The Magnolia Palace(64)
“Never.”
They both smiled.
“Will you promise me you’ll take care of my daughter after I’m gone? She’ll need guidance. You have a good head on your shoulders, you understand the way the world works, I can tell. Will you watch over her?”
Before she could answer, the door flew open and Miss Helen entered, carrying a tray.
“Papsie, I’ve brought you a hot toddy. That will set you right. Isn’t that what you always told me when I was ill, that a hot toddy was the cure?”
“I don’t want it. For God’s sake, stop fussing over me. Send it back.”
Miss Helen’s face fell. She banged the tray down on the sideboard and sat at the end of the sofa. Her father refused to move his feet to make room, so she perched uncomfortably, half on and half off. “How was the game? I see you’ve bested Miss Lilly. She’s terrible at games.”
“Not because she’s terrible, but because she lets her opponent win,” Mr. Frick answered. “Miss Lilly is a smart one, you ought to listen to her.”
“What have you been talking about?” Miss Helen eyed Lillian suspiciously.
“Miss Lilly has been my confessor,” he said. “Exactly what I needed. I feel much better now.”
Lillian could have choked him if he hadn’t already had breathing difficulties. Pitting people against each other was as natural to him as breathing. Perhaps it worked in the business world, but his family, already frayed, was falling apart.
“Who knows what will happen once I’m married?” said Miss Helen. “Mr. Danforth and I may very well decide to revisit our staffing requirements.” She pointed to a chair in the far corner. “Miss Lilly, please take the New York Times and sit over there. Mark which articles you think my father would like to hear me read out loud.”
Again with the commands, not to mention Miss Helen’s not-so-subtle threat to fire her. But Lillian obeyed, planting herself in the most uncomfortable chair in the room. Mr. Frick was ill, she reminded herself. The family was under a great deal of stress, wondering how their world would go on after his death, wondering if they’d be able to manage without him at the helm.
“Papsie, while she does that,” Miss Helen said, “I will read to you from The World. Would you like that?”
“I would. Very much.” He settled back down, content at having put Miss Helen and Lillian at odds.
What if Lillian ran off with Mr. Danforth?
Richard. She’d have to get used to calling him by his Christian name if she were to elope with him. There were times, like today, when she was sure Miss Helen didn’t deserve him; Richard was far too kind and good for the likes of her. They’d be miserable within a month, and no doubt Mr. Frick would torture him in what little time he had left, as he did the others. If she accepted Richard’s proposal, Lillian would be free from the entanglement of cruelty in this house, and she’d have a decent life, as the wife of a good man. She had earned that, hadn’t she? But even as she considered her options, she knew it wasn’t right to accept a man’s hand in marriage out of spite. She had to drill down further, figure out if she was willing to take such a leap of faith. And she only had until Monday to do so.
As Miss Helen read out loud to her father, Lillian leafed through the Times. Mr. Frick preferred the business items, but she scanned the arts section first. God only knew how long Miss Helen would take, just to keep Lillian squirming in the corner.
Exclusive interview with Alan Broderick, silent film producer.
Lillian’s heart jumped at the headline, and she quickly skimmed through the article. He was in town, scouting locations for a new movie that wasn’t yet cast. The interview had been conducted at the Plaza Hotel, where Mr. Broderick was staying until the middle of next week, before returning to California.
He was here.
She remained in the corner until Mr. Frick dozed off, and then asked Miss Helen if she could attend to the books. Miss Helen dismissed her, but instead of going to Miss Helen’s sitting room, Lillian went to her own chamber, where she put on a bright slash of lipstick and ran a comb through her hair before dashing down the front stairs.
At the hotel, she pulled her veil low and approached the clerk, asking to send a note up to Mr. Broderick. Told that he was still in his suite, she stated that she’d wait for a reply, and gave the man a tip for his trouble.
She took a seat at the base of a large jardiniere, watching the guests come and go through the lobby. The rococo interior, with walls of rose-and-green brocade, gave her a slight headache after the relative austerity of the Frick house. Right now, Miss Helen was probably stamping her feet, asking Bertha to find Lillian, angry at her sudden disappearance. She was taking a terrible risk.
After ten interminable minutes, the clerk approached her with a note. “From Mr. Broderick,” he said with a bow.
She tore it open, praying for good news. It stated that Mr. Broderick would be pleased to meet with her early next week.
Monday at eleven.
Right when she was supposed to meet Richard.
* * *
The weekend crawled by, with Miss Helen becoming more and more frantic as her father grew sicker, his body swelling with fluid, the doctor administering morphine to keep him comfortable. Mr. Childs and his family had visited his bedside on Sunday, the children wide-eyed and solemn before being delivered quickly out to their nursemaid. Mr. Childs and his wife remained by Mr. Frick’s bedside for an hour before shuttling back home to Long Island.