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.
Still, as Helen Frick’s private secretary, she would make far more money than a vegetable cook might. She had to keep her eye on her long-term plan of getting out of the city, and this would be a useful platform from which to do it. With the salary, she could afford to buy a couple more dresses to replace the ones she’d left behind at the apartment. She’d make herself presentable and then abscond as soon as she could for Hollywood. Only once she was in the hands of Mr. Broderick and had dazzled him with her abilities would she’d be truly safe. But for now, she’d have to figure out how to fit into this strange household.
A blast of sound made her drop her spoon into her stew, splattering gravy over the lace inset of her dress. The kitchen maid sitting next to her laughed and offered up her napkin. “That’s our dreamy Mr. Graham on the organ. He plays every day for Mr. Frick. After a while you won’t even notice the music anymore.”
What rolled through the room was not music, to Lillian. It was a wall of sound, as heavy as a giant tsunami, emanating from that massive organ in the front hall. How could anyone bear it? The music stopped all conversation, and one by one the employees rose and went back to their duties.
Miss Winnie had told her that Miss Helen would not expect her in her sitting room until the next morning, and to take the day to settle in. Lillian hid in the safety of her bedroom, staring out the window of the room, wondering what her mother would think of her now. She was respectable, a working girl. Would Kitty be disappointed that she was no longer the shining Angelica? Or would she be thrilled that Lillian was putting all of Kitty’s lessons in the method and madness of the upper classes to use, especially if it ultimately led to a shot at a film career?
It was a means to an end.
She skipped the staff supper, her appetite diminished by her nerves, but around midnight her stomach rumbled and she decided to see if she could find a piece of bread and cheese to tide her over until morning. The house was quiet and dark, but in the basement a dim light from the kitchen shone like a beacon. The night watchman sat at the staff table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He stood and greeted her, saying that he was finishing up his break.
She pulled her wrap tightly around her. She hadn’t expected anyone to be up at this hour. But of course, with the treasures inside the house, a night watchman was required. After he was gone, she picked up the newspaper he’d left behind.
The murder wasn’t mentioned on the first page. Nor the second. Not until page eleven, along with the Broadway play listings, did she spot a headline: Seeking Watkins Witness. The article only contained two paragraphs, but it still sent chills through her. The artist model known as Angelica is being sought by the District Attorney to give information regarding the murder of Mrs. Eileen Watkins by her husband, Mr. Walter Watkins. Angelica lived at the New York home of Mr. and Mrs. Watkins on West Sixty-Fifth Street, according to investigators.
The way they worded it, it sounded as if she lived with them. She was a tenant in the building, for goodness’ sake. Still, page eleven was better than the front page, and the fact that there was no photograph or illustration was even better. The nonsense was dying down, would die down.