The Magnolia Palace(42)
A thousand dollars bought quite a deal of advocacy. Probably better not to share that tidbit with him. “Will you come?”
He studied Lillian for a moment before heading to the writing desk near the front window. “I shall. I’ll compose a note for you to take back to her now. If you like, I can have some coffee sent up while you wait.”
“That would be most kind.”
She watched him as he took a pen out of a drawer along with a page of stationery paper. He was quite handsome, in a boyish way, but his movements were tentative, reminding her of the way he’d entered the Frick house, the uncertainty of his gait. It was as if he were trying to maintain control of himself, to become neither too excited nor too sad, fighting for a middle ground that didn’t upset the equilibrium of the moment.
She sipped the coffee the butler brought and studied the room more closely, noticing that the wallpaper curled down from the crown molding in sections, and the rugs were quite worn. Miss Helen’s fortune would certainly help matters, if the household’s disarray was an indication of the state of his finances. The grandfather clock chimed eleven, yet Mr. Danforth had only scribbled a few words, and was now staring out the window, lost in some other place or time.
“Mr. Danforth.” When she spoke, he jumped as if she’d broken the silence with a loud cry.
“Yes, sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I really should be heading back.”
“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “May I admit something?”
“Of course.”
“Miss Helen’s letter was quite charming. I feel my response will be rather dull in comparison.” He stared down at the note. “What do you think I ought to say? I want to convey my interest, but not appear unseemly.”
Lillian rose and stood behind him, looking down at the note. All that was written on it was Miss Helen’s name and the date. Did she have to do everything? For goodness’ sake, she was a Cyrano de Bergerac squared, writing love letters to herself. “I’d be happy to help.”
She rattled off a couple of sweet sentences, followed by a request that he use the occasion to meet Fudgie the hound. “That should do it.”
He signed it and sealed it in an envelope, his relief palpable. “That’s that, then. Are you walking back or taking a car?”
“It’s a lovely day, I was planning on walking.”
“Do you mind if I join you part of the way? I have a luncheon at the Plaza, which is on your way. I’d be happy to escort you.”
“Of course.”
* * *
The fresh air and sunshine revived Mr. Danforth, and he spoke freely, giving Lillian a behind-the-scenes account of some of the guests at the dinner. He also described his upbringing, having attended a posh boys’ school in Manhattan, followed by four years at Harvard. His mother had come from the South, and her family owned a number of cotton mills. Mr. Danforth’s father had run the business until his death.
“Have you taken over the family business, then?”
“For now. It’s been sadly declining in production and revenue, even before my father died. I was supposed to go into the office today, but I simply couldn’t bear it. I’m glad I stayed home, though, as your appearance has certainly brightened it.”
“What would you prefer to do, if not the family business?”
He hesitated before speaking, as if trying to decide whether it was safe to confide in her. “I believe this century is going to be an exciting one when it comes to medicine. I’d like to be a doctor. Help people who are ill.”
“Is it too late to switch careers?”
“It appears to be.”
Meaning, if the match came through, he’d be swept up into the Frick family business. Then again, Miss Helen was attempting to fashion her own life with the library idea, independent from her family, in spite of her father’s opposition. She might enjoy having a husband who worked in medicine. Lillian made a note to herself to mention it as a topic of conversation for tomorrow.
By now, they had reached the fountain in front of the Plaza. It always reminded Lillian of an aquatic wedding cake, with tiers of water splashing down, one over the other, and at the very top, the bronze statue of the goddess Pomona.
Mr. Danforth stared up at it. “I’m always curious why they chose the goddess of fruit trees for this particular location.”
“I’m impressed that you know that,” she said.
“I mean, she is holding a basket of fruit.”
Lillian laughed. She recalled the weight of it, of having to hold it off to the side and slightly bent over, which had sent her back into spasm. How lovely it was to see it out here, in the fresh air, where anyone who wanted could walk right up and study it. That was what she’d loved most about being reproduced in marble to adorn the city’s buildings and bridges, that the works of art weren’t hidden away in private houses or fancy museums; they were for anyone to enjoy. “The fountain was designed by Thomas Hastings, the same architect who designed the Frick house. The statue was by Karl Bitter. Pomona, the goddess, represents abundance.”
Mr. Danforth turned to her. “Now I’m impressed. I see why you’re a good fit for the Frick household.” He looked back up at the statue. “Pomona.” He looked at Lillian. “I’ll say, that’s incredible.”