand, but when he saw Lillian staring at him, he quickened his step and offered a broad smile. “I apologize for my lateness.” He gestured to the clipboard. “Mr. Richard Danforth, present and accounted for.”

The final piece of the puzzle.

“Thank you, Mr. Danforth.” She crossed his name off her list with an exaggerated swipe. “We are delighted to have you.”

“May I ask who is expressing this delight?”

“I’m Miss Helen’s private secretary, Miss Lilly.” It gave her a zing of pride, saying the words private secretary out loud. She stood straighter, eager to get him over to Miss Helen’s side. He was a nice-looking man, with a cleft chin and mild blue eyes. Would he find Miss Helen frumpy? Or would he be able to see the vulnerable, accomplished woman beneath her veneer of haughtiness?

She passed Mr. Danforth off to a footman, not wanting to attract Mrs. Whitney’s attention again by entering the room herself, but peeked through a crack in the door as he was brought around to his setting and graciously took Miss Helen’s hand. Miss Helen said something and they both laughed, and then Miss Helen looked over and spied Lillian staring. She winked and turned back to her guest, ever the gracious hostess, as if she did this kind of thing twice a week.

Lillian spent the entire dinner sitting in the main hallway, listening to the strains of the organ. Across from her hung a large Turner oil of the Rhine as it flowed through Cologne, Germany. On the left side of the canvas, a tourist-filled ferry boat floated serenely on calm waters, but her eye was drawn to a scraggy-looking dog drinking river water near a black drainage pipe in the bottom right-hand corner, as workers toiled on the sandy banks. New York had that same mix of beauty and ugliness, the mansions of Fifth Avenue and the slums of the Lower East Side.

The sharp sound of Miss Helen’s laughter brought her to her feet. The pitch veered toward hysterical, which Miss Helen fell into whenever she was overstimulated or overtired. Lillian edged to the doorway and looked in. Miss Helen was giggling helplessly by now at something that Mr. Danforth had said, and while he smiled at her mirth, he had turned slightly away, perhaps embarrassed at her unsightly display. Mr. Frick frowned from across the room, staring hard at his daughter.

Lillian ran to the butler’s pantry. “Go in there and let Mr. Frick know that it’s time for the men to move to the drawing room,” she said to Kearns.

“That’s not the way it’s done,” Kearns said. “Mrs. Frick or Miss Helen are to rise first, and encourage the ladies to join them in the Fragonard Room.”

Mrs. Frick was too timid to do anything so bold, and it appeared that Miss Helen had lost all sense of time and comportment. “You must. I will explain to Mr. Frick if he complains.”

Reluctantly, Kearns entered the room, and she watched as he whispered to Mr. Frick, then pointed right at Lillian.