“What’s that, sir?”
“I need your assistance. My daughter has edges that require softening. I’ve spoiled her and relied on her too much over the years, and she does not have any innate ability to attract a mate. We will be introducing her to someone shortly, and I’d like you to guide her through the process.”
How odd, that Miss Helen ruled her territory within the house with an iron hand, but yielded to a delicate disposition out in the larger world. Lillian didn’t pity her, not exactly, but this conversation had made her understand Miss Helen slightly better. “I’ll do what I can, but your daughter is determined, in many cases, to go her own route.”
“I’m a businessman, and I think like a businessman, so I’d like to make you an offer, an incentive, if you will.”
An incentive. Now this was getting interesting. “What’s that?”
“If my daughter is engaged by Christmas, I’ll give you a bonus of, say, a thousand dollars.”
One thousand dollars. An enormous sum, on top of her salary. But getting Miss Helen engaged to be hitched would take time.
Lying low in the Frick mansion had worked this far, so maybe it would be worth the risk to stay on. Worth the extra money, for sure. She’d be able to afford a first-class train ticket, and as many new clothes as she pleased. That way, she’d show up at the producer’s offices looking like a starlet in the making, not a boring private secretary.
As a model, Lillian had learned to be patient, and she’d have to tap into that skill in the coming weeks if she was going to pull this off. It was important that she carefully bide her time and wait for the right circumstances to align to make her escape, not pull the plug either too soon or too late.
“I promise I’ll do my best. Thank you, Mr. Frick.”
She would get Miss Helen engaged, collect the money, and be on her way.
* * *
“Oh, no, I can’t possibly wear that!”
Miss Helen grabbed the dress Bertha was holding in front of her like a shield and tossed it onto the floor. From the mass of frocks on the floor, they’d been at it for some time.
“Miss Helen.” Lillian assumed her disappointed schoolteacher countenance as she stepped around the sea of silks and lace. The tone sometimes snapped her employer out of an impending tantrum. “Why won’t that one do? It’s beautiful.”
“It’s the wrong color. I can’t wear mauve or pink.” She grabbed a thick chunk of her hair. “I’m a strawberry blonde, this will make me look like a giant tomato.”
Miss Helen often wore mauve and pink, but Lillian didn’t bother pointing that out. “What about the lilac one? It shows off your figure.”
Normally, Miss Helen wouldn’t think twice about her clothes. It was one of the aspects of her character that Lillian secretly admired, the fact that she put all of her energy outward, and couldn’t be bothered to cover up her freckles, which most women would do, or that her hairstyle made her look like a frump. How many hours had Lillian spent bathing in milk or smoothing olive oil on her skin? Sure, it was part of the job of being an artists’ model, but the obsession with whether or not she was showing herself off to her best advantage always weighed heavily. Miss Helen didn’t bother with all that. Sure, it meant she was a spinster at the age of thirty-one, but with Lillian and her father’s help, that could change, and fast.
The past week, Lillian had thrown herself into the preparations for tonight’s dinner party, a supposedly “impromptu” gathering of the Fricks’ friends and business acquaintances, but in truth an excuse for Miss Helen to be thrown together with the beau her father had chosen for her, a man named Richard Danforth. To be honest, the work had helped take Lillian’s mind off the Watkins murder. News of the case had been on an uptick lately, as Mr. Watkins’s lawyer had begun granting interviews to reporters in an effort to sway public opinion before the trial. “Angelica” came up repeatedly in the press, and Lillian gave another silent prayer of thanks for Miss Helen’s reclusiveness. She rarely had to leave the house. In fact, Miss Helen preferred to have her by her side most of the working day, as she corresponded with the art librarian in England for her project. This morning, for the first time in ages, Lillian had not woken up wondering what would become of her, whether or not the police would knock on the door that day and summon her off to jail. Instead, she found herself thinking of the roses she’d picked up for the centerpieces that were expected to arrive that morning, and making a mental note to check with the chef downstairs about the presentation of the caramel cake for dessert.