“Now, now, Mrs. Frick,” Miss Winnie said. “Let’s not dwell on the past.”
But Lillian wanted to know more. Something awful had rocked this family to its core, and her curiosity was piqued. She’d asked Bertha the other night about the long-dead sister, but Bertha had only offered up what Lillian already knew, that there had been some lingering illness.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Frick,” Lillian said. “Miss Helen speaks very fondly of Martha.”
Mrs. Frick’s eyes turned red. She grabbed her handkerchief from under her sleeve and covered her mouth. “I can’t.” She shoved her chair back from the table and trundled to the door, her skirts swishing beneath her. Miss Winnie tried to follow, but Mrs. Frick waved one hand behind her, the other still pressed to her mouth. “Leave me alone for now,” she mumbled into her fist. She paused at the doorway. “But in a half hour bring me my rose water.”
Lillian remained seated at the table, stunned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset Mrs. Frick.”
Miss Winnie poured herself more coffee. “She gets this way, sometimes. It always passes.”
The tragedy had occurred decades ago, yet the child’s name still couldn’t be raised without sending Mrs. Frick running from the room. Lillian had known other families who’d lost children, from accidents, scarlet fever, mumps—there were so many ways for vulnerable young children to succumb—but the surviving relatives eventually soldiered on. Then again, maybe Lillian couldn’t understand, not having had children, or even siblings, herself. She’d never really had an itch to get married and settle down, as there was so much else out there to experience, and Kitty’s sour outlook on the subject undoubtedly influenced her own.
Miss Winnie waited a moment before speaking. “Before she became ill, Martha was a joy of a child, with pink lips, curls, a delightful disposition. To think I was barely a girl myself when I joined the household back then. All of thirteen years old, imagine that? Unfortunately, the first three years of Miss Helen’s life were the last three of her sister’s, which meant Miss Helen was surrounded, every day, with pain and illness. You may have seen Martha’s image scattered about the house.”
That was an understatement. “She was a pretty child. May I ask what happened to her?”
Miss Winnie glanced toward the door, as if checking that Mrs. Frick was truly gone. “When the family was on tour in Europe together, they hired a foreign nursemaid. For two years after that fateful trip, our Martha was in terrible pain, and no one knew why. Her symptoms came and went, so they’d think she was fine one day, before falling ill the next. The Fricks brought in doctor after doctor, who told them she was teething, or it was acute indigestion, but no cure ever worked. One morning, a strange bump appeared on her hip. It was filled with pus, and, to the doctor’s astonishment, a dressmaker’s pin emerged from the wound. Without proper supervision in Europe, Martha had picked up and swallowed this tiny, deadly piece of metal, which had slowly wound its way through her body and worked itself back out. But it was too late by then. She had two more years of lingering sepsis, and passed away in terrible agony. On the anniversary of Martha’s death every year, Mr. Frick calls me into his study, takes out a lock of hair that belonged to her, and pours us both a drink. Then we toast to her memory.” A dark shadow crossed her face. She lowered her voice, even though no one else was around. “Don’t tell Mrs. Frick about that, she wouldn’t approve.”
How interminable it must have been for Mr. and Mrs. Frick, when Martha was in pain but no one could figure out why, and then the grisly discovery of the pin? There were no words. Lillian understood now why Miss Helen was always fighting her way up from feeling second best. She was the daughter who’d lived, and whose close resemblance to Martha only reminded them of their loss. “I’m so sorry.”
Miss Winnie let out a loud exhale. “Many, many years ago, that all was. You’d never know it, though.”
Lillian thought of the cameo and the checkbook, all those portraits spread about the house. Her heart went out to Miss Helen, for the futility of her role in the family. It wasn’t her fault that Martha had died. She ought to go off and build her library, just as Mr. Danforth ought to pursue a medical career—who cared what the rest of them thought?
Even though Lillian’s future was financially dependent on the success of Mr. Danforth and Miss Helen’s engagement, and she liked Mr. Danforth and held a tenuous respect for Miss Helen, she hated to think that her misrepresentations to them both might result in a disastrous match. Miss Winnie had been with the family forever; she knew each member inside and out. Lillian couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think this marriage is a good idea?”