The Magnolia Palace(48)

Good Lord. Only Miss Helen would find this sordid scene appropriate for inclusion. But Lillian knew why. Miss Helen only saw the beauty of the object, not the awkward seduction scene depicted, never mind how it might put off a potential suitor.

Mr. Danforth cleared his throat. “Um, right.”

Before he could run screaming from the room, Lillian lifted the cup’s base, where another clue lay, which led them to an eighteenth-century bronze bust in the library. From there, they were directed to a Degas oil painting of ballet dancers in the north hall. It was no easy task, and figuring out which work Miss Helen was referring to required multiple sweeps through each room. Soon enough, the sun was setting.

Mr. Danforth looked rather ragged. “I might as well move in and spend the week here instead of working.”

Lillian had to do something if she wanted the engagement to come off successfully. “Why don’t you come back each day, and I’ll assist you until it’s completed? We’ll take a bit at a time.”

“Would you do that?”

“Of course. And you should know that Miss Helen is planning on creating a library for art, which is another good reason for you to become familiar with the collection.”

“A woman running a library? Would her father allow such a thing? I’m surprised.”

She disapproved of his reaction, but didn’t want to put him off. “If you want to win her over, I suggest you not denigrate the idea.”

“Of course, you’re absolutely right. Because I do want to please her. If you don’t mind my taking you into my confidence, I’m planning on asking her to marry me on Thanksgiving.”

Two weeks away.

Not long at all.

Once Mr. Frick paid up, Lillian would make some excuse about a sick aunt in California and be on the next train out. The nuptial arrangements would have to be taken care of by the next private secretary they hired. Lillian hoped whoever it was would be able to guide Miss Helen to an appropriate bridal dress, as Miss Helen might very well show up in a bustle-backed monstrosity if left to her own devices.

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “Have you asked for Miss Helen’s hand from Mr. Frick yet?”

“I did, right before they departed for Eagle Rock. All is on course. That reminds me, Mr. Frick sent me this letter, to give to you.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here.”

The letter asked that Miss Lillian give Mr. Danforth the check that sat on the desk in his sitting room, the sum of which was to be used to purchase Miss Helen’s engagement ring.

“It’s rather embarrassing, to be honest.” Mr. Danforth didn’t meet her eyes. “I would have used my mother’s ring, but it’s not nearly as elegant as someone like Miss Helen should wear. Mr. Frick is aware of my reduced financial circumstances, which I’m sure you noticed during your visit. I know things are not typically done this way, and I hope that you, as a private secretary who probably knows the rules of courtship inside and out, aren’t too shocked.”

She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “What is most important is that Miss Helen is happy, and I’m sure whatever you choose will give her great pleasure. I’ll retrieve your check now.”

As Lillian passed Miss Helen’s bedchamber on the second floor, she remembered the Magnolia diamond tucked inside Martha’s cameo in the jewel box. That would make a perfect engagement ring, but of course doing so would probably be considered a desecration to the girl’s memory by Mr. and Mrs. Frick. How terribly unfair it all was to Miss Helen.

The check sat in the center of Mr. Frick’s desk, the image of Martha looming up at Lillian. Back downstairs, she presented it to Mr. Danforth, who was waiting outside under the porte-cochère.

“You are a treasure, Miss Lilly, for your understanding and kindness. I will not forget it, I promise.”

She watched, smiling, as he walked away. Only two weeks to go.



* * *





Three days into the scavenger hunt, Lillian and Mr. Danforth had culled through only ten of the twenty clues. Miss Helen’s missives were hidden on the backs of frames, under bronzes, and in table drawers. One was discovered tucked under a corner of the rug in the living hall, where they stood staring at the dour Holbein portrait of Thomas Cromwell. When she and Mr. Danforth both knelt down at the same time to retrieve it, they bonked heads, hard. Each fell back on the floor, sitting on their rumps, Lillian not caring that she looked as unladylike as she’d ever done, with clothes on, of course.

“How’s your head?” Mr. Danforth asked.

“Now it hurts as much on the outside as it does on the inside, from figuring out these absurd clues.”

Mr. Danforth froze, his mouth open, before he burst out in laughter. “You are not what I expected from Miss Helen’s private secretary.”

“No, I suppose not. But then, Miss Helen is a rather unique individual herself.”

He stood and held out both hands to help Lillian up. Once she was standing, he remained holding on to her hands. “I want to thank you, sincerely. I don’t have the same appreciation of art that the Frick family has, and you’ve given me the opportunity to not seem such a dolt as I truly am.”

For all her early bluster at having to manage Mr. Danforth, over the past few days she’d begun to look forward to their afternoon appointments. She found herself eager to see what they’d discover next, and relished the satisfaction of figuring out the answer. Especially enjoyable were his baffled reactions to each awful poem, which were usually followed by a grandiose reading of it in some vaguely European accent. His utter commitment to such ridiculousness made her laugh every time.