Yet, she reminded herself, she was only playing at being a proper private secretary, a fact she really ought to remember if she was going to make a clean break after the engagement announcement. Back when she modeled, her mother would often join the artist in a quick drink after the session, and as she grew older, she was allowed one as well. Even if she’d been freezing cold for three hours straight, the first sip always fired her right back up. She could use that bolt of courage right now. “I accept.”
Mr. Danforth took a couple of sips and let out a peaceful sigh. “This is nice. Thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary.”
He stared out the window at the lawn. “What is it you like about this house?”
She waited a moment before she answered. There was so much to say. The artwork, the carved floral garlands that climbed up the chimney in the library, the park view from her room, and the way the sun made everything turn to gold as it set. “The sense of possibility. That Mr. Frick came from very little and now lives like a king. That anything can happen. For example, if you really wanted, you could be a doctor. There’s nothing stopping you.”
“What about you? What would you do, Miss Lilly, if you weren’t a private secretary?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’d be a silent film star.”
She expected him to laugh, to spill his drink from the foolishness of her statement. But he didn’t. “You are lovely enough for the stage and screen.”
His words hung there, the only sound the ticking of the ebony barometer clock on the table behind them. Neither looked away from the other for a moment, and Lillian’s pulse beat double time.
He finished his brandy. “Between our walk and the drink, I’m newly invigorated. Let’s get one more clue in. Then I’ll head home.”
He pulled out the pile of clues from his dress coat pocket. “We’re on number ten. The sound of music is a devious feat Here at One East Seventieth Street Find the true source And you’re halfway to the end of the course Of clues.”
Lillian made a face. “Please, no Slavic recitations of that one. I couldn’t bear it.”
“I’ll try not to be offended.”
“Luckily, I think I know what she’s referring to. Follow me.”
She led him up the front stairway to the first landing and pointed to the organ’s pipes, which were divided by four marble colonnettes. “I have it from a trusted source that these pipes are fakes.” Up on the second floor, she turned left past the elevators and pushed open the wide mahogany door at the end of the hall. “This room is called the organ chamber, although I admit I’ve never been in here before.”
To the left was a narrow aisle lined on either side with layers of pipes, thousands of them. They were of various heights and diameters, some no bigger than a drinking straw, others as wide as a man’s leg, rising right to the ceiling. Unlike the fancy facade on the other side of the wall, these were utilitarian, but to Lillian, they were beautiful, even dizzying. It was like walking inside a three-dimensional work of art.
They ventured carefully. A misstep would be disastrous, to both the organ and the person who fell. “Our organist, Mr. Graham, says that there are four thousand seven hundred pipes in here,” she said.
While she’d tried to avoid Mr. Graham after the encounter with Mrs. Whitney, a couple of weeks ago he’d stopped her in the hall and asked for a suggestion to freshen his repertoire. She’d jokingly suggested a popular song called “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.” Soon after, he’d played a superb classical-style variation of that very tune, one that Mr. Frick had made a point of requesting regularly ever since, unaware that it was a modern hit. Whenever Mr. Graham played it, Lillian couldn’t help but smile.
“The clue could be anywhere,” said Mr. Danforth. “This is a nightmare.”
They worked their way along opposite ends of the narrow pathway, and ended up facing each other in the very middle. There was very little room to maneuver.
He smiled down at her, his breath sweet with brandy. “If we don’t find it, may I join you and run off to Hollywood?”
“Of course. We wouldn’t want to face Miss Helen’s wrath.”
Lillian was light-headed from the brandy, and she wobbled slightly. Mr. Danforth lifted his hands to her elbows to steady her, and the intimate gesture caught her off guard. Her mother used to brush Lillian’s hair each evening, but since Kitty had died, no one had physically reached out to her, other than Mr. Danforth helping her up from the floor when they bumped heads earlier. And now.