The Address, page 10
She’d be sent back to London on the next ship if she didn’t fix this fast. Mr. Camden was absolutely glowering at her.
She turned to Daisy and spoke with clipped vowels. “Get the cook and tell her to put out some champagne in the dining room. I’m going to the courtyard to round them up. I’ll take care of this.” The last sentence she directed at Mr. Camden. “If you would come with me, I would appreciate your assistance.”
Thankfully, he did as he was told, although she could see him clenching and unclenching his fists as they stepped outdoors.
Indeed, a line of broughams encircled the two fountains; and after the footmen helped off the ladies, Fitzroy moved the vehicles out and brought in another round of carriages. The residents were milling about, unsure of where to go.
“Why isn’t my personal staff here to greet me?” demanded a stout lady in a black beaver cape.
Sara stood on the stone base of the southern fountain. Using her natural height to her advantage, she called for everyone’s attention.
“I am Mrs. Smythe, the managerette here at the Dakota, and I would like to welcome you to this magnificent building. Please join me in the dining room for a champagne toast to your new home, followed by a tour of the highlights of the Dakota by Mr. Camden, one of the architects of this stately, modern apartment house.”
As she’d figured, the word champagne perked them up. She led the way into the south entrance and was relieved to see that the cook had done as asked, and set up a marvelous array of delicate glass coupes and champagne nesting in ice buckets.
While the bottles were uncorked and poured, Sara eyed the room, Daisy at her side.
Daisy leaned into her, disappointed. “They’re not the upper crust of society. The papers were all saying that no one of Mrs. Astor’s set would be caught dead living here.”
True enough, the tenants’ names were unlikely to overlap with Mrs. Astor’s list of acceptable society members. Certainly not Mr. and Mrs. Gustav Schirmer, of the music publishing company, or Mr. and Mrs. Solon Vlasto, who were moving downtown, not uptown, from Ninety-Second Street.
“I’ve seen enough of high society at the hotel in London. Believe me, you don’t want to have to deal with that set.”
“But they’re the ones with the power in the city; it’s in the newspapers every day. Everyone here is so ordinary. Dry goods and woolen merchants, that sort.”
“As they’re paying three thousand dollars a year for a ten-room apartment, I would think that’s far from ordinary. Perhaps you’d be happier working as a maid for Mrs. Astor?”
Daisy didn’t answer.
Mr. Camden appeared, checking his timepiece. “How long do you think you can prevent them from storming their new apartments?”
Sara lifted her chin. “Follow me, please.” She sidled up to one of the new residents, Mr. Camden trailing in her wake.
“Mr. Schirmer, how are plans going for the printing plant?”
Mr. Schirmer smiled, quite pleased. “Very well, Mrs. Smythe. Thank you for asking. We hope to have it running in the next year or two.”
“Of course you must know Mr. and Mrs. Steinway.” She turned to the right and drew them into the group. “We are so lucky to have true music aficionados among the residents.”
Mrs. Steinway threw her fur over one shoulder. “We will create our own private village here beside the park, shan’t we, Mrs. Schirmer?”
“What a lovely way to refer to the Dakota.” Sara offered up a subtle smile, one that suggested agreement without being overly familiar. “I was just saying to Mr. Camden here that the uptown rural landscape is much better for one’s health.”
Mr. Schirmer spoke up. “I consider this to be my ode to Magellan, heading into the northern frontier, weapon at my side.”
“What exactly is your weapon, dear?” asked his wife.
“Why, you, of course.”
Mr. Camden chuckled, playing along beautifully. The atmosphere tinkled with laughter and heady conversation.
“I daresay I like this idea of having cocktails before luncheon,” Mrs. Steinway said to Mr. Camden. “Will that be a regular occurrence?”
“If that will please you, Mrs. Steinway, of course.” The traces of Mr. Camden’s irritation with Sara disappeared as he made a subtle bow.
A man with a thick mustache stepped over. “I say, as members of the F.F.D.s, this is a bang-up way to begin our communal living experiment.”
While the group gaped at the impolite intrusion, Sara spoke up. “Mr. Tatum, what a lovely thought. The First Families of the Dakota, no?”
“On the nose!”
Never mind that he’d been using the term in his correspondence with Sara, where he’d inquired weekly about the size and number of water closets in his apartment.
“Commodore, we’re honored to have you on board.”
The group closed in on itself, and Mr. Camden guided Sara away.
“‘Commodore’?” Mr. Camden murmured.
“Mr. Tatum is the head of the New York Yacht Club. I’ve been reading the society columns religiously since I arrived.”
“Clever girl.”
Once the last drop of the champagne had been downed, Mr. Camden led the group on a tour of the public rooms on the ground floor, the basement level with its amenities, and then up to the roof garden, where the clear day offered a view twenty miles in all directions.
Finally, the group splintered off to their own apartments, the ladies walking with a slight sway to their step and the men whistling under their breath.
