She expected him to bellow at her. Instead, he stared at her kindly, gently even, his blue eyes a little watery. “My Helen is a taskmaster, like her father. But there is much more to her than that.”
Lillian stayed quiet.
“Did you know my daughter was at the front lines in France during the war?”
A vague memory of Miss Winnie mentioning Miss Helen and the Great War during Lillian’s first evening at the Frick house floated back. To be honest, the idea of Miss Helen with her poufy hair meandering around war-torn France seemed ridiculous, an impossibility.
“She went as part of the Red Cross for seven months, helping women and children refugees,” said Mr. Frick. “After returning home, she created a thrift shop, with proceeds going to the veterans, raising over fifty thousand dollars. I don’t tell her enough, but she’s a remarkable girl.” He coughed a couple of times. “What she saw in Europe affected her, and I often wonder if it was a wise decision. She’s delicate, prone to fainting. In Grand Central, she can only walk around the perimeter of the concourse now. Otherwise, she suffers a spell.”
That explained why Miss Helen rarely went out on calls or appointments, even though she was often invited. “I had no idea.”
“Before the war, she was an unusual child, but she had friends and interests, would go on sleigh rides with girls from school, took dance lessons, that sort of thing. The first month after she came back from Europe, she would wake up at three a.m., screaming, night after night. I would set my alarm for two thirty and wait in a chair by her bed so I could calm her and get her back to sleep. Then I’d creep back to my bedchamber.” He sighed. “I’m a much better businessman than I am a father. Neither of my children like me, not really.”
His abject honesty touched her, but she had to disagree, at least on one count. “Miss Helen is quite devoted to you.”
“My employees are devoted to me as well. It doesn’t mean they like me.”
They stood for a moment, without speaking.
“Do you mind if I illuminate you with the correct story behind the art?” Mr. Frick’s low baritone made it clear that declining was not an option. “You see, I find the history of the paintings as valuable as the paintings themselves. And the paintings, as you know, are quite valuable.”
“Of course, Mr. Frick.”
“You had it backwards. The woman in green is Virtue, and is guiding Hercules away from Vice, whose dress is partly undone. Her fingertips end in sharp talons, which have ripped his stockings, drawing blood. The work depicts the lure of pleasure versus the difficult ascent to true happiness.”
“Oh. That’s quite good.” She hadn’t even noticed the blood on the man’s calf in the small reproduction she’d had to study in the bowling alley. Nor Vice’s talons, which on the actual painting looked quite savage.
“I do not find your interpretation amusing.”
Would she get what they owed her—two weeks’ pay—if she was fired right now? There was no one to complain to if they refused. No one to stand up for her.
He paused. “Well, slightly amusing. You have quite an imagination. Particularly the bit about the wedding cake.”
She jumped at the opening. “We’d worked so hard all day and then she wanted me to finish the book because she decided to create an entire library instead.”
“Right, the library idea. She said you gave it to her.”
Lillian was stunned that Miss Helen had sought to give her any credit at all. That wasn’t in her nature. “She enjoyed doing the research for your book so much, you see. It made her happy.”
Mr. Frick frowned. “I don’t want her creating a library, it’s too much for her. We must keep her safe. I forgive you for the made-up entry in my book. I understand that it was not what you were hired to do, it was out of your bailiwick. My Helen is not your typical woman, and I want to see her happy.”
“I think creating the library would make her very happy.”
“It would tax her considerably. Like my wife, you see, who has a delicate disposition. What would make us both happy is to see our daughter married, like her brother.”
This was an unexpected turn of conversation. “May I ask how old she is?” Lillian hadn’t dared to ask the question of Helen.
“Thirty-one.”
Most girls were married off by twenty, at the latest. Lillian’s face must have shown her surprise.
“My daughter hasn’t had many offers, it’s true, but it didn’t help that we uprooted her and moved to New York. She’s never been happy here. Perhaps a husband will help settle her, find a new social circle. I won’t mention your lapse, your invention, to my daughter if I get something from you in return.”