Lillian checked the address. He lived in the East Fifties, an easy walk, and she wouldn’t mind getting some fresh air. She’d pull the veil of her cloche down over her eyes in case she passed an acquaintance. Or Mrs. Whitney.
“Your advice last night helped me immensely, Miss Lilly,” said Miss Helen. “At first, when I walked into the gallery and all of those people turned to stare at me, I wanted to run away, back to my room. But then I imagined them all in the altogether, and it made me smile and then they all smiled back.”
“Well done!”
“However, I didn’t do so with Mr. Danforth. First of all, it wouldn’t be proper, and second of all, I didn’t need to. By then, I was feeling ever so confident.”
Good girl, Lillian almost said, before correcting herself: “I’m sure you were, Miss Helen.”
Lillian collected her hat and handbag and headed out. It was unseasonably warm, and the October sun brightened the facades of the shops along Madison Avenue. At a florist, she stopped to admire some rust-colored chrysanthemums, and vowed to buy a bouquet for her room on the way back. She’d been saving every penny of her paycheck, and deserved a little pleasure for all of her hard work.
Mr. Danforth’s residence was in the city’s Turtle Bay neighborhood, one of a long line of brownstones. Lillian let herself through the wrought iron gate to ring the bell.
A manservant, stooped with age, answered. She explained her errand and asked if she might wait for a response to take back to her mistress. He paused a moment before ushering her into a parlor of dark wood walls and overstuffed chairs. After he left, she slowly turned around, taking in the room. It was as different from the Fricks’ mansion as could be, a throwback to the Victorian era, with almost every space filled with vases, framed photographs, and lace doilies. There was barely room to maneuver without knocking over a table topped by a bulbous glass lamp, or tripping over an embroidered footstool that had seen better days.
Mr. Danforth rushed into the room holding the note in his hand. He saw Lillian, and a look of relief washed over his face. “Hello, Miss Lilly. The private secretary, is that right?”
“It is.”
“For a moment, when my man told me we had a female visitor, I thought Miss Helen might have come to deliver her invitation in person.”
She wasn’t sure if his relief was due to not wanting Miss Helen to see the state of his residence, or not wanting to see Miss Helen. “My mistress is otherwise occupied this morning.”
“Of course, she must be a busy woman, no doubt.”
“Her social calendar is quite full,” Lillian lied.
“Well, thank you. I see she sent along an invitation to tea.”
“She asked that I wait for a reply, if that doesn’t inconvenience you.”
“I suppose not.” He gestured around the room. “I hope the surroundings don’t cause you too much distress. I can only imagine what it’s like coming from the Frick mansion to my humble abode. A study in contrasts.”
He had been worried about the decor, then, not Miss Helen’s presence.
“This is my family’s home,” he continued, “where I grew up, and where my parents lived until they passed away earlier this year, from the Spanish flu.”
He was most likely still mourning the loss, then. Unable to throw anything out. She understood the inclination to keep things as they were. After Kitty died, Lillian didn’t get rid of any of her clothes or shoes. Whenever she opened the armoire, a wave of sadness would wash over her. But then, as she glanced at the individual items, the memories would bring her a muted joy. Like that of her mother dancing around the flat in her alligator-trimmed, Louis-heeled shoes, which Lillian had bought as a surprise after a particularly lucrative session.
By now, all of their belongings had probably been left out on the street to be picked over by scavengers. The thought of her mother’s slips and stockings, dumped into the trash to clear out the apartment for the next tenant, made her want to weep.
“Miss Lilly, are you all right?” He gestured to the sofa. “Would you like to sit down? It’s warm out there, I know.”
She sat as he poured her some water from a pitcher. She took several sips, letting the cool liquid revive her, bring her back to the present.
“Thank you, this helps.” She placed the glass on a side table, next to a photograph of a handsome-looking couple. The man had the same sharp chin as Mr. Danforth. “Are these your parents?”
“Yes. Taken several years ago.” He avoided looking at the photograph as he answered her.