The Address, page 4
The passengers in steerage had to wait until they reached Castle Garden to be processed, but with her second-class ticket, Sara was provided the dignity of an onboard inspection and interview. The confusion on the docks made her anxious once she stepped off the ship. The smell of rotting fish and fried oysters overwhelmed, and everyone seemed to be shouting at the top of their lungs. Newspaper boys, street urchins, and vendors called out in abrasive accents, the vowels all wrong and flat. Everyone seemed to know where they were going and were intent on getting there in the fastest way possible, stepping into the middle of the street even though a wagon was bearing down, and narrowly missing being hit. London was a pastoral village compared to this.
Through the riot of noise, she heard her name. A driver in a fine black carriage stood up, yelling above the din. She waved back and let him help her climb inside, admiring the burgundy velvet interior. She eyed the driver through the rear window to ensure her trunk was securely fastened to the rear, and then settled in. They drove through town and kept on going, until vacant land and fields outnumbered the buildings.
She knocked on the roof to get his attention. He twisted his thick torso around to see her. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Are we going to the Dakota? The new apartment house?”
“We are indeed.”
“But it appears we’ve left the city.”
“This is all New York City, ma’am. You can see the markers for the streets.”
Indeed, even if the streets were no longer paved with granite, they remained regularly spaced apart. “But there’s nothing here.”
Around her was treeless farmland and cattle grazing in muddy fields. It was as if the landscape had been flattened by an enormous gust of wind and only now was coming back to life with tired shanties and sad barns. This was New York?
They carried on. Outside, a pretty young girl walked down the street, followed by a gang of boys who tossed pebbles at her. The girl whirled around and ran at them and they scattered into the street. When Sara was younger, her face had garnered more attention than she would have liked, but now her features were less of a liability. No one mistook her for an innocent maid, and her aquiline nose and raised eyebrow worked in her favor as a tool to stare down unruly sorts, whether a shifty janitor or a haughty guest.
New York wasn’t going to frighten her.
Yet as the carriage swayed up the wide avenue with an empty park on one side and a wasteland on the other, her heart sank. In London, you could wander the squares and see loveliness; you just had to know where to look. Nothing was lovely here.
She shifted to the other side of the carriage and stuck her head out the window. An enormous building, the color of butter, seemed to have been plopped down on the flat landscape by a giant, like something you’d find in a German fairy tale. She counted nine stories with windows that a man could stand in and not reach the top pane, and a complicated gabled roof lacking any consistent pattern.
“Is that it?”
“Sure is. They’ve been working on it for years.” The driver turned his head and shouted back at her. “Built by a fool named Clark.”
“Why is Clark a fool?”
“It’s a monstrosity in the middle of nowhere. No good families would dream of living here, I tell you. Can only imagine what sort will end up inside. Lucky devil died before he could see it finished.”
She’d pictured a handsome building like the Langham smack in the middle of the city, surrounded by shops and parks, where broughams with well-matched pairs of horses pulled up to discharge their passengers. But this place was dismal, the streets still unpaved. She should have asked more questions about the owners, the location. If the driver were correct, the clientele would be ignorant of the niceties. Fine linens. Good manners. A certain distance from the staff that made the role of housekeeper manageable.
The man pulled into an arch cut through the middle of the building. When she stepped out, the ground seemed to shift underneath her. She’d been told by one of the ship’s porters that it might take a few days for her sea legs to let her be.
A wiry old man approached, speaking out of the side of his mouth.
“Are you Mrs. Smythe?”
She nodded.
“Been expecting you. I’m Fitzroy, the head porter. Why don’t you wait inside while I arrange for your belongings?” He gestured to the right, where a steep set of stairs led to a small reception room. Two large windows let in ample light, and the walls were covered in handsome wood paneling that matched the built-in desk and countertop. A switchboard took up most of the back wall.
The porter joined her, rubbing his hands together. The side of his face drooped, as if it was falling off his skull, but his eyes, including the one that turned down at the edge, were a warm brown. He pointed at the switchboard.
“Got all the latest gadgets here, you’ll find. We have private wires going to the fire station, the stables, the telegraph messenger office, and the florist. Four thousand electric lights, even.”
“Very modern.”
“How was your journey? You came from abroad?”
“Yes, England.”
“Right. The building agent, Mr. Douglas, said to show you around.”
He led her into the courtyard, currently in use by the craftsmen, and they wove around toolboxes and sawhorses supporting large pieces of wood. She looked up once and the dizziness returned. The courtyard felt too small for the massive building around it, like the walls were about to cave in.
Mr. Fitzroy touched her lightly on the elbow to steady her. He pointed up. “That’s where you’ll be, on the top floor. Lovely view. Once the elevators are working, you won’t have to trudge up the stairs. First of their kind in a residential building in New York City, I’ll have you know.”
“We had several lifts in the London hotel where I worked previously.”
His enthusiasm remained undamped. “I’ll show you ours tomorrow, if you like. An amazing piece of machinery. Runs on water, all hydraulics.”