The Dakota was officially open.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
New York City, October 1884
The wind threatened to blow her away, but Sara stood firm on top of the roof of the Dakota, holding on to the metal railing. Opening day had been a success, thanks to the champagne toast. In fact, the alcohol had lubricated more than the throats of the tenants; it had eased the transformation of the building from one that was under construction to one that was up and running, teeming with life. She’d finished up the day by meeting with all of the tenants’ staff, making sure they understood where their duties ended and the building’s began—and so far she’d seen no bruised egos—before climbing up to the very top of the building to get some air.
The roof garden looked out over Central Park, with its picturesque castle and lake in the distance. Although the sun had set, the glow of gas lamps lit up the pathways that carved through the trees.
“Mrs. Smythe!”
Mr. Camden sauntered toward her. He carried the afternoon edition of the newspaper in his hand and drew up beside her, his eyes twinkling with excitement. He unraveled the paper, not easy with the breeze, and read aloud.
“Probably not one stranger out of fifty who ride over the elevated roads or on either of the rivers does not ask the name of the stately building which stands west of Central Park.”
A corner of the paper blew loose from his grasp and she reached out and held it taut while he continued on.
“The name of the building is the Dakota Apartment House, and it is the largest, most substantial, and most conveniently arranged apartment house of the sort in this country. An astonishing geographic and architectural landmark, the Dakota will undoubtedly be known as ‘The Address’ of New York’s West Side.”
“How wonderful. You must be pleased.”
“I gave the reporter a private tour last week, but he was tight-lipped the whole time. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or horrified. But here, look at the headline.”
She glanced down and followed his finger, which tapered to a curved, elegant tip. “‘One of the Most Perfect Apartment Houses in the World.’ That’s brilliant.”
“Mr. Douglas will have a waiting list for years to come.”
Mr. Camden’s boyish excitement made her laugh. “You’ve done it,” she said.
“We’ve done it.” He closed up the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I don’t know how I would have managed earlier today; it would have been an angry stampede of F.F.D.s without your quick thinking.” He looked down at her. “Sorry to disturb your stroll on the rooftop, but I was walking across the park and saw you.”
To think that he was able to recognize her from so far off. A breeze played with her skirts and she patted them down.
“Shall we sit out of the way of the wind for a moment?” he inquired.
A bench beside the enormous gabled roof protected them from the elements. Sara tucked the loose strands of her hair back into place. “What shall you do next, now that this project is finished up?”
He leaned back and stretched out his legs. “Hardenbergh has me already assigned to a new building, all the way downtown. But in another couple of months, I’ll be starting up my own firm, thanks to this newspaper article and Hardenbergh’s backing.”
“I’m sure it will be a great success. You’ll probably be quite happy to have Mrs. Camden and your children back in town.”
“Of course.”
Silence fell between them. She struggled to fill the space. “Where did you study architecture, Mr. Camden?”
“I was on a scholarship at the Hasbrouck Institute in Jersey City, where I first met Hardenbergh. When he got an early commission from Rutgers and asked me to work for him, I jumped at the chance.”
She admired the way he’d forged his own path. Part of her had hoped that by coming to New York City, to America, she would do the same, but she lacked his brash confidence. Her mother had done her a disservice, constantly reminding her of her blood connection to nobility, while at the same time cursing her bastardy. She didn’t know where she belonged.
But it had made her good at her job. She could tell people what to do and sound authoritative, even if underneath it all was a fear of being discovered, found out, a fraud. In some ways, her natural reticence, her refusal to get too close or to let someone know who she truly was, had decreased since she’d arrived in the States. Being thrown into the lion’s den of the Dakota, among strangers who didn’t know or care what her parentage was, had toughened her up a touch. America seemed to be a more open, forgiving place.
She didn’t want to go back into her shell.
He stared hard at her. A warmth spread up her chest and neck.
The blanket of evening, a cerulean blue, was creeping across the sky from east to west. She looked up. “Funny how I thought I’d be pressed in on all sides in New York, yet here I am surrounded by vast views and an even vaster sky.”
“Makes the people down below seem like ants.” Mr. Camden pointed to a man who wobbled along the pathway below them. “Ants on bicycles.”
“I imagine it’s difficult with six legs.”
“Have you ever ridden a bicycle?”
Sara nodded. “I grew up in a small village on the southern coast of England. My mother bought me a used one to run errands and make deliveries.” She didn’t mention the times the boys threw rocks at her as she pedaled furiously by, calling her and her mother unmentionable names.
“We should go for a ride in the park sometime. Will you join me?” Before she could answer, he jumped in. “When is your day off?”
“Not until Saturday afternoon.”
“Very well, Saturday afternoon. I will supply the bicycles and you wear your best riding outfit.”
“Shall I bring a crop?” she asked with a grin.
“Two, as I’ll need one myself.”
As they entered the doorway back into the building, he held his hand out to assist her in stepping over the small curb.
Before he let go, she thought he gave her hand a quick squeeze. But when she looked at him, he avoided her gaze. She must have imagined it.
Or wished he’d done so.
