“I thought you might like Handel’s ‘Largo’ today.”
“I certainly did. And your ‘Ave Maria,’ simply spectacular.” The man beamed in response before glancing over at Lillian. “Excuse my manners,” said Mr. Frick. “I must introduce you to the newest member of our household: Miss Helen’s new private secretary, Miss Lilly. Miss Lilly, this is Mr. Graham, our music maker.”
Mr. Graham gave Lillian a wink, and all the blood rushed to Lillian’s head, leaving her swaying slightly. The physical response to his attention was like nothing she’d ever felt before, and explained Mr. Frick’s enchantment. With his long, tapered fingers and that untamed head of hair, Mr. Graham exuded a seductive mix of elegance and abandon. A musician with that much charm should be on the stage, she couldn’t help thinking, not tucked away in Mr. Frick’s organ niche.
“Do you have any requests, Miss Lilly?” Mr. Frick asked.
The only tunes Lillian knew were Broadway fare, which she was pretty certain would be met with utter disdain in this household. But as she scrambled for a suitable response, a flash of a memory came to her, of the sheet music sitting on Mr. Frick’s piano in his sitting room, when she and Bertha had popped their heads into his private rooms. “？‘The Rosary’ is lovely,” she said in an offhand way, hoping that she’d remembered correctly.
Mr. Frick bellowed his approval. “One of my favorites! That’s it, good man, can you play that for me next time?”
Mr. Graham lifted his eyebrows at Lillian, sending another electric shock through her, before answering, “It would be my pleasure.”
After Mr. Graham retreated, Mr. Frick called for his automobile to be brought to the entrance.
“But we haven’t discussed your birthday dinner!” said Miss Helen.
“There’s plenty of time for that.” Mr. Frick rose as a footman glided over to help pull out his chair. “I’m off to the club.”
“It’s going to rain, Papsie,” said Miss Helen. “Bring your coat. You’ve had that silly cough for weeks now.”
“I’m fine.” He walked by Mrs. Frick without an acknowledgment, ignoring the weak wave of her hand.
Miss Helen turned to Lillian. “Quick, ask the butler for his coat. Bring it to the front entry at once.”
At Lillian’s urging, the butler, Kearns, was waiting by the front door with a black wool jacket slung over his arm by the time Mr. Frick was ready to go, with Miss Helen hovering right behind him.
“I don’t need that. It’s a hundred degrees out,” said Mr. Frick.
Miss Helen took it from Kearns and held it out, speaking to her father as if he were a recalcitrant child. “Now then, you must listen to me. I can’t have you falling ill, can I?”
Mr. Frick’s earlier indulgence of his daughter at the dining room table was gone. “Enough. Keep it. I don’t want to wear it.”
Outside, the chauffeur held open the door to a sleek Pierce-Arrow motorcar. Mr. Frick stepped inside the vehicle without giving Miss Helen a second look.
Lillian retreated a few steps, not wanting to get caught up in whatever strangeness was going on between the two.
As the chauffeur took to the driver’s seat, Miss Helen suddenly dashed forward and tossed the jacket through the open window of the back seat. “At least keep it in the automobile, you might want it later.”
“For God’s sake, woman. Leave me the hell alone.”
As the car pulled out, Miss Helen looked over at Lillian with a triumphant smile on her face. “There. That’s taken care of.” But as the car turned into Seventy-First Street, Mr. Frick’s arm shot out and tossed the coat out the window, where it landed in the gutter.
Miss Helen’s cheeks puffed out in anger; she looked like she was about to explode. “Get the coat,” she demanded of Lillian, pointing. “Go get it at once.”
Lillian half walked, half ran to the street and gathered it up. It had landed in a puddle, and she held it away from her as she turned back to the house so as not to muddy her dress. A beautiful coat, tossed like it was a piece of newspaper. She thought of the laundresses downstairs who would now be tasked with cleaning it, knowing that they’d be reprimanded if the master found it dirty the next time he called for it.
By the time she got to the front entry and handed the coat over to the doleful Kearns, Miss Helen was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Late that afternoon, Miss Helen was in a desultory mood, snapping at Lillian for not paying proper attention to whatever inane protocol she was teaching her, or suddenly collapsing on her chaise longue like a fainting maiden, complete with breathy sighs. Lillian didn’t mention the incident with the coat, and Miss Helen didn’t bring it up.