He must be balmy, a lift run by water. But she was too tired to inquire further.
Exhaustion swept over her. This Bavarian behemoth, out in the middle of nowhere, was to be her home. She should have stayed in London. Instead of continuing on with her comfortable, if predictable, life, she would have to figure everything out anew: the confusing geography of the building and the city, not to mention the foreign customs of America. The people who agreed to live in such a place must be desperate, unable to afford lodging in the city proper, and she’d seen desperate sorts before she’d started working at the Langham. Demanding, petty, and changeable. At least in her previous positions, the guests would check out at some point, head off to other destinations. The Dakota residents would be here to stay.
“For now, I’d like to get settled and rest, Mr. Fitzroy.”
They entered a door set in the far left corner of the courtyard that led into a dark foyer. A wide set of marble stairs wrapped around the lift, and the railings of the stairs were carved with ornate designs that gave the impression of serpents twisting their way down and around. Nothing warm and inviting like the Langham’s cream walls and brass finishes. Her room, down a claustrophobic hall at the very top of the building, had a small bed, desk, and chair. Simple and plain, as suited a domestic servant. But her attention was immediately drawn to the window.
In her London bedsit, she’d had no view, other than roofs and a blank sky. But here, at the very top of the tallest building for miles around, she could see farms and streets and even a wide river beyond.
“On a good day, you can see the Orange Mountains of New Jersey,” offered Fitzroy.
She thought of the harbor at Fishbourne, and her heart settled ever so slightly at the idea of having a view of water. Pathetic, that she should need to cling to something. But it helped.
“If you’d like a cup of tea or a bite before bed, come down to the kitchen in the basement. There’s no one else about; you can help yourself. I’ll be heading home in an hour or so, but I’ll lock the front gate so you’ll be safe.”
“No one else is here?”
“You’re the first of the resident staff to arrive.”
Her throat constricted at the thought of being alone.
Fitzroy shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a lamp on the desk for you to see your way after dark. I can stay late if you’re nervous.”
It was a kind offer. “Not at all. I will be fine.”
After he left, Sara remained at the window, watching the gray sky turn to black. It occurred to her that she was trapped, locked inside. What if there was a fire, or if she had to get out in an emergency? A terrible unease crept over her, uncertain whether she was safer locked inside this tomb or in the vast nothingness outside. Panic fluttered in her chest and threatened to take over her senses. She didn’t dare wind her way through the labyrinthine hallways down to the basement, not now, so she ignored her rumbling stomach, changed into her bedclothes, and laid on the bed until exhaustion took over, sending her into a deep, drugged sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
New York City, September 1884
A distant hammering startled Sara awake. She put on her nicest day dress, a dark hunter green with thin black stripes, and swept her hair up into a severe bun at the back of her neck before heading down the stairs. She wound her way down, landing by landing, the noise growing louder. As she stepped into the courtyard, she was greeted with a cacophony of sounds: men shouting, hammers and saws being wielded with great ferocity. Fitzroy appeared at her side and guided her back into the building through a different door and down a maze of narrow hallways with very high ceilings. The proportions seemed all wrong, but maybe that was the American way.
He opened the door to the dining room and pointed inside. “Help yourself to some coffee and eggs or whatnot. It’s meager pickings at the moment. Oh, and Mr. Camden asked that you come to see him after.”
“Where is he?”
“You’ll find him in apartment number 43 on the fourth floor. Take the stairs on the northeast corner of the courtyard to get there.”
The dining room rivaled her mother’s description of the grand one at the earl’s manor house. From the inlaid marble floor to the carved oak ceiling, no detail had been spared, including the enormous fireplace of Scottish brownstone. The room contained several recurring motifs: The bronze bas-relief covering the walls was decorated with ears of corn, arrowheads, and Indian faces, a play on the name of the building, she assumed. She gulped down her coffee but passed on the watery eggs. Hopefully, the cook would put more effort into the job once the tenants arrived.
The door to number 43 was partially ajar. She opened it and looked about. Beside her was a fireplace, unusual for a foyer, and away from that led another long, dark hallway. To her left was a grand library, where bookshelves flanked floor-to-ceiling windows. A Juliet balcony overlooked the park beyond, and a pocket door connected it to the adjoining room. The craftsmanship astounded her. Even the Langham, the most luxurious hotel in London, lacked this sort of detailing.
“Mr. Camden?” Her voice echoed off the walls.
“Right in here.”
She hadn’t seen him, tucked out of view on the side of the library.
Mr. Camden leaned over a draftsman’s desk, a pencil in one hand. He looked up at her and smiled. He was the only person she knew here, and the familiarity, though scant, lessened the panic that had gripped her ever since the Dakota had emerged into view.
“How was your trip, Mrs. Smythe?” The room was smaller than the adjoining parlor, but the eastern exposure granted it a lot of light. He put down his pencil and gestured to the two armchairs arranged on either side of the window.
