In any event, having Miss Winnie pulled away gave Lillian a chance to escape. She needed to get out, now. But as she was exiting, yet another woman lurched in. She was shorter than Lillian, perhaps a few years older, and had a spaniel with doleful eyes tucked under one arm. Her dress was plain but well-made, her frizzy ginger hair messily arranged in a puffy pompadour several years out of style. She stuck out a hand and shook Lillian’s like a lumberjack might. Her complexion was dotted with freckles that grew darker right under her eyes, like copper tears.
“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.”