The Magnolia Palace(49)

She took a seat on the sofa, still rubbing her head. “First of all, the Fricks don’t appreciate art, they are ravenous about it, in a way that is not usual in the least. Mr. Frick and his daughter treat all of these masterworks like a pictorial stamp collection. They buy paintings worth thousands of dollars on a whim. No, not thousands, millions. The Fragonard panels were one and a quarter million dollars. Can you imagine?” She worried she’d gone too far, rattling on like that about the family’s personal finances. “I’m so sorry, that was not very kind,” she said.

He joined her on the sofa. “Another reason why you’re a breath of fresh air. No need to apologize to me. Those Fragonards would take care of the renovations my townhouse is in dire need of. Along with modern furnishings.”

“I understand that you’ll move into the house after the wedding.”

“Yes. That’s the plan.” He grew silent.

“Are you worried about that? I assure you, the staff are lovely and it’s a divine place to live.”

“Oh, no, of course, you’re right. I guess it’s a matter of parting with my parents’ objects, having to disburse them. It’s like letting go of a piece of them. If I’d seen them before they died, I might not be so maudlin about it. But the last time we spoke was before I left for Europe, two years earlier. I always assumed they’d be here when I returned. It’s hard to move on.”

She thought of her mother’s clothes. “I know. I had to leave everything of my mother’s behind when I fled.”

“You what?”

“When I left.”

He didn’t seem alarmed by her misstatement. “Well, I look forward to working with you once I’m here for good. Miss Helen and I may need an interpreter, at times. I have to confess, she’s a funny one. Then again, I’m a little off myself. Maybe we’ll make a good match.”

A prickle of guilt washed over her, knowing that she wouldn’t be here when he moved in. He’d have to find his own way around his new wife and in-laws. Still, she wanted to help. “Mrs. Frick doesn’t say much, and rarely leaves her rooms, but Miss Helen more than makes up for it. When she’s chatting, it’s best to let her run out of steam at her own time. If she’s interrupted, she can get quite short. You can never tell what Mr. Frick is thinking, so don’t assume because he’s quiet and listening that he’s not about to erupt in anger, usually about a delinquent payment or an unexpected bill. If he thinks he’s being taken advantage of, watch out for the fireworks.”

Mr. Danforth had gone pale. She’d said too much.

“This is from my perspective, of course, as an employee. As a son-in-law, you’ll be treated quite differently.”

When he looked at her, his eyes were slightly glazed. “I don’t think I’m up to this.”

“Well, we can take a break, come back first thing tomorrow. They’re returning on the afternoon train.”

“No. I mean any of it.”

Was he implying he wasn’t up to the marriage? Lillian was causing damage, speaking so openly. At this rate, Mr. Danforth would be running for the hills and the engagement would never happen. And she was so close. “Please don’t say that.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “It’s stifling hot in here, don’t you think?”

“Look, let’s take a quick walk in Central Park. The air will do us both good.”

To her relief, Mr. Danforth accepted the offer.

His color returned in the brisk autumn air, and his spirits rose the farther they got from the mansion. “I have an idea,” he said. “This way.”

They followed the pathway along the East Drive, and as they walked along the southern edge of Turtle Pond she guessed where they were headed. “The castle?”

“Exactly.”

Belvedere Castle loomed ahead of them. The first time Lillian and her mother had wandered by it during one of their few walks in the park—Kitty had never been one for meandering constitutionals—Lillian had been entranced. The castle had been constructed upon one of the highest points in the park, a giant cropping of schist that rose out of Turtle Pond, surrounded by elm and plane trees, a fairy-tale fortress in the dead center of a busy American city.

“I’ve always wondered what it was built for,” she said as they climbed the steps that led to one of its terraces. “I imagined that they figured the mayor of New York could live here, like a king reigning over his fiefdom.”

“In fact, it was built in the 1870s as a folly, a decorative structure with no real use. Something pretty to look at.” Mr. Danforth gently guided her by the elbow to the edge of a terrace facing north, where the great rectangular reservoir of water just beyond Turtle Pond sparkled in the sunlight. “Although now the castle serves as a weather station.”

“I’m glad it has a purpose,” said Lillian. “Everything ought to have a purpose.”

“Including people?”

“Most definitely.”

“Miss Helen says that you’re quite good at your job, so you can count yourself among the purposeful.”

The thought that Miss Helen had complimented Lillian to Mr. Danforth came as something of a shock. “She did?”

“She did. And said that you were quite knowledgeable about art, as I’ve discovered during our scavenging sessions. Where did you learn so much?”