“My trip was fine, thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He ran his hand over his chin. He didn’t have a beard, which was disconcerting at first, as most men wore thick, shaggy whiskers. His smooth skin made it difficult to gauge his age. Midthirties, she suspected.
She cringed with embarrassment. The silence had gone on uncomfortably long as she’d studied his face. “The work inside the building is quite beautiful.”
He shrugged off the compliment. “Overwrought is the expression that comes to mind. But I suppose I had better get used to it, as this will be my new home.”
“You’ll be living here?” She hadn’t meant to sound shocked, but she imagined he would prefer to live in the more established part of the city.
“In this very apartment. Mrs. Camden had her misgivings, but I told her the wilds of the West Side were soon to be tamed. The rest of the furniture as well as my family arrive in a couple of months, once the building is up and running. It’s no Langham Hotel, but I’ll manage.”
“I’m sure your family will enjoy it very much, and it will be a delight to meet your children under less strenuous circumstances. I trust they are all well?”
“Indeed.”
Enough with the niceties. She had much to learn before the building opened for business. “How many apartments have been rented?”
“All of them. Fitzroy will give you a proper tour of the building, but I can show you on the plans.” He stood and led her to a table pushed against one wall, and leafed through several white linen sheets until he found what he was looking for. “This is the fourth floor. We’re here.”
The apartment was enormous, with several bedchambers, anterooms with fireplaces, pantries, servants’ quarters, and an expansive parlor.
Sara examined the layout of the entire floor. “Every apartment seems to be a completely different configuration from the others.”
“Initially, Mr. Hardenbergh assigned six apartments to a floor, all roughly the same size. But after the owner, Mr. Clark, passed away a couple of years ago, the building agent took over, and he unfortunately allowed tenants to have a say in the number of rooms they preferred. I can’t tell you how many nights I spent piecing them together like an enormous jigsaw puzzle, but we’ve finally done it. We’re slightly behind schedule, and I have Mr. Douglas breathing down my neck, but that’s where you come in.”
Before he could continue, a man’s voice echoed down the hall.
“Back here, Mr. Douglas.” Mr. Camden gave Sara a smile. “Your boss has arrived.”
She wished Mr. Camden were her boss, and one look at the man entering the room didn’t change her opinion. He had a lumbering body and blue-black hair. He took off his hat when he saw Sara, and she couldn’t help notice the dark stain of hair dye around the inside of the rim.
“Mr. Douglas, I’m pleased to introduce Mrs. Smythe; she arrived from England yesterday.”
Mr. Douglas eyed her much like a horse dealer might evaluate a disappointing mare.
“Right, then, Mrs. Smythe. We don’t have much time left to us, and things are a mess, as you see. We’ll have to make the adjustments quickly.”
“I’m happy to do whatever needs to be done,” said Sara. “It would help, of course, to know how many maids have been hired and how soon we can get them here.” From the minute she’d awoken, her mind had already swum with the best way to direct a crew of girls to do a deep clean of the place, ridding it of sawdust and polishing the mahogany to a shine.
“Right, well, we have a minor problem there.”
She steadied her gaze and placed one hand on the table. “A problem?” If he’d changed his mind, she’d have nowhere to go. Would he or Mr. Camden pay for her fare home? Would the Langham take her back?
“Now, don’t go all pale on me. It’s not as bad as that.” Mr. Douglas was breathing hard, like he’d run the entire way. He had ruddy cheeks and his lips were unexpectedly cherubic, like a baby’s. “The man we hired to manage the building is unable to join us. His mother is ill, and he’s off to St. Louis to care for her. So I’d like you to be lady managerette. With your qualifications from the Langham in London, we figure it’ll be a good fit.”
“Instead of resident housekeeper?”
“Exactly. It will come with an increase in salary and you’ll be in charge of not only the housekeeper and maids, but the entire staff.”
“I’ve never worked as a lady managerette before.” She’d never even heard the term. It sounded ridiculous, overly feminine and precious.
“No matter. The very fact you were brought in from abroad, from some fancy hotel will impress the tenants. I can’t get anyone else on this short notice, and Mr. Camden spoke highly of you.”
“What does it entail, this job?”
He looked at the ceiling and rattled off a list. “As I said, you’ll oversee the entire staff, be in charge of general operations. Make sure everyone from the porter to the chambermaids are doing their jobs, that they get paid on time, that the invoices and such are taken care of. Keep the place humming. The second floor is to be rented to the out-of-town guests of residents, so that sort of arrangement will certainly be familiar to you. You’ll also screen prospective tenants and ensure the move-in process is seamless.”
“Looks like you’ve got a promotion already, Mrs. Smythe.” Mr. Camden began folding up the plans. “Not bad for the first hour on the job.”
She managed a weak smile. The managers at the Langham came and went every few years, never able to please the owners or the guests, blamed for any mishap. And they were always men. “How many apartments are there in the building?”
“Sixty-five, ranging from four to twenty rooms,” answered Mr. Camden.
