The Magnolia Palace(65)

Miss Helen, not liking the prognosis the doctor had given the family, fired him and brought in another. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours at that point, and Mrs. Frick finally demanded that she rest, an unusual surge of motherly sentiment. At nine in the morning on Monday, Lillian sat in her room, two notes in her hand. One to Mr. Broderick, declining his invitation to meet. The other to Richard, expressing her regret. Which to send?

Kitty had bitterly cursed Lillian’s father for leaving them with nothing. As far as Lillian was concerned, men were not to be trusted easily. Not her father, nor Mr. Watkins, and definitely not Mr. Frick, who played with his family like they were puppets on a string. Richard, while he seemed kind, didn’t know who she really was, and would certainly never allow her to work as an actress. That wasn’t ladylike, not in the circles in which he traveled. In the end, he saw only a fantasy of her, as a prim private secretary, which in many ways was no different from the fantasy of Angelica.

The anonymity of being a working girl had been fine, for a time, but Lillian’s power had always lain in her beauty, her appearance. If she didn’t take this chance to be an actress now, she might wonder for the rest of her life what might have been. Looming over her still was the January trial of Mr. Watkins. Even if she accepted Richard’s offer and was a respectable married woman by then, there were no guarantees that she would remain free from the scandal. No, the only way forward was to put herself at Mr. Broderick’s mercy and leave the East Coast for good.

She tore up the note to Mr. Broderick and tossed it in the wastebasket, and handed the one addressed to Richard to the footman on the way out, with instructions to deliver it right away.

At the Plaza Hotel, a little before eleven, she knocked on a door on the fifth floor. A young man with a pronounced overbite but an eager smile showed her into a luxurious sitting room done in a soft yellow, with two windows looking out to Central Park through embroidered organdy curtains. “We’re excited to meet you,” the assistant said as he welcomed her inside.

Mr. Broderick rose from the sofa and held out his hands to her. He was younger than she’d expected, probably in his late thirties, and sported a tan that made his green eyes sparkle. The very picture of health, especially when compared with the wheezing, sickly pallor of Mr. Frick. “Very nice to meet you. Tell me your name, please.”

She looked over at the assistant and back to Mr. Broderick, confused. “Angelica.”

Mr. Broderick gave her a sly look. “Right. Early on, we heard from a number of women claiming they were Angelica. All pretty with long, dark hair. But not a one since the scandal broke. You have quite a bit of courage coming forward, whoever you are.”

Whoever she was? But he knew who she was. “You were so kind in your letters, I figured I could trust you.”

“Letters?” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, right. I don’t handle the correspondence. That’s up to my assistant.”

She looked over at the toothy kid. That was who she’d been exchanging letters with? Who she’d confided in with great detail about her life as Angelica, as a way to prove her identity?

And who’d replied with such an enthusiastic response?

Mr. Broderick had neither written nor read any of it.

“I think she’s the real deal, Mr. Broderick,” said the assistant. “I think this is her.” He gave Lillian an encouraging and slightly apologetic smile.

“You don’t say?” Mr. Broderick looked her up and down.

Well, Lillian was certainly getting her just rewards, having forged many a note herself these past few months. But she wouldn’t let this hitch stop her; she’d made it this far. “I am her. Angelica, I mean.”

Mr. Broderick sent away the assistant and offered her a seat on the sofa. “In that case, how are you doing, my dear Angelica?”

Such a simple question, yet she found herself tongue-tied. So much was at stake on the answer. Mr. Broderick was looking at her so deeply, with such compassion, that, much to her own surprise, she burst into tears.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a monogrammed handkerchief. She pressed it to her eyes, careful not to smudge the kohl liner. The makeup she’d applied that morning felt like a thick mask on her skin after months of sporting a clean face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“There, there.” He took her hand in his. His touch was as soft as a kid leather glove. “You’ve been through so much lately, I’m sure. Tell me all about it, my dear girl.”

Dare she? He could call the police at any moment. She had to earn his sympathy, make him see her value and agree to take her back to Hollywood with him. “I’ve been lying low, after all the articles in the press. Again, thank you for seeing me.”

“I feel like I see you whenever I’m in New York. You’re outside my hotel, above a fountain, up on a pedestal near the park, embedded in the library’s facade. You’re everywhere, Angelica.”

“Lately, I’ve wished that wasn’t so. That terrible murder, I didn’t have anything to do with it. The man was my landlord, but that was all.”

“Of course. Where have you been all this time?”

“I found a job working for a family and stayed out of sight. My plan was to come to you in California, but then I read in the newspaper that you were in the city, and here I am.”