The Address, page 7
“Leave it for a week or so,” advised Sara. “My guess is she’ll have a new idea by then that may be less painful.”
“Or more.”
They laughed.
“Thank you for trying to reason with her,” he said.
“Well, it’s not like the building is subtle to begin with.” She glanced away, hoping he wasn’t offended.
“It’s far from subtle. I see it as a last gasp in an age of excess. Maybe if I overdo it completely, as is all the rage, we will as a society move on more quickly to another way of design.”
“There’s much to look at. I especially like the gargoyles out front.”
A smile crept over his face. “Now you are teasing me, I can tell. Save it for Mr. Hardenbergh. I promise I won’t take it personally if you find it distasteful.”
“Distasteful is too harsh a word. If you did indeed design this, it appears as if you enjoyed yourself. I see a sense of humor throughout. Is that your contribution?”
Mr. Camden shook his head. “You’ve found me out. I keep waiting for Hardenbergh to come down on me for taking it too far. Corncobs and Indians, for goodness’ sake. Do you mind if I show you something?”
She really should be getting back to her desk, but she couldn’t resist his enthusiasm.
They walked back down to his apartment. Mr. Camden laid his drawings out on the table in the library, blocking the glare with his own shadow. “Blasted sun. Here’s my favorite contribution.”
Mr. Camden was so close to her, she could feel his breath on her neck. She pressed her arms to her sides, embarrassed by the intimacy, as he pointed to a drawing of the low fence that encircled the building. The cast-iron visage of a man with a long, fluffy beard and mustache emerged from each post, with a couple of dragons coiled around the horizontal railings at either side. “Is he supposed to be Father Christmas?”
Mr. Camden’s lip curled up on one side, as if he were trying not to laugh. “It’s a sea god entwined with sea urchins.”
She couldn’t help teasing. “Sea gods and sea urchins, of course. That was my second guess.”
“Just wait until the city gets a sight of what we’ve done up here. Hardenbergh’s reputation will be solidified.”
“And yours?”
“I’ve only just begun. Hardenbergh has promised to help me start up my own firm if the Dakota does well.”
“Won’t you be in competition with each other?”
“Not at all. He’ll continue on with his grand apartment houses and hotels. I want something else entirely. I’m like the canary in the coal mine. If my vision takes off, he’ll have a stake in it. If not, he won’t have risked any damage to his reputation.”
A gust of wind made the drawings flutter. Mr. Camden placed a paperweight on the edge to keep them still.
“It’s awfully bright in here.” Sara pointed to the window. “You really need some draperies. That would help with the wind as well.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll see if the tailor can put something together.”
Sara had seen the tailor’s room in the basement, which so far was empty of everything other than a sewing machine.
“I’m afraid he’s not set up yet. I can make you something, if you like. It won’t be grand, but at least it will keep out the light.”
He looked up. “Could you?”
“I apprenticed as a seamstress, before going to London.”
“That’s right, you had mentioned it. But then you ended up working in a hotel?”
“Yes.” She quickly changed the subject. “I could have them for you within the week, once I have the fabric.”
A lopsided grin crossed his face. “Say, have you been into town yet?”
“No, there’s been no time.”
“You need to see the sights. Tomorrow morning, then. At the same time, I can check in at the office and we can purchase some fabric for the drapes. Thank you for offering to make them—as long as you’re sure it won’t take you away from your duties.”
“Of course not. I assume you’d like them to be Limoges green?” She couldn’t help but tease, and was rewarded when he laughed out loud. She liked his laugh.
“I knew I made the right decision to ship you overseas, Mrs. Smythe.”
Sara slipped out into the hallway before he could notice the blush spreading across her cheeks.
CHAPTER EIGHT
New York City, September 1884
Sara had been asleep only a few hours when the sound of heavy footsteps woke her up. A man’s footsteps. They stopped, and for a moment she thought she’d imagined it. A storm had rocketed through earlier in the evening, bringing with it lightning and fierce, rolling thunder, like the dynamite used to break through the granite boulders along the avenues. But this sound wasn’t thunder. She strained to listen, but now all was still. Unnaturally so.
Someone was outside, in the hallway.
She put her ear against the door but heard only the blood drumming in her ears. She grabbed a poker from the fireplace and yanked the door open.
A man.
He wasn’t one of the staff, she was fairly certain of that. In the dim light, he appeared to be in his late twenties, with a dark beard and mustache.
Her voice quavered. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
He looked away, behind her. “I work here, a builder. Sorry, ma’am. Got lost, is all.”
“No one is meant to be here after hours.”
From around the corner, Mrs. Haines appeared, pulling her wrapper around her and carrying a lamp. “He came out of Daisy’s room.”
The man tensed.
Sara’s insides crumpled with fear. Her breathing was shallow, cutting off the possibility of speech.
“How many are you, then?” The man had a rough voice, thick with menace.
Mrs. Haines glanced over at Sara, her face white with fear.
Sara held the fireplace poker firmly in her hand, pointed midway between the floor and horizontal. At the ready. “There are eight of us on this floor.”
