At first, organizing a dinner party for thirty-two guests felt similar to what a general might go through in planning an attack during wartime. The final menu, which the chef concocted and then defended madly against any of Miss Helen’s suggested changes, began with melons, followed by potage petite marmite, filet of sole, jambon de Virginie, and asparagus with hollandaise butter. He allowed the caramel cake for dessert only because Lillian spent a good hour smoothing over his ruffled feathers after Miss Helen bluntly rejected an upside-down pineapple cake, calling it “gauche and tropical.”
The invitation list was drawn up and sent around for approval from all three Fricks, and then changed three times over. Same for the seating arrangement, where almost every guest was moved about repeatedly on the large chart that Lillian had drawn up, other than two chairs, the ones belonging to Miss Helen Frick and Mr. Richard Danforth.
But now, watching Miss Helen fall apart in her bedroom before the event had even begun, after all of Lillian’s toil, vexed her to no end. Lillian needed the match to work. She’d already begun imagining a luxurious California lifestyle appropriate for a movie star, financed by Mr. Frick’s generous offer. Her reveries involved renting a bungalow with a swimming pool where she’d lounge after long days on set, acting alongside Douglas Fairbanks or Lillian Gish. While many girls might dream of such a thing, it was very much within Lillian’s grasp. Once she put her mind to something—acting on Broadway, or becoming Angelica—she’d always attained it. So far.
Downstairs, the guests were already assembling from the sounds of chatter rising up to the second floor from the main gallery. Cocktails and a viewing of the art began the festivities, before continuing down the hall to the dining room, where four tables of eight burst with roses and lilies set in heavy crystal vases. According to the schedule, which Lillian had tucked into the clipboard she’d carried with her all day—to the point that it had become almost another appendage—after dinner the men would retreat to the library and the women to the Fragonard Room, both of which had been dusted and swept, then inspected by Lillian before the tasks were checked off her master list.
There was something quite satisfying about checking something off a list, about creating a plan that was broken down into its parts. Once she’d stopped feeling like it was beneath her, Lillian had embraced this part of her job wholeheartedly, and not only because of the potential payout. It made her feel competent, and she found she rather liked being in charge. The same skills she’d used as a model—patience, the ability to bide her time and then strike with a suggestion when her employer wouldn’t get defensive—had, until now, transferred quite beautifully to the role of private secretary.
“Hell’s bells and buckets of blood,” cried Miss Helen. “I look like a dowdy matron. What’s to be done?”
The histrionics were getting out of hand. Lillian dismissed Bertha and closed the door to the hallway. “If you like, I can help. Do you want my help?”
“I should be downstairs already, but I’m not even dressed.”
“Let’s try the lilac.”
She and Miss Helen stared at the reflection in the looking glass once Lillian had done up all the tiny pearl buttons at the back. The color softened Miss Helen’s edges and, with its dropped waist, could almost be considered fashionable, offsetting the lacy collar that worked better on a young girl than a woman. Miss Helen nervously tugged at the sleeves, on the verge of tears.
What to say? The answer came in a flash. “Last time you wore this, your father remarked quite favorably on it,” said Lillian.
That was enough to calm Miss Helen’s fussiness. “He did, didn’t he?” She did a half turn, admiring herself in the mirror, finally.
“Now how about I fix your hair? Perhaps we can try something new?”
“No. Papsie likes it like this.”
At least the woman was dressed. Lillian knew better than to push her luck. “Well then, shall we go down?”
Miss Helen’s chin wobbled. “I don’t want to. I don’t want this.” She walked over and sat with a thud at her dressing table, biting her lip.
“It’s a dinner party, you’ve been to many before, I bet.”
“But not like this, where everyone will be looking at me and looking at him and wondering why on earth a man like Richard Danforth would waste his time.”
“Because you are a catch, Miss Helen. You are smart as a whip and a good daughter, and let’s not forget that you were on the front lines in France during the war. Talk about courageous.”