“It’s rather embarrassing, to be honest.” Mr. Danforth didn’t meet her eyes. “I would have used my mother’s ring, but it’s not nearly as elegant as someone like Miss Helen should wear. Mr. Frick is aware of my reduced financial circumstances, which I’m sure you noticed during your visit. I know things are not typically done this way, and I hope that you, as a private secretary who probably knows the rules of courtship inside and out, aren’t too shocked.”
She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “What is most important is that Miss Helen is happy, and I’m sure whatever you choose will give her great pleasure. I’ll retrieve your check now.”
As Lillian passed Miss Helen’s bedchamber on the second floor, she remembered the Magnolia diamond tucked inside Martha’s cameo in the jewel box. That would make a perfect engagement ring, but of course doing so would probably be considered a desecration to the girl’s memory by Mr. and Mrs. Frick. How terribly unfair it all was to Miss Helen.
The check sat in the center of Mr. Frick’s desk, the image of Martha looming up at Lillian. Back downstairs, she presented it to Mr. Danforth, who was waiting outside under the porte-cochère.
“You are a treasure, Miss Lilly, for your understanding and kindness. I will not forget it, I promise.”
She watched, smiling, as he walked away. Only two weeks to go.
* * *
Three days into the scavenger hunt, Lillian and Mr. Danforth had culled through only ten of the twenty clues. Miss Helen’s missives were hidden on the backs of frames, under bronzes, and in table drawers. One was discovered tucked under a corner of the rug in the living hall, where they stood staring at the dour Holbein portrait of Thomas Cromwell. When she and Mr. Danforth both knelt down at the same time to retrieve it, they bonked heads, hard. Each fell back on the floor, sitting on their rumps, Lillian not caring that she looked as unladylike as she’d ever done, with clothes on, of course.
“How’s your head?” Mr. Danforth asked.
“Now it hurts as much on the outside as it does on the inside, from figuring out these absurd clues.”
Mr. Danforth froze, his mouth open, before he burst out in laughter. “You are not what I expected from Miss Helen’s private secretary.”
“No, I suppose not. But then, Miss Helen is a rather unique individual herself.”
He stood and held out both hands to help Lillian up. Once she was standing, he remained holding on to her hands. “I want to thank you, sincerely. I don’t have the same appreciation of art that the Frick family has, and you’ve given me the opportunity to not seem such a dolt as I truly am.”
For all her early bluster at having to manage Mr. Danforth, over the past few days she’d begun to look forward to their afternoon appointments. She found herself eager to see what they’d discover next, and relished the satisfaction of figuring out the answer. Especially enjoyable were his baffled reactions to each awful poem, which were usually followed by a grandiose reading of it in some vaguely European accent. His utter commitment to such ridiculousness made her laugh every time.
She took a seat on the sofa, still rubbing her head. “First of all, the Fricks don’t appreciate art, they are ravenous about it, in a way that is not usual in the least. Mr. Frick and his daughter treat all of these masterworks like a pictorial stamp collection. They buy paintings worth thousands of dollars on a whim. No, not thousands, millions. The Fragonard panels were one and a quarter million dollars. Can you imagine?” She worried she’d gone too far, rattling on like that about the family’s personal finances. “I’m so sorry, that was not very kind,” she said.
He joined her on the sofa. “Another reason why you’re a breath of fresh air. No need to apologize to me. Those Fragonards would take care of the renovations my townhouse is in dire need of. Along with modern furnishings.”
“I understand that you’ll move into the house after the wedding.”
“Yes. That’s the plan.” He grew silent.
“Are you worried about that? I assure you, the staff are lovely and it’s a divine place to live.”
“Oh, no, of course, you’re right. I guess it’s a matter of parting with my parents’ objects, having to disburse them. It’s like letting go of a piece of them. If I’d seen them before they died, I might not be so maudlin about it. But the last time we spoke was before I left for Europe, two years earlier. I always assumed they’d be here when I returned. It’s hard to move on.”