The entire family would then leave by train, along with Mr. Frick’s coffin, later that evening, for Pennsylvania.
Lillian was in the front hall, handing various correspondence to the driver to deliver, when Miss Helen called out her name from the second floor.
Lillian took off at a trot up the stairs toward her. “What is it?”
“I want my father’s bed moved into my bedroom.”
“You want what?”
“You heard me.”
“Right now the servants have their hands full preparing for the service.” The chambermaids had been brought downstairs to help rearrange furniture for the viewing, and the parlor maids were stationed in the kitchen assisting the cooking staff. “Can it wait until tomorrow? Remember, you’ll be gone for almost a week in Pittsburgh.”
“No. It must be done right now.”
Lillian stifled a sigh of impatience, but she understood the strange impulse. The day after Kitty had died, she’d lain down in her mother’s bed and breathed in what was left of her essence, a mix of menthol and Pears soap, of sickness and health. Her mother’s body had been taken away and disposed of quickly—it had been the height of the second wave of influenza, and every doctor, hospital, and undertaker was overwhelmed with the dead and dying. She hadn’t even been able to put a rose on her grave.
“Very well. I’ll have the chore man see to it.” She asked Kearns to send the chore man upstairs with a few of the footmen, and watched with Miss Helen as they disassembled both Mr. Frick’s and Miss Helen’s beds, then brought Miss Helen’s down to a storeroom in the basement before reassembling Mr. Frick’s in Miss Helen’s room. The whole time, Miss Helen fretted about, warning them not to scratch the wood.
After they left, Lillian half expected Miss Helen to throw herself on the bed in a fit of hysterics, but instead, she went to her dressing table and sat staring out the window, the bed switch-around entirely forgotten.
“Have my father’s remains come back from the undertaker yet?” she asked.
Lillian checked the clock on the mantel. “Very soon.”
Miss Helen opened a drawer. “I want this to be buried with him.” She held Martha’s cameo in her hand.
Lillian considered all the things that diamond hidden inside could buy: clothes, food, rent money. The thought of it being buried underground, lost forever, seemed indecent. “Are you sure? What if you buried the cameo, but sold the diamond and donated the money to one of Mr. Frick’s causes instead?”
“No. He loved Martha best. This will be like he’s being laid to rest with a small piece of her.”
A valuable piece of her.
Lillian was concerned that Miss Helen would toss it away so cavalierly. She could never get it back, and Miss Helen was never one for having much foresight. What if she regretted it? “What if you had it made into a ring for your mother?”
“No. Papsie would want this, I’m sure of it. Come with me.”
They walked together down the back staircase. “When I get back from Pennsylvania,” said Miss Helen, “I’m going to insist that Mr. Danforth and I marry as soon as the mourning period is over.”
Lillian’s stomach dropped. “But what of our talk yesterday, about remaining independent?”
“My father wanted me wed. He very strongly wanted me wed, as we can see from his arrangement with you. So, wed I will be.”
Which meant Lillian would soon be caught in the middle once again. Would Mr. Danforth reconsider, now that Lillian had removed herself from the running, and choose Miss Helen after all? Her first reaction was no, he would not, but the more she considered his histrionics in the driveway—threatening to go down on one knee—the more she realized how little she knew him. His presence in the house would make her own untenable.
Bertha was exiting the art gallery as they approached.
“Are the flowers here yet, Bertha?” asked Lillian.
“No, miss. Not yet.”
“Have them brought in as soon as they arrive. We don’t have much time.”
The casket had been set up at the far end, near the enamels room, just below a melancholy Rembrandt self-portrait.
“How he would love this,” said Miss Helen. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
Lillian had to admit that this was the ideal send-off for Mr. Frick. Surrounded by the works he loved most, and his family, in the palace he created with his wealth and eye for beauty. “It is.”
“Thank you, Miss Lilly, for taking such good care of him. And of me.”