The man eyed the poker, then Sara. “Eight? Where are the other five, then?”
“You best be gone.”
“Is that right?”
His sneering tone reminded her of Mr. Ainsworth, from when she apprenticed as a seamstress. Someone who enjoyed wielding power. As well as Mr. Birmingham, with his filthy looks at the young Langham maids. The Dakota was now her domain, her responsibility, and the thought of this man strutting about like a peacock, as if he owned the place, infuriated her.
An electrical energy surged through Sara. Without thinking, she heaved the poker up over her head and let out a scream that echoed down the hallway, hurting her own ears. The dramatic transformation, from quivering lady in distress to screeching madwoman, worked. In a flash the man was gone, sprinting down the hall and turning the corner. The poker fell to the floor with a clatter, leaving a white scar in the newly varnished floor.
Mrs. Haines and Sara scrambled around the corner. Daisy’s door was cracked open and at first it seemed the room was empty. Until the girl emerged from behind the bed, crying.
A wave of memories flooded over Sara. Of smiling at the seamstress’s husband, who was so kind at first. Of him moving past her and brushing his hand over the small of her back, a gesture that was difficult to parse as to its exact meaning. Of such pride in her work, in what she could accomplish at the sewing machine, and how wonderful it was to hear compliments from him, as his wife was so dour and cold. She’d been a young, eager girl, like Daisy.
“Daisy, are you all right?”
Daisy took a moment to answer, as her big eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Mrs. Smythe. I was in my room and he entered, and . . .” She trailed off.
Sara grabbed Mrs. Haines and Daisy and herded them into her own room, then locked the door behind her. Together, she and Mrs. Haines lifted the desk and placed it in front of the door. She grabbed a handkerchief and sat next to Daisy on the bed. “Here, take this.”
“He said he was lost, but then he pushed his way inside.” Daisy’s voice wavered with fear.
“There now, we’re safe.” Sara looked up at Mrs. Haines, whose face was pale in the lamplight. “We’ll stay together until the morning. He can’t get out through the gate, as Fitzroy locked it behind him, so he’ll be discovered when they all arrive.”
She went to the window, hoping that she might see Mr. Camden and call for help, but all was dark in the courtyard below. “I’ll discuss this with Mr. Camden first thing and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Hopefully, Mr. Camden slept with his doors locked.
“I’ll feel better when the other residents arrive,” said Daisy.
“No matter what, you ought to lock your door and never open it to an unfamiliar voice.” Mrs. Haines’s tone was chiding.
And unacceptable. “The poor girl has been through enough,” said Sara. “Let’s leave her be.” She didn’t know how to ask the question that dogged her. “How long was he in your room?”
“Only a minute or so. I fought back the best I could.”
“You were very heroic.”
Mrs. Haines took a seat in the upright chair against the wall. “They shouldn’t leave us trapped in here with no protection,” said Mrs. Haines. “We all could have been killed. We still could be.”
She was right, but Sara didn’t respond. Daisy lay on Sara’s bed, her head in her lap.
“Poor girl.” Sara stroked her hair. “We’re here now.”
Sara and Mrs. Haines stayed up, listening to the soft sleeping breath of Daisy, craning their ears for the sounds of footsteps, until the dawn broke.
At the clanging of the front gate, Sara and Mrs. Haines gently woke Daisy. Sara led the way downstairs, where Fitzroy manned the entryway as the workmen traipsed into the courtyard, joking and yelling at each other.
“There’s a man here, on the loose,” Sara said. Fitzroy’s eyes squinted with concern as she recounted last night’s episode.
Fitzroy immediately closed and locked up the gate. He shouted for the foreman to take a head count and then asked the women to wait in the reception room while they did a search. Mr. Camden was called for and his tone remained soothing as he questioned a teary Daisy, patting her shoulder when he was finished. The protective gesture almost caused Sara to burst into tears herself. If only she’d had someone who’d seen fit to do the same after her own encounter with Mr. Ainsworth.
Fitzroy blew through the door, huffing. “A window on one of the eastern apartments on the first floor is broken from the inside. He got out that way. I swear, though, Mrs. Haines and I accounted for all the workers at the end of the day yesterday.”
Mrs. Haines nodded but remained silent.
“I assure you we will not let this happen again,” Mr. Camden said to Daisy. “Fitzroy, get that window repaired this morning and we will require a watchman here at night. No point in waiting for the official opening.”
“I’ll add them to the payroll,” offered Sara.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Fitzroy.
“You should be.” Mr. Camden glared at him. “The press and the rest of the city are waiting to see the Dakota fail. A scandal like this would have ruined us before a tenant steps foot inside.”
“Right, sir.” The man looked every one of his sixty-odd years.
“Mrs. Smythe, let’s speak in your office.” Mr. Camden dismissed the others.
She followed him inside, shutting the door behind her.
He paced the small room. “Again, my apologies for the intrusion. It pains me to think I was here the entire time but wasn’t able to come to your aid.”
“We are fine, and I have no doubt Fitzroy won’t let it happen again.”
“As a father, the thought of a strange man roaming the halls and breaking into Daisy’s room is abhorrent.”
