“I’m Helen Clay Frick. You may call me Miss Helen.” She placed the dog on the floor. “This is Fudgie. Do you like these paintings?”
The question threw Lillian off-balance. She answered truthfully. “Very much.”
“The Progress of Love, by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. The poor man created them as a commission to the twenty-eight-year-old mistress to Louis XV, to be placed in her pleasure pavilion near Versailles. Mother hates it when I use that term—pleasure pavilion.” She paused, as if imagining the discomfort it caused with relish. “In the end, the mistress rejected them, and eventually they made their way to J. P. Morgan, from whose estate my father purchased them.”
The purchase had made the news. Lillian remembered her mother clucking over the sum: over a million dollars.
Miss Helen continued on with her lecture. “They are arranged in order: The man goes after the woman, they meet in secret, they marry, and then happily read through the letters of their courtship. It’s the progress from early passion to long-term friendship.” Her tone was dry, flat, as if she’d given this speech many times before. She probably had, as every visitor to this room must wonder about the artwork. It demanded attention. “The key in studying them is to notice the sculptures that are drawn in the background of each one.”
Sculptures. Lillian rose and walked from one to the other, no longer distracted by the frippery of the main figures. One depicted a nude female looming on a pedestal in the very center of the composition, shown in the act of turning her back to Cupid.
“Venus,” Lillian said under her breath.
“Yes. The goddess of love. You’ll see that she’s keeping the arrows away from Cupid, the god of love. Cupid is impatient, while Venus is holding things back. Why do you want this job?”
The sudden change in topic threw Lillian. She didn’t know what the job was, but she wanted to stay in this room as long as she possibly could, surrounded by wealth and beautiful objects. “Because I think it suits my nature.”
“And what is your nature, Miss—?” She sniffed. “I forgot my notes upstairs in my study. Remind me of your name again?”
“Lillian Carter.”
She regretted saying her real name as soon as it escaped her lips. At least, in her stunned state, she hadn’t answered Angelica.
“I don’t like Lillian. I’ll call you Miss Lilly. And I’ll tell you right off that you’re the eighth applicant I’ve interviewed this week and we have three more to go. I don’t say this to discourage you, but to let you know that you have stiff competition for the position of private secretary.”
A private secretary. Lillian had no idea what one did, or how. She rose to go. “Thank you for seeing me, then. I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait. You’re leaving?” Miss Helen’s mouth fell open.
“I think I ought to.”
“But you haven’t asked anything about it.” She seemed disappointed.
Lillian imagined the other applicants had rushed to impress, not to leave. “I know when my services are not wanted.”
“The pay is one hundred and forty dollars a month.”
Lillian tried not to react, knowing that Miss Helen was expecting that. One hundred and forty dollars. Thirty-five bucks a week. She’d never made that much as a model. One month’s pay would easily cover a train ticket to California, with enough left over for her to get settled.
“Do you type?” asked Miss Helen.
“No.”
“Good. I prefer handwritten notes. Is your penmanship readable?”
“Barely.”
“Even better. I like to make things difficult for other people. You should know that right off: I’m known to be difficult.”
“I see.”
There was something raw about Miss Helen that Lillian found strangely refreshing. Few women she’d met spoke with such candor.
Miss Helen rattled on. “Miss Winnie is my mother’s private secretary, but she won’t be of much help to you, keep that in mind. She’s a sweetheart, but she can’t hear a thing unless you’re standing right in front of her. She’s more of a companion, basically sits there while my mother drones on, but she’s been part of the household for years—came on as a nursemaid—and Mother adores her. I do everything in this household, I might as well be called the mistress of the place.”
“That must be very difficult.”
“You have no idea. We’ve been in this house for five years, and it feels like five decades. I don’t like New York City much at all. I proudly consider myself something of a social outcast.” She sniffed. “But my father is the exact opposite. Today, for example, Papsie is giving a luncheon for his business colleagues, and it was up to me to figure out the menu, send out the invitations. I’m exhausted. And utterly bored.”
Probably not as exhausted as the staff in the basement, cooking and arranging centerpieces and setting the tables for the luncheon, but Lillian held her tongue. “Perhaps a private secretary might be able to lift some of the responsibility from your shoulders.”
Miss Helen studied her closely. Lillian did her best to keep her expression neutral, not to flinch under the scrutiny. Miss Helen shook her head. “You’re too pretty. I don’t want you running off with the footman after two weeks.”
The woman was like a changeable two-year-old. Lillian wouldn’t last a day working for her. “Well, thank you, then. I’ll be off.” But as she turned to go, a bust in the corner caught her eye. She drew close; it was as if a magnet was pulling her.
For the second time that day, she was staring at her own likeness. The sculptor Daniel Farthington had carved it a few years ago. He’d opened the large windows of his studio and told her to let down her hair so that it flew around her face as she posed, making her nose itch and leaving her irritable. She’d never seen the final product. Here it was. Curls danced around her head in frothy waves; her head was turned slightly to one side, lips curved in a smile. The wildness of the hair hid her features, so Lillian wasn’t worried about being identified. Besides, she’d caught sight of herself in a mirror in the hallway, and she looked worn and wan after a night of sleeping in the park. Nothing at all like this sparkling nymph.
“Do you like that one?” asked Miss Helen. “It’s—”
Lillian interrupted. “By Daniel Farthington. Done a few years ago, an homage to Houdon’s Comtesse du Cayla. This is about flight and wind, movement and light. It’s perfect for this room.”
Miss Helen walked over and stood beside her. “You’re right. I’m impressed.”
Miss Winnie entered. “The next candidate is here, Miss Helen.”
“Send her away. Send the rest of them away when they come.”
She scrutinized Lillian until Lillian looked away. “This one will do.”
“The Fricks are generous, kind employers, if you behave decently.”
Lillian followed Miss Winnie’s retreating backside along a hallway that ran the length of the building with a view to the driveway to the right. They passed through a living hall where a green velvet couch sat opposite a grand fireplace. The next open door offered a peek into what looked like a library, with low bookshelves running around the perimeter and grandly framed paintings above.
The rush of what had happened blew through her like a cold wind. What had she done? She’d gotten a job doing something that she had absolutely no experience for, for a woman who seemed this side of barmy.
If you behave decently, Miss Winnie had warned. Somehow, Lillian didn’t think being associated with a murder investigation would be considered decent, and then there was the matter of her past employment. While the Fricks obviously took great pride in their statues of nubile young women, having a living, breathing one on the household payroll might raise some eyebrows. They entered a small anteroom and went up a back staircase. On the second floor, another long hallway ran north to south. The floor plan of the Frick mansion was rather simple, an off-kilter I shape, as if Mr. Frick preferred to showcase his artwork instead of how many square feet he could squeeze in between the property lines.