“Miss Lilly?” The voice was Miss Winnie’s.
Lillian opened the door. Down the hallway, Bertha was just coming out of the bathroom, looking confused and sleepy. “What’s going on?” Bertha asked.
Miss Winnie was panting from the stair climb. “Never you mind, go back to bed. I came for Miss Lilly.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Lillian, grabbing her dressing gown from the hook where it hung on the back of the door.
“Miss Helen needs you, in her father’s bedroom. Now.”
Chapter Sixteen
In the dim light, Lillian noticed dark circles under her employer’s eyes. Miss Helen must have been up all night with her father, who lay facing the wall, heaving with each breath, his eyelids shut.
Mr. Frick’s bedroom was paneled in dark wood from floor to ceiling, and Lillian’s gaze was drawn to a painting on the near wall of a girl wearing a tiny blue stone on a gold chain around her narrow neck, so lifelike it was as if Lillian could reach up and pluck it right off.
“That painting is by Sir Thomas Lawrence,” said Miss Helen from Mr. Frick’s bedside. “I never liked it.”
“Why is that?” Lillian pulled up a chair. The situation didn’t appear to be as dire as Miss Winnie had portended, and in fact Miss Helen appeared more quiet and thoughtful than frantic.
“He scrunched all of her features together in the middle of her face. The effect is as if she’s smirking at the viewer, not inviting us in.”
Lillian didn’t point out all the similarities to Martha. The reddish curls, the pink cheeks. Mr. Frick was never far from his lost daughter, even when he slept.
“Where’s your mother?” Lillian asked.
“She stopped in last night. Said she needed to rest, that her head was bothering her again.”
Which left Miss Helen alone for the vigil. If only she and Mr. Childs had a better relationship and could share the burden.
“What can I do to help?”
With a groan, Mr. Frick turned over and stared at the two women, wide-eyed, his face shiny with sweat. “Who are you?”
Miss Helen tucked in his covers. “It’s me, your Rosebud.”
He heaved himself to a sitting position. “How on earth can I sleep if you’re yammering on the entire time? I was doing fine until now.” The lost expression of a second ago had been replaced with his usual businesslike mien. “Waiting for me to drop, are you? Get me something for this pain, for God’s sake.”
Miss Helen’s face crumpled. “Of course, Papsie.”
Lillian followed her out into the small hallway that connected the bedroom to the sitting room. The nurse—who Miss Helen had hired a few days ago—rose from a sofa as soon as they entered.
“Why aren’t you helping?” demanded Miss Helen. “He’s in pain again. There’s no point in us paying you to lounge around all night.” Lillian had witnessed a similar ripple effect many times now: Mr. Frick would needle or insult his daughter, sending her off on the warpath at anyone who had the bad fortune of appearing next in her periphery, whether a chambermaid dusting the bookcase or, more often, Lillian.
The nurse crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m right here.” She followed them into the bedroom, where Mr. Frick’s breathing had turned to moans. Lillian and Miss Helen stood back as the nurse examined him. He moaned again.
“You have to do something!” said Miss Helen.
The nurse turned to her, a sullen look on her face. “We did six applications of turpentine stoops at midnight, and he was given a sleeping draft soon after. For now, we must wait for Dr. Partridge’s visit, which is set for nine o’clock.”
“Nine o’clock! That’s four hours away. I refuse to let him suffer for that long. His color is off and he’s perspiring a great deal. There must be something we can do. Go and call for the doctor.”
“Miss Helen, there’s nothing that can be done.”
Lillian had to agree. The man needed rest, quiet.
But that wasn’t good enough for Miss Helen. “Go downstairs and have them call for the doctor. Now.”
As the nurse left, Mr. Frick put a hand to his chest. Miss Helen ran to his side and placed her hand over his. “What do you need, Papsie?”
“Water. Get me water.”
“Get him water!” Helen called out to Lillian. “Hurry.”
Lillian went to the bathroom, where a glass of water sat on the edge of the porcelain sink. She picked it up and caught her reflection in the mirror. In the faded morning light, all of her exuberance and youth had been drained away. Her hair, pulled back in a bun, the way Miss Helen preferred it, made her nose appear beakish, not aquiline, and her mouth too small. Haggard, that’s what Kitty would have said. You look haggard.