On Saturday morning, Mr. Camden left a note for Sara to meet him at the Mall in the park at one o’clock. The city’s elite paraded along the promenade in their carriages between four and five each afternoon, and she would be sure to excuse herself long before the crowds assembled to gawk at the sight. Although it was fine for men and women to stroll together without causing raised eyebrows, it would be unseemly to be seen with a married man during the grand promenade.
She’d craved his company the past few days, the way he looked at her and the way he listened to her when she spoke. Not in an intimate way, she told herself, as that wouldn’t be proper. But he was a kind person and she hadn’t had many friends.
He stood beside two safety bicycles that leaned upon a wooden bench. One of them had a wicker basket strapped onto the front handlebars.
“Are you ready for an enjoyable day in nature, Mrs. Smythe?”
“Indeed I am.” The past few days of moving in the last of the new tenants had left her exhausted, and a change of scenery would do her good. For being the first of November, the air was uncommonly warm, the equivalent of a London summer day. She gathered her skirts and mounted the bicycle. At first, she was unsteady, but the frame was sturdy and the tires thick. As long as she kept her focus on the black-clad figure of Mr. Camden on the bicycle in front of her, she found it easy to stay upright.
Leaves from the elms planted along either side of the roadway fluttered to the ground. She crunched through the sumptuous palate of reds and golds, feeling a bit like Moses cutting through the Red Sea. Mr. Camden glided down a pathway that led to a fountain, where they dismounted before walking to a small rise of grass overlooking the lake.
He pulled a blanket out of the wicker basket, which Sara laid out carefully on the ground, followed by a fresh loaf of bread, salmon mousse, and apricot tartlets.
“Quite a feast, Mr. Camden.”
“I had the chef prepare it specially. We can’t have our star employee going hungry.”
Disconcerted by his effusiveness, she busied herself unwrapping a block of Stilton cheese.
“Isn’t this grand.” He gestured to the passersby. “A mix of society, neither high nor low, and everyone meeting in the heart of this great city to enjoy a lovely autumn day.”
“It’s a beautiful park, but I have to say I like the gardens of Hyde Park better.”
He pretended to be offended, his hand on his heart. “Why put up with those stodgy English gardeners when you have the wilds of America here? Streams tumbling down rocks, paths that go every which way. Besides, here a simple boy from Buffalo can become whatever he wants, including an architect. Not so easy over the pond.”
“Could Fitzroy work his way up to become a man of your station? I rather doubt it.”
“I doubt Fitzroy could find his shoes in the morning if his wife didn’t put them on his feet herself.”
She laughed. “You’re being unkind. He’s a delightful man.”
“He is. But I’m talking about opportunity. That’s what we have, you must admit it.”
“You have it, perhaps.”
“Do you not think you could move up in the world?”
His lack of awareness astounded her. Of course a woman could not move up in the world. Not the way he had. “It’s easy for you to think so, but there are very clear delineations. Here as well as in England.”
“What would you do if you’d been born a duke’s daughter, then?”
Caught off guard, she almost spilled her lemonade.
He sat up. “I’ve hit a chord, it appears.”
She shouldn’t say anything, keep quiet as she’d done for years and years. But his inquisitive look told her she wouldn’t be able to divert his attention. Not that she wanted to. She had to admit, part of her wanted to impress this man.
But would admitting that she was a bastard impress him? She took a deep breath.
“My father was the Earl of Chichester.”
Now it was his turn to sputter. “Yet I found you working in a hotel. A grand hotel, indeed, but one where an earl’s daughter ought to be paying for a room, not cleaning it.”
“My mother was his housekeeper, if you must know. He would never recognize me as his daughter.”
He grew quiet. “You deserve better than that.”
The unexpected kindness brought a lump to her throat. “Certain lines must not be crossed.”
He reached into the picnic basket and drew out a small sketch pad and a fountain pen. “I promised you I’d draw your dream cottage, and I come armed and ready. If you like, you may describe a castle fit for an earl’s daughter, and it will be yours. On paper, at least.”
“You really don’t have to do that.” She ducked her head to hide her obvious pleasure.
“I insist.”
He began by asking her simple questions, how many rooms she required, what type of stone she preferred.
When she offered up the idea of an iron bench for reading under a trellis covered with wisteria, he’d smiled. “Grand idea. I knew there was something about you, the minute I saw you up in that dreadful office with a tiny window. You didn’t look like you belonged. And that look you give.”
“Which one is that?”
“When you need someone to do something they don’t want to do. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen you give it to Daisy a dozen times. One eyebrow goes up.”
She laughed. He had figured out her secret weapon.
He continued on as he drew. “Speaking of moving up in the world, here’s an example for you: What about our esteemed builder, the late Mr. Clark? He built himself up from nothing, and ended up owning half of the Singer sewing company and our beloved Dakota.”
“Like the sewing machine in the basement?”
“The very one.”
“I’m quite fond of Singer sewing machines. To no longer be a slave to the needle is a magnificent thing. However.” She hesitated but continued on when Mr. Camden indicated his encouragement. “We both know Mr. Clark wasn’t accepted by high society. Like London’s peerage, in New York you are either on the list or not.”
