The Magnolia Palace(73)

He shook his head. “I know we may not come from the same social circles, but times are different. It doesn’t matter to me one whit that you’re not New York high society. Heck, I’m not New York high society anymore.”

“That’s not it. You don’t know me.”

“Whoever it is you are, or you think you are, I want that. Nothing can dissuade me, and I promise to take care of you. From what I can see, Miss Helen treats you unkindly, is changeable and irritating. I guess I don’t understand why you want to protect her.”

“She is all of that, but right now it would be hurting her when she’s most vulnerable.”

“She treats her dogs better than you.”

The remark was cutting, but at the same time, partly true. Only last week, Miss Helen had plucked Lillian’s sandwich from the lunch tray that had been brought up to them in the sitting room and fed it to Wrigley.

In spite of the fraught tension with Mr. Danforth, she let out a rueful laugh. “You’ve got a point.”

A footman came out of the doorway, and Lillian and Mr. Danforth stepped apart, waiting until he’d passed by and turned onto the street. Mr. Danforth’s face softened. “I know the way we came together is unorthodox, to say the least. I think we both deserve a fresh start.”

“What do you mean?”

“I came here to tell Miss Helen that I will not be proposing. I want to start a life with you cleanly, honorably. I’ll accept the place offered me at Harvard Medical School in Boston. I’ll sell my parents’ brownstone, and we’ll find rooms up there while I study, far away from the Fricks. Imagine, picnics on the Common, strolling along the Charles River. I’ll come home after seeing patients all day and walk straight into your arms.”

No matter what tempting tableaus he conjured, there was always Angelica, lurking in the background. The trial in January would only mean an increase in newspaper articles, an increase in press coverage, which could easily reach Boston. She tried again. “You don’t know everything about me.”

“I know that you see everything that’s going on around you, that you’re able to sit still and observe in a way that few others do. I know that you miss your mother dearly, as I do my mother and father. I know that you’re able to mold yourself to please other people, like Miss Helen, but that isn’t the entirety of you. I know you like your coffee with milk but no sugar, and I’d be proud to have you by my side as my wife. I won’t stop until you say ‘yes.’?”

What was missing in his romantic narrative was that she wasn’t truly herself with him. She’d molded herself to fit his perception of her, just as she had for Miss Helen. “That’s not the half of it.”

“Where’s the other half? Please, Lillian, you are the sweetest, purest woman I know. If you like, I will break the news to Miss Helen about us today, so you can be free. I will go down on one knee right here, right now. Say you’ll marry me.”

He couldn’t do that. Someone would see. “Please, Mr. Danforth. That’s enough.”

“My dear Miss Lilly. Lillian.” He began to kneel, holding both hands over his heart. “Please marry me.”

This simply would not do. It was time he knew the truth. How he reacted would prove whether he truly loved her, or only loved the idea of her. She grabbed one arm and pulled him up to his feet. “Come with me.”

She brought him halfway down the driveway and turned back around, pointing up at the reclining figure carved in stone at the top of the porte-cochère. “Do you see that?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“That’s me.”

She was taking a risk—he might go right to the police and turn her in. But she didn’t think it was in his nature.

He looked at the carving, then back at Lillian, and laughed. “Right.”

“Before I worked for Miss Helen, I was a model for artists. A successful one. For this particular piece, I was hired to pose as Truth for the sculptor Sherry Fry. Not my favorite, I’ll confess. That statue of Pomona you admired in front of the Plaza? Me as well. You were correct when you noticed the similar profile.”

“What? Why?” He seemed bewildered.

“Because I had to make money so my mother and I could afford to eat and pay rent.”

He looked up at the figure, back at her, studying her differently, objectively. Comparing the noses, the chins. “You were a model?”

“Yes. That was me. I was Angelica. I am Angelica.”

His face went slack with shock.

“Miss Lilly?”

Mr. Graham had appeared under the archway. He hadn’t been there a second ago. Had he been hiding in the shadows, listening in?

“Yes?” Panic rose like bile in her throat.

“Miss Helen is calling for you. Quite loudly, I might add. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

He had been listening; she was sure of it. He’d been there when Mrs. Whitney identified her, and now this. But she had more pressing matters to deal with.

She answered sharply. “I’ll be there in a moment. Thank you.”

After he disappeared, she turned to Mr. Danforth, who had been staring up at her stone image the entire time. “I’m sorry if you’re shocked, but I’m not sorry for having done it. Posing, I mean. I was a muse, you see.”