“Because it would be considered causing trouble?”
Joshua nodded. “I’m automatically considered an outsider, a threat to the status quo, so writing anything even vaguely controversial would not be well received. It’s hard enough to be a Black man in these spaces, to go on a tour at the Met and have the docent ignore your raised hand while everyone else stares uncomfortably at the floor.”
“I imagine that must be infuriating, especially since you’re one of the nerdiest arty people I’ve ever met.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.” She considered her clash with Barnaby the day before. Now that the initial shock had worn off, she was no longer mortified. In fact, she was kind of proud of what she’d done by standing up for herself. “Maybe you should go ahead and do what interests you anyway. Why put up with their nonsense?”
“If I’m going to move the art world in a new direction, I’m going to have to understand the old. Like, fully understand it, in my bones. Just because I disagree with Mr. Frick’s methods of accumulating his fortune doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate his taste. I mean, the man had taste.”
“He certainly did. Old meanie.” She yawned.
“Sorry, I’ve been going on and on. You must be exhausted, and starving.”
Together, they scavenged a dinner in the kitchen and then warmed up before the fireplace.
“Tonight, if you like,” said Joshua, “you can sleep in Mrs. Frick’s bedroom, although I’m not sure how comfortable a fifty-year-old mattress will be.”
“It’ll be better than this sofa, for certain. Especially if I pile on the blankets. What about you?”
He looked at the couch. “I’ll crash here. But let me light your way up there before I do.”
Up in Mrs. Frick’s bedroom, he pointed at her suitcases. “Good thing you have your toothbrush with you.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a spare. But if you need a waist cinch or a coral lipstick, do let me know.”
“I sure will.”
Outside, the wind howled. The storm was only getting worse. Joshua setting up camp a floor below her didn’t appeal at all, not after they’d tramped around together for the past however many hours. “Hey, you can crash on that chaise longue, if you want.” She tossed out the suggestion lightly, trying to make it sound like it was no big deal, either way. “No need to go all the way downstairs.”
“You scared?” He shot her a mischievous grin.
“No. Yes. This house is eerie. I mean, people died in it, right?”
“Mr. Frick certainly did, but not in this room, if that helps. Anyway, that’s just the way things were done, back then.”
“Still. I’d prefer not to be alone, to be perfectly honest.”
“Then I’ll keep guard.” He went to the chaise and took off his shoes. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he undid the double knots on the black leather lace-ups, first one, then the other, and gently eased them off, placing them neatly side by side. He valued those shoes, she could tell, as she had valued her silk high heels. The thought of him shining his shoes before coming to work each day made her heart skip, for some odd reason.
She settled on the bed and distracted herself from its slightly musty odor by studying the painted ceiling, which was decorated with florals and swirls. “Earlier today you mentioned that there was another Frick daughter, besides Helen. What happened to her?”
“Martha?”
“Right, Martha.”
“Are you sure you want to know? It might give you bad dreams.”
She said she’d be fine, and he went on to explain, with a gentleness that she appreciated in that cold, dark room, about a swallowed pin, years of pain and misdiagnoses, and the girl’s lingering death. It made Veronica unbearably sad for the poor child, as well as for the family who witnessed her suffering. Mr. Frick suddenly loomed less like a capitalist monster and more like a flawed human being. “How did you find this out?”
“From reading the Fricks’ letters,” said Joshua. “They didn’t realize what was wrong with her until it was too late. The child was too little to communicate.”
“My sister can’t communicate.”
Veronica had no idea why she’d just said that. Lying in the dark with Joshua, where neither of them could really make out each other’s faces, felt safe, like she was back in the room she’d shared with Polly in Notting Hill. They’d pasted glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and every night Polly would laugh in amazement as they emerged after the lights were out. “Something happened when she was born and she’s never been able to talk. My mum and I can understand what she’s saying, but no one else does.”