His protective nature toward his family touched her, but a small sizzle of jealousy flared underneath. She liked the idea that they were friends, and having his family around would no doubt change that once they arrived.
What an awful, selfish thought. She vowed to be more generous.
He placed his hands on his hips and lowered his chin. “I’m afraid I must ask a delicate question.”
“Yes?”
“Does Daisy need a doctor?”
Sara breathed deeply. “I don’t believe so. The girl insisted that he’d only been in her room for a minute. I believe she was unharmed.”
Mr. Camden looked away, embarrassed. “I am glad of that. In any case, if you do think there’s any need for further help, I hope you won’t hesitate to reach out to me.”
“Of course not.”
She wondered if he still remembered his offer to go into town for curtain fabric. She’d been looking forward to seeing more of the city. Even now, the odor of the dank pigsties wafting in from outside reminded her how far out in the hinterlands she was.
Mr. Camden stood to go but paused at the door. “And let’s not forget—”
“Yes?”
“The housemaids will be arriving this week. Are you prepared to get them settled?”
“Of course. I’ve already assigned them rooms and plan on conducting an orientation.”
“Excellent. And for the trip into town, shall we meet at the front gate at ten o’clock?”
He’d remembered. She smiled, then tamped it down. It was a trip to town, after all, nothing to be so excited about. A similar excitement had very nearly ruined her years ago, while in Mrs. Ainsworth’s employ, and she had remained wary of the ulterior intentions of men ever since. Yet in the intervening decade and a half, she’d proved uncanny at detecting the cur among gentlemen, and Mr. Camden seemed to fall into the latter category. “Very good, sir.”
To Sara’s delight, Mr. Camden arranged for an open landau for the journey, which meant she could view the city without obstruction. Her gaze swiveled around left and right as he pointed out various mansions along Fifth Avenue below the park.
He ordered the carriage to stop at Fifty-Second Street. “Behold the masterpiece that made Richard Morris Hunt the most sought-after architect in New York.”
Sara gasped out loud. “Is this a house for one family?”
“Not just any family. The Rutherfords. Mr. Stafford Rutherford and his wife, Mrs. Alma Rutherford.”
The pale limestone, littered with a multitude of gables, balconies, and finials, seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, rendering it like a mirage compared to the earthen-colored buildings nearby. The structure resembled a doll’s house that had been grossly inflated, as if at any moment it might burst through the severe iron gate that surrounded it. It belonged on a mountaintop in Europe, not a crowded city street.
The design was so ostentatious she almost laughed out loud. “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to look,” said Sara finally.
“There are four thousand millionaires in the city, every one of them trying to top the other. I call the current movement European wedding cake.”
“I have to agree. It’s awfully loud.”
He smiled down at her. “Like the Dakota, no?”
“The Dakota is rather busy as well, I must admit. But it’s a showpiece, and I assume that’s what the tenants want. If they can’t live in one of the Fifth Avenue mansions, why not take up in a building even bigger and fancier?”
“What kind of house would you like to live in, Mrs. Smythe?”
No one had asked her anything of that nature before. Flustered, she couldn’t answer right off. Indeed, she had never imagined living somewhere other than the London bedsit or her Dakota garret. Her place of residence had been secondary to her place of work, always.
“I like my current lodgings perfectly well.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“What would you design if you could do anything, and not have to answer to Mr. Hardenbergh or the Mrs. Putnams of the world?”
“You’re dodging the question.” He gestured for the driver to go forward.
“Very well, then. I suppose a cottage in the country, with a small garden. That would suffice.”
“Not at all. I won’t have it. If you had all the money in the world and could build anything you wanted, here on Fifth Avenue, what would it look like?”
“To think that this is what you do all day, come up with designs. I admit, I haven’t the faintest idea. Certainly not a Richard Morris Hunt mansion. I’d get lost on my way to breakfast.”
He let out a guffaw that pleased her.
“I will draw you a house, how’s that? Once all the chaos has calmed down and the Dakota is moving along smoothly, I’ll draw you something. Even if it’s a thatched-roof cottage that reminds you of home.”
She looked away. Home. As soon as she received her first paycheck, Sara would send half of it back to the cottage at Fishbourne, with a short, cheery note assuring her mother that all was well. Hopefully, that would alleviate the guilt at having moved so far away, but she knew better than to expect a letter of thanks or a return letter at all. Not from Mum.
By the time the carriage made it to Grand Street, Mr. Camden had pointed out the many ways the city had changed during the past several decades, from the weathered wood shacks that dated back a hundred years, to Federal-era brick dwellings, and finally the chocolate brownstones that now dominated the side streets. They passed the Academy of Music, where members of New York’s high society gathered for a taste of culture, and a rustic Gothic Revival church on Twentieth Street where they prayed.
Mr. Camden was the only man in the fabric shop other than the store owner, but he didn’t seem to mind. Together, he and Sara examined silks and damasks, but he dismissed both as too heavy and unwieldy. “I know Mrs. Camden will want to hang something like this once she arrives, but for now I simply need something to block out the harsh rays and still let in light.”
