“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.
“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.