She rose and followed Miss Winnie down the back hall, her swaying hips bringing to mind the Clydesdale horses that transported barrel-stacked carts around the city.
According to Miss Helen’s breathless report yesterday, the tea with Mr. Danforth had been a success—she’d remembered to ask two questions for every one he asked of her—and they had plans to walk in Central Park with Mrs. Frick later that day. Miss Helen had been brimming with happiness as she recounted the visit, and Lillian figured it wouldn’t be long before they’d announce the engagement, and she’d collect her money and head to California.
In the breakfast room, a buttery sun streamed through the windows. Above the sideboard hung a Millet painting of a peasant woman sewing by lamplight. The simplicity of her dress and the gloominess of the setting were an odd fit for this room, which boasted a fireplace of two different types of Italian marble, silk patterned wall hangings, and an elaborate folding screen in one corner.
Mrs. Frick noticed Lillian’s stare. “Mr. Frick insisted the Millet be placed in the breakfast room, as a daily reminder that he came from nothing. Please, sit down.”
Lillian and Miss Winnie took their places at the table. Mrs. Frick had stayed mainly out of sight these past weeks, only appearing when she was absolutely required to. Now that Lillian had gotten to know how the house was run, part of her couldn’t help but resent the woman’s lack of participation. Everything fell on Miss Helen’s shoulders—and thereby Lillian’s—when it really should have been Mrs. Frick’s responsibility.
“Mr. Frick has certainly accomplished a lot.” Lillian unfolded her napkin. “I didn’t know that he came from nothing.”
“He only went to school in the winter months, yet owned his first company by the age of twenty-two. I think that’s why sometimes he gets frustrated with the children, with their silly squabbles.” A maid poured coffee into cups and saucers patterned with magnolias. “My daughter says you have an eye for art.”
“Not really. Her expertise is far beyond mine.”
“Well, I must say that you appear to be working magic with her, in more ways than one. We hear the tea with Mr. Danforth went well, yesterday.” Mrs. Frick looked over at Miss Winnie, who nodded sagely.
“I believe so.” Lillian suppressed the temptation to knock wood.
“My husband will be pleased to hear it.”
Lillian took a sip of the coffee; it was indeed much better than the kind they served downstairs. Or maybe the fine china only made it seem so.
“I’m curious, Miss Lilly, what you think of Mr. Danforth,” Mrs. Frick asked once the maid had left.
“He appears to be a quite suitable suitor,” said Lillian.
Miss Winnie chuckled but stopped when Mrs. Frick didn’t crack a smile.
“A suitable suitor,” echoed Mrs. Frick. “You’re making a joke. Do you not find him a suitable suitor?”
“Not at all,” said Lillian quickly, backtracking. Mrs. Frick was difficult to read. “I believe they might make a good match. Of course I haven’t been employed here long, but Miss Helen seems to be as excited about Mr. Danforth as she is about the library.”
“The library.” Mrs. Frick put down her cup and grimaced. “Mr. Frick and I both say better to leave such an undertaking to the scholars and universities, not our silly Helen. Especially once she’s married. We can’t have that.”
Lillian hoped she could make her see otherwise. “These days, things are different. Women are encouraged to have outside passions, just as men are. After all, we have the right to vote. Why stop there?”
“A woman’s passion should be her husband and children.”
Funny for her to say that, considering that Mrs. Frick rarely left her rooms and didn’t show much of a passion for anything, leaving it to her daughter to act as her husband’s companion.
Mrs. Frick sat back in her chair, hands in her lap. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m not a good example of what I preach. But I’m ill, you see.”
As far as Lillian could tell, Mrs. Frick’s color was a healthy pink, her build sturdy and strong.
“When the children were very young, I was different.” She looked at Miss Winnie. “You remember? How light and gay I was.”
“Such a gay young thing,” Miss Winnie repeated.
“When Helen was a child, she took on the impossible burden of trying to make me and her father happy after a grueling time. She succeeded with one of us.” The words trembled on her tongue.