The Magnolia Palace(9)
The girls lounging on the floor exchanged smirks as they shifted slightly forward.
“Right, thanks, man.” Barnaby pointed to a white plastic bag filled with tape and film packaging. “Can you take out that trash for us, while you’re here?”
“I’m sorry?” The man tilted his head slightly.
“You’re the janitor, right?”
He didn’t move from the doorway, only crossed his arms. With his height and those chiseled features, he could have been a model himself, although his frame was too skinny and the glasses he wore gave off a nerdy air. But Veronica was certain that Barnaby had only seen the color of his skin, which was black. When the man finally spoke, he did so slowly, as if he’d practiced these lines before, with every other Barnaby who’d walked through the Frick doors. “I’m an archivist for the Frick Collection. They asked me to keep an eye out today, since the museum is closed. You can put your trash in the basement.” He looked at Barnaby disapprovingly, as if he were a child and not one of the most successful fashion photographers in the world.
Veronica cringed at the mistake, but Barnaby offered no hint of compunction. He strode forward and shook the man’s hand, all smiles and warmth. “Thanks for letting us shoot here,” he said. “Really love it. Fab location.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I promise we’ll behave, Sonny Jim.”
“The name’s Joshua. Joshua Lawrence.”
“Right.” Barnaby snapped his fingers in the general direction of the nearest PA. “You. Get rid of that trash, now.”
Veronica stepped out of the way as the PA shot by, plastic bag in hand.
Barnaby put his arm around Joshua. “Since you’re the main man here, why don’t you tell the girls a little about where we are right now?”
Joshua looked over at the clutch of models, who stared blankly back, not in the least bit interested in a history lesson. He cleared his throat. “The house was the residence of the Frick family starting in 1914. Henry Clay Frick was a steel magnate who loved art, and built the home with the express purpose of one day leaving the house and his extensive art collection to the city as a museum.” Joshua twisted his hands in front of him, losing steam at the lack of response. Having just been the recipient of a roomful of derision herself, Veronica offered an encouraging nod when he glanced her way. He swallowed once and carried on, speaking slightly louder. “After Mr. Frick died, his wife and daughter Helen lived on here until Mrs. Frick passed away in 1931, at which point it underwent some renovations and became the Frick Collection, opening in 1935.”
“I have a question,” said Tangerine. “What’s with all the magnolia flowers?”
“Magnolias have long been associated with the mansion. For a time, Mr. Frick was the owner of the famous Magnolia diamond, a flawless twelve-carat pink diamond. Today, the Frick Collection is well-known for the large magnolia trees on the main lawn.”
“What happened to the diamond?” Veronica didn’t want to draw more attention to herself, but her curiosity got the best of her.
“It disappeared in 1919. Rumor has it that the family thought it was stolen, but oddly enough, a police report was never filed. No one has seen it since.”
“Too bad, that,” said Barnaby, leading Joshua to the door, smacking him on the back a couple of times. “We could have used it in the shoot.”
“There’s more I can tell you about the family, if you like.”
“That’s all right, we’ll take it from here.”
After Joshua had gone—giving one last worried look over his shoulder—Barnaby pointed to Veronica. “Someone, give the girl a hand and clean up her face. Do I have to manage every little thing, or can you girls show some initiative?”
Embarrassed, Veronica turned and fled.
Chapter Three
1919
As a young girl, Lillian would often rise out of bed on hot summer nights, sweaty and irritable, to find her mother standing nude in front of a window, staring out into the empty city street, her body silhouetted by lamplight. To Lillian, the female form was neither beautiful nor obscene. It was just skin and breasts and the moles that dotted her mother’s arms, a constellation that Lillian would trace with her finger.
Her father had abandoned the family when she was a baby, and she and Kitty had moved to a boardinghouse in Providence, Rhode Island, where Kitty worked in a silverware factory. Kitty rarely spoke of her life before Lillian was born, but she knew that her mother had been raised in one of the smaller Newport mansions—“a glorified carriage house, really,” she’d said once—before falling in love and eloping with a man who was not of her class. Despite being cut off from both her family and her inheritance, she’d insisted on raising her daughter with a soup?on of what was required in good society, from the correct utensils for the game course to the proper way to cross a room.
Desperate for culture, Kitty would bring Lillian to see whatever shows were playing at one of the five theaters in town, sitting her on her lap until the managers insisted that Lillian was old enough to have to pay for a separate ticket. Her mother’s earnings went straight into Lillian’s education at the local Catholic school, which was chosen not for the religious education but for its extensive arts offerings. The school provided its students music and singing lessons, which Lillian quickly took a shine to, performing for the other roomers at the boardinghouse every Friday night. She eagerly lapped up the attention, and it was her idea to move to New York City and try for a career on the stage. Kitty gave her notice at the factory within days, explaining to anyone who asked that Lillian was on her way to stardom as an actress.