“But he promised you money. A thousand dollars. That’s an enormous sum.”
“Your father is a generous man. I didn’t want to do it, but he insisted. I couldn’t say no without offending him.”
Her voice pitched up into a little girl’s whine. “But I made Mr. Danforth fall in love with me, didn’t I?”
Lillian didn’t know how to answer that. “You did all the right things.”
Miss Helen reached into the envelope and pulled out the check. “Here you go, then. Take it.”
“I don’t want it.”
Miss Helen waved it at Lillian, the image of Martha dancing in the air. “He wants you to have it. Your matchmaking fee.” She tossed it in Lillian’s lap.
Lillian studied it. One thousand dollars. The signature was shaky, weak. She didn’t need the extra money anymore. She would never be a starlet. She would never need a wardrobe of fancy clothes, or acting lessons, or an automobile to drive around Los Angeles in.
Before she could say a word, Miss Helen grabbed the check back and ripped it in half. Lillian let out a soft cry at her ferocity.
“I changed my mind. You can’t have it,” said Miss Helen with a wicked smile.
“I don’t want it. I told you, it was before I knew you well. Just as you were worried about success in love, I was worried about the same with my duties, that I couldn’t do the job well, that I’d be a failure. To you, not to your father. I’m sorry you learned about it at this awful time, but you must know that I want what’s best for you.”
“Which is what?” Miss Helen asked.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes. You owe me that.”
Mr. Danforth was never going to propose. Not after the way Lillian had mucked it all up. The least she could do was to let Miss Helen think that it was all her idea. “Maybe Mr. Danforth isn’t the best match for you. You are from similar circles, but you have your library and your dogs, you’ve constructed a wonderful life for yourself around your interests, and I worry that by marrying you’d have to give some of those things up.”
“What do you mean? You’ve seen his letters. We share exactly the same interests, in art, in hounds. He’s said nice things about the library.”
How to explain? “What one writes during courtship isn’t necessarily what one truly believes.”
Miss Helen considered that for a moment, then gave a slight shake of her head. “Perhaps you don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”
“No.” She paused. “Even if that’s what your father wanted, I don’t think you are.”
Miss Helen lifted Wrigley up into her lap and scratched his head. It was a moment before she spoke. “You may be right. I might have been the marrying kind before the war. But for now, I prefer uncomplicated relationships, like those with my furry beasts. What about you? Are you the marrying kind?”
Lillian considered her answer carefully. “No, I don’t think I am, either. I want to make my own way in the world.”
“So we’ll be doddering spinsters together?” There was a whiff of excitement in Miss Helen’s question. Her connection to Mr. Danforth had been tenuous at best, and deep down, she knew that. “We shall be companions until the end of days?”
Mr. Graham’s enthusiastic response to the library idea drifted back to Lillian. If they could get the Frick Art Reference Library launched, it would be the first of its kind in America, and that was something of an achievement, wasn’t it? The work would be fulfilling, demanding. Miss Helen didn’t have the temperament to interact with architects and scholars without coming off as bossy and brusque. Lillian could help smooth the way, as she had with Mr. Danforth. As she had with Mr. Frick. She could make a decent wage, maybe even become head librarian. It wasn’t the life Lillian had intended for herself, but perhaps it would do.
“If that’s what you need,” she finally answered.
* * *
Very early the next morning, Lillian was woken by a pounding on the door to her room. She sat up, confused, thinking she was back in the apartment with her mother and had overslept, that she was late for a session and about to be scolded. The sun hadn’t yet risen.
But no, she was in her room at the top of the Frick mansion. Surrounded by all the food she could eat, and walls filled with the finest works of art for her to pass by and appreciate every day. She was safe.
The pounding grew louder.
“What is it?” she called out, swinging her legs off the side of the bed.