The man had a somber look on his face. “It’s pleurisy. That’s what’s causing his shortness of breath.”
“I hope you didn’t tell him that,” said Miss Helen.
“No. As you requested, I didn’t let on the seriousness of his condition. I told him the congestion was due to the lousy weather. Keep him on a liquid diet for now, and make sure he rests. I’ll check back tomorrow.”
Upstairs, Mr. Frick lay on the sofa clutching a royal blue comforter. He would be a shoo-in for St. Nick, with the white beard and large gut. But Mr. Frick was far from jolly, even on days he was in good health.
His valet stood nearby, writing something down.
“For lunch, I’ll have sweetbreads and au gratin potatoes,” dictated Mr. Frick. “Have a cigar ready for me after, with a hot Scotch.”
“No, Papsie, that won’t do at all.” Miss Helen turned to his valet. “He’ll have a thin consommé and tea.”
“No,” Mr. Frick thundered. “My last meal will not be soup.”
“No one has said anything about a last meal. Please, Papsie.”
The valet left, throwing Miss Helen a sympathetic look.
She sat in the chair next to her father. “You won’t listen to me, will you?”
“Why should I? Why would you know better than me what I want to eat for lunch?”
“It’s what’s healthier for you.”
“Bah. Let’s play checkers.”
“You play with Miss Lilly. There’s something I must attend to.” She rose and pointed to a polished marquetry checkerboard displayed on a small side table. “Miss Lilly, move that over near him and play. You know how to play checkers, don’t you?”
“I do.”
Mr. Frick bellowed as best he could as Miss Helen left the room, “Do not go changing my menu,” but before he could finish the threat, he began to cough.
Lillian poured a glass of water from a crystal pitcher and handed it to him. He drank it down and the wheezing lessened.
He gave one final clearing of his throat. “Sit. Play with me.”
Lillian’s value, like that of the rest of the servants, fluctuated depending on the level of stress that ran through the mansion like an electric current. This morning, here with Mr. Frick, she felt on par with Wrigley the dog, commanded about and expected to obey.
She sat opposite Mr. Frick and adjusted the pieces that had slipped out of place. He moved first.
They played in silence for a while, the only sound that of his breathing, like a coal-choked train engine. While he pondered his next move, Lillian took the opportunity to study the artwork on the walls and mentally compare each one to the entries destined for Miss Helen’s library cataloguing system. Doing so soothed her, got her mind off the fact that Mr. Danforth was expecting a decision in three days’ time. If she left the Fricks’ employ, she’d never see Miss Helen’s art history library come to fruition, which to her surprise made her feel slightly mournful. Lillian had found a deep satisfaction helping Miss Helen sift through images of the world’s most beautiful artwork, figuring out how best to categorize various landscapes and portraits, bronzes and busts. The work combined her love for order, which she’d discovered after she’d begun taking her job as private secretary seriously, with her love for art, from her previous career.
The repercussions of her decision weighed heavily on her.
Mr. Frick looked up and followed her gaze. “When I first started collecting art, I never imagined I’d end up in a house surrounded by masters.”
“You must be very proud.”
“Proud? It’s not like I painted them.” He sat back. “It all feels so ordinary now.”
Ordinary. Not the word she would have chosen. He fell into a coughing fit again, and for the first time she saw him as a vulnerable old man, his forehead creased and wide eyes fearful. Over his lifetime, he’d conquered everything he’d set out to, only to be reminded by his failing lungs that he was a mere mortal.
“What a legacy, to leave all this for the people of New York,” she said, hoping to boost his spirits.
“But will they appreciate it, seventy, eighty years from now? Who will care about the house of a dead rich man, filled with old art?” He paused. “I’ll be gone soon, you know.”
She didn’t meet his eye, not wanting to engage in such morbid talk. “The doctor is quite positive.”
“He’s lying.”
Lillian murmured a quiet dissent.