Lillian knew Kitty had done so to avoid any detection by her family back in Newport of their rather unorthodox venture, and the moniker stuck. She didn’t need a last name. More and more sculptors reached out requesting Angelica, and soon the only person who still called her Lilly or Lillian was Kitty, and only at home.
Instead, she became the belle of the Beaux Arts ball, the architectural and design movement sweeping the City of New York.
She became Angelica.
“No sleeping here. Move along.”
Lillian startled into an upright position, rubbing her ankle where the policeman looming over her had given her a light thwack. The bright sun in her eyes was disorienting. Why was she outside and not in her bed? Where was her mother?
The harsh reality seeped back, like a thick mudslide. Yesterday, after fleeing her apartment down the fire escape, she’d made her way to Central Park, wandering through the Ramble, where few park-goers ventured and thick foliage provided some measure of protection. She needed to figure out what was next, but as the sun set and her stomach grumbled, she’d eventually settled on a park bench and fallen fast asleep.
“Sorry, Officer.” She avoided looking at him directly, not wanting to be recognized, and scurried up the hill and behind a forsythia, where she checked her bag, the contents of which were intact.
She reopened the most recent letter from the producer, the one she’d shown the policeman, holding it firmly so the breeze wouldn’t flutter it out of her hands. Mr. Broderick would be delighted to meet her. She just had to figure out how to get to him.
In the city, Lillian and Kitty had gone to the movies every weekend they could, just as they had regularly attended the theater in Providence. Silent films enchanted Lillian. In the hushed darkness, she became immersed in the story, choking up as the camera swooped in for a close-up of a heartbroken young maiden, or laughing out loud at a pratfall. Along with Mabel Normand, she adored the acting of Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish, and figured if they could make it in Hollywood, so could she. It was only a matter of time.
An ailing Kitty had excitedly shared an article in the newspaper about a film producer named Mr. Broderick who was searching for an actress with the “beauty and malleable expression of Angelica, the greatest model of our day” to cast in his next film. Lillian had immediately mailed off a letter saying she was Angelica and enclosing a photo. Months later, after Kitty had died, Lillian had received a warm response from Mr. Broderick, saying that while many women had written to him claiming to be Angelica, he could certainly see a resemblance. Lillian wrote back that very day, swearing that she was, and including a detailed list of some of the statues and artists she’d posed for as proof. His next letter, the one she’d shown the policeman, had included the invitation to see him.
The sooner she could get in front of Mr. Broderick, the better, as being associated with a big Hollywood studio might provide some protection from her current troubles. Even now, it didn’t feel real that Mr. Watkins had killed his wife, that Lillian was any part of this sordid mess.
But that hand, Mrs. Watkins’s hand. It had reminded Lillian of the work of a sculptor, lifelike yet entirely devoid of life. The artists always said that hands and feet were the most difficult parts of the human anatomy to reproduce, no matter with ink or paint, clay or marble. She glanced down at her own hand. There was dirt under the nails, and her fingertips were grubby.
She went into the public bathroom and washed up as best she could, tossing some cold water on her face and giving her hands a good scrub. A woman at the sink next to her—an obvious denizen of the park—gave her a toothless smile. Lillian didn’t respond, leaving as quickly as she could, heading east.
If only she had a friend to confide in. Kitty’s strictness had ruined any chances of becoming friends with her fellow chorus girls, and once she began modeling, she had few opportunities to meet other girls her age.
Still, it would have been lovely to have someone to run to right now, the safety of a confidante. Mr. Watkins had taken advantage after her mother was no longer present, saying kind things and rubbing her neck as Lillian cried. She put her hand on her neck now, remembering that day. Maybe she had arched slightly against the pressure. But not because she liked him in that way. Because at first she thought it was a paternal gesture, the way a father might reassure a child. She’d never known that kind of touch, so had no capacity to judge it.
Lillian stopped at the edge of the park and stared down the expanse of Fifth Avenue. Over the past twenty years, the wealthy families had relocated their homes from the more commercial lower Fifth Avenue to the tree-lined stretch across from Central Park. Mrs. Astor had been the first, in the 1890s, trading her Thirty-Fourth Street residence with its famous ballroom that fit four hundred guests for a French Renaissance–inspired château in the East Sixties. One after the other, New York’s elite—the Carnegies, the Goulds, the Clarks, the Vanderbilts—had all followed. The craze had even coined a new word, Vanderbuilding, where each family vied to outshine the others with their fantastical mansions. Lillian had followed the stories in the newspapers, caught up in the gossip of a world she had no part in, but couldn’t help being mesmerized by.
“Angelica!”
Her heart dropped at the sound of her name. Lillian turned around to see a newsboy hawking copies of The World.
“The star witness in the West Side murder has disappeared! Angelica, the most beautiful woman in the world! Read about it here.”
Star witness? Lillian looked around. Luckily, the sidewalks were fairly empty this time of day. She approached, keeping her chin down, her hat pulled low. “Can I see the front page?”
“No, miss. You gotta buy it. Two cents.”
She found the coins in her purse, then snatched the paper and walked away quickly, back to the safety of the park, where she sat on a bench and read through the article. It hinted at a nefarious relationship between Mr. Watkins and one of his tenants, the bohemian artists’ model known as Angelica, who the police wanted for questioning regarding the death of Mrs. Watkins. Even worse, it included an illustration of a work she’d posed for a few years ago, where most of her body was on full display. It didn’t matter that the statue had won esteemed prizes for its artistry. In newsprint, it came across as utterly indecent.
Just as the policeman had predicted, she’d become infamous. She was ruined. A bohemian, the paper said. The innuendo—that she was a loose woman, immoral—was more than implied. She’d already been tried in the press and found guilty.
But she had one thing in her favor. Angelica wasn’t her legal name, and her last name, Carter, was fairly common. Thank goodness Kitty had insisted on keeping “Lillian” under wraps.
She had to get to the film producer in Los Angeles, and as far away from New York as possible. In California, she could start a new life, a new career. Once the studio was behind her, she’d have some power to fight these silly charges. She just had to cobble enough money together to buy a train ticket out of Grand Central.
A few years ago, she’d done some work in a studio nearby, a former carriage house on East Seventieth Street, off of Madison. The sculptor had tipped her generously. She’d go by and ask him for a loan, explain that her grandmother was sick and she needed to get to her immediately. That she’d pay him back right off.
She located the carriage house easily, but was dismayed to see that the name on the doorbell wasn’t the same as the sculptor’s. He must have relocated. Still, she hit the button and waited. No one answered.
The day was warming up, and she wished more than anything she could have a glass of water, something to drink. There was a water fountain in the park, back where she’d come from, but just before she reached Fifth Avenue, a figure carved above the entrance to a three-story mansion stopped her in her tracks. It was a reclining nude, leaning on one elbow, chin and gaze pointed down, as if assessing the respectability of anyone who dared pass beneath. Lillian had had to don a ridiculous headdress with two long braids as she’d posed for the artist, Sherry Fry. The figure’s stomach rippled with muscles that did not exist in real life, and the shoulders and arms were meaty. Kitty hadn’t liked the final outcome at all. “If he’d wanted a man, he should have had one pose for him,” she’d declared, before allowing that the breasts were quite well done.