The Magnolia Palace(78)

Lillian checked the clock on the mantel. “Very soon.”

Miss Helen opened a drawer. “I want this to be buried with him.” She held Martha’s cameo in her hand.

Lillian considered all the things that diamond hidden inside could buy: clothes, food, rent money. The thought of it being buried underground, lost forever, seemed indecent. “Are you sure? What if you buried the cameo, but sold the diamond and donated the money to one of Mr. Frick’s causes instead?”

“No. He loved Martha best. This will be like he’s being laid to rest with a small piece of her.”

A valuable piece of her.

Lillian was concerned that Miss Helen would toss it away so cavalierly. She could never get it back, and Miss Helen was never one for having much foresight. What if she regretted it? “What if you had it made into a ring for your mother?”

“No. Papsie would want this, I’m sure of it. Come with me.”

They walked together down the back staircase. “When I get back from Pennsylvania,” said Miss Helen, “I’m going to insist that Mr. Danforth and I marry as soon as the mourning period is over.”

Lillian’s stomach dropped. “But what of our talk yesterday, about remaining independent?”

“My father wanted me wed. He very strongly wanted me wed, as we can see from his arrangement with you. So, wed I will be.”

Which meant Lillian would soon be caught in the middle once again. Would Mr. Danforth reconsider, now that Lillian had removed herself from the running, and choose Miss Helen after all? Her first reaction was no, he would not, but the more she considered his histrionics in the driveway—threatening to go down on one knee—the more she realized how little she knew him. His presence in the house would make her own untenable.

Bertha was exiting the art gallery as they approached.

“Are the flowers here yet, Bertha?” asked Lillian.

“No, miss. Not yet.”

“Have them brought in as soon as they arrive. We don’t have much time.”

The casket had been set up at the far end, near the enamels room, just below a melancholy Rembrandt self-portrait.

“How he would love this,” said Miss Helen. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

Lillian had to admit that this was the ideal send-off for Mr. Frick. Surrounded by the works he loved most, and his family, in the palace he created with his wealth and eye for beauty. “It is.”

“Thank you, Miss Lilly, for taking such good care of him. And of me.”

Lillian shifted uncomfortably. She’d put everything she had into the preparations for Mr. Frick’s viewing, ensuring that they were executed precisely to her specifications, mainly because she hadn’t been able to do so with Kitty. On that cold February day, the undertakers had clumsily maneuvered the stretcher carrying her mother’s body down the stairs of their apartment building, slid her into the back of a dirty truck caked with mud, slammed the doors shut, and driven off. Miss Helen’s father would receive a very different send-off; Lillian would make sure of that.

Miss Helen took the cameo out of her pocket. Inside the coffin, Mr. Frick appeared serene and pale yet still strangely present, as if he’d just closed his eyes to remember something important and would open them at any moment.

Miss Helen placed the cameo in his palm and closed his thick fingers around it. The same hand with the scar from Martha’s pain now held Martha’s pink diamond. A fitting pairing. Maybe Miss Helen had been right, and this would be a way to lay to rest the ghost of the lost daughter and her father at the same time, to let them both go.

Bertha popped back in to say that the florists had arrived, and Lillian oversaw the placement of the arrangements while Miss Helen went up to dress. Then it was down to the kitchen to check in with the cook and back up to the gallery to go through the final checklist.

As the notes of the organ floated down the hall, Lillian stood next to Miss Winnie and watched as the family gathered around the coffin in a quiet moment before the other guests arrived. Mr. Childs stood next to his wife, Dixie, at the foot of the casket. Mrs. Frick blew loudly into a handkerchief as she and Miss Helen approached and took up a position on the side.

But Miss Helen immediately jumped back, as if pushed by an invisible force.

“It’s gone!” She turned to look at Lillian. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Mrs. Frick blew her nose again.

“Martha’s cameo, with the diamond!”

Now she had the family’s attention. “What diamond?” asked Mrs. Dixie.

“What on earth did you do with it?” demanded Mrs. Frick.

“I put it in Papsie’s hand, to take with him,” said Miss Helen. “But it’s not there.” She pointed into the coffin. Miss Winnie and Lillian drew close. It was true: Mr. Frick’s lifeless fingers were outstretched, not curled around the cameo the way Miss Helen had left them. Miss Helen reached in and lifted the hand, but there was nothing underneath.

Someone had taken the cameo.



* * *





The week the family was away for the burial, the whole house felt dark and muted, as if it were draped in velvet. Lillian went about her duties, assembling the towering stack of condolence cards for Miss Helen to respond to, watching as the flowers in the art gallery faded away, selecting which ones ought to be tossed out.