“The family’s sleeping quarters are on this floor, along with Miss Helen’s sitting room, which is the third door on the left,” Miss Winnie boomed. “That’s where you’ll be working.” They didn’t go down the hallway, but continued up the stairs to the third floor. “The female servants are up here, the men are down in the basement. You’ll see a bathroom on the left. You’re in here.”
She opened a door and stood back, a small smile on her face, letting Lillian enter first.
The room was larger than the bedroom in Lillian’s apartment, and furnished simply, with a brown-painted iron bed with a bedside table, a small chiffonier topped by a mirror, and a hooked rug on the floor. A chair with a rush seat sat in one corner. The sensible objects were even more so, after the extraordinary display on the two floors below.
But the view! A small square window looked out across Fifth Avenue, across Central Park, all the way over to the west side of the city. She recognized the ochre husk of the Dakota over on Seventy-Second Street, rising over the sea of green treetops. She imagined herself leaning on the windowsill and staring out as the clouds skidded by, like a princess at the top of a castle.
The job came with room and board. She beamed with delight, unable to suppress her joy. She’d make money here, and not have to return to her apartment. Before long, she’d have enough money to afford a ticket to California, as well as spending money to get her back on her feet, and her troubles would be behind her.
Miss Winnie was studying her, a strange look on her face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine. This is lovely.”
“Well, you can settle in. I’m glad Miss Helen finally found a girl, as this has been quite a trial for Mrs. Frick and me. She’s not easy, I’ll warn you.”
“You’re Mrs. Frick’s private secretary, is that right?”
“I am.”
“Do you mind telling me what your duties are?”
“The usual duties.”
“Of course.” She had to find out more, even if Miss Helen had warned that Miss Winnie wasn’t exactly up to the task. “I’m afraid my former employer didn’t enjoy the same level of prosperity as the Fricks. I don’t want to make any silly mistakes.”
Years of modeling had made it possible for Lillian to hover outside herself in a way that regular people didn’t. She knew exactly what position of the shoulders indicated strength, what indicated maternal softness. If she raised her chin a smidgen, a royal haughtiness would manifest; if she lowered it, a romantic invitation. No doubt part of the success in the interview with Miss Helen was due to her ability to remain still and straight, to not let a single, fleeting sign of insecurity or anxiety cross her face. Lillian looked down, exactly as she’d done for the Titanic memorial, letting a touch of sorrow and unease pass over her features.
Miss Winnie drew close and touched her arm reassuringly. “For Mrs. Frick, my job is fairly simple. She prefers to remain in her sitting room most of the day, and rarely receives visitors.”
Lillian wondered why not, what was wrong.
Miss Winnie continued. “Miss Helen is in charge of the household, although I’ll be honest, her heart’s not in it. She worked with the Red Cross in the Great War, and the adjustment back to civilian life has been hard. So it’s up to you to run the household, which will be similar to what you did before, I’m sure, but on a larger scale.”
“Run the whole household?” said Lillian, bewildered. All that had been her mother’s job, figuring out the weekly budget, rousing Lillian out of bed so they showed up to her appointments on time.
“You’ll order whatever supplies are needed: tea, Virginia hams, the special soaps that the Frick ladies prefer, that sort of thing. The information will be on the prior invoices, of course. You’ll keep the employment records, coordinate payroll. Oh, and they have two other houses, one in Pittsburgh, one on the coast of Massachusetts, and you’ll be in charge of maintaining those as well.”
By now, Lillian’s head was swimming. There was no way she could manage all this.
“Miss Helen, as I mentioned, can be difficult. When she pitches a tantrum, it’s best to wait it out, she comes around eventually. She’s known to throw things, so I hope you have quick reflexes. She clocked a parlor maid in the head with a diary last week. Apologized after, of course. She never means it.”
Lillian put her duffel down on the bed, her earlier enthusiasm fading away. She’d have to enjoy these amenities while she could, as she had no doubt she’d be back out on the street in a few days, once Miss Helen realized she was a fraud.
“May I make another suggestion?” asked Miss Winnie. Her tone was soft and good-hearted, as if she knew Lillian was panicking inside.
“Of course.”
“No face paint. And your hair, it’s better pulled back, out of the way. They don’t like the newfangled styles. Unpack your things, and then come downstairs for the staff meal.”
As soon as Miss Winnie left, Lillian stood in front of one of the sinks in the communal bathroom and scrubbed her face clean. Without the vestiges of blush on her cheeks and the remaining traces of kohl around her eyes, she looked younger, more fragile. She pulled her hair back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Hopefully what had made her successful as a model—the fact that she could take on multiple personas—would work here and keep her from being recognized. It helped that no one in this grand house, from the kitchen maid to Mr. Frick himself, would imagine that Angelica could be living and moving among them. Angelica, with her flowing cascade of dark hair, painted lips, and defined eyebrows, no longer existed, other than in the plazas and fountains of the city. She was Miss Lilly now, the demure private secretary to Miss Helen. She’d make this work, somehow. She had to.
After she’d hung her clothes in the small armoire, she tucked the duffel with the letters in it beneath her bed. Starving, she took the back stairs down all the way to the basement, and followed the sound of silverware and the aroma of stew to the kitchen, although with all the twists and turns of the hallways on that lower level, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find her way back.
The staff were well into their midday meal when she appeared at the door of the dining hall, and Miss Winnie waved at her to take a seat at the long mission oak table in the center of the room. The butler, an Englishman called Kearns, introduced himself, and then quickly ran through the twenty-some employees so fast that she could barely catch their positions, never mind their names. In addition to a butler, there was an under-butler, three footmen, a valet, and a flock of parlor maids, chambermaids, and laundresses. The Fricks also employed an engineer, two watchmen, and a car steward. In the kitchen alone, she counted the chef and three cooks, including one whose sole focus was preparing vegetables. Of course a grand household like this would require an army of people to run it, but she’d have to know who they were and what they did if she was going to do payroll. Whatever that entailed. The whole idea terrified her.
If only they’d been in the process of hiring a vegetable cook. That she could handle, peeling carrots and chopping onions. She’d work in the basement all day, hidden away from the general public and any acquaintances she might accidentally run into, and then retreat to her bedroom upstairs under the eaves at night.