For those of us enthralled by 19th-century American women's history, this episode ignited anticipation with a promising spark! Marian eagerly informs her aunts about Clara Barton, the "Angel of the Battlefield," delivering a lecture at Aurora Fane's residence to rally funds for the nascent American Red Cross. Barton, a former patent clerk turned nurse, distinguished herself on the Civil War frontlines by tending to the wounded, sanitizing field hospitals, and distributing vital supplies. Post-war, her dedication extended to identifying and respectfully burying over 20,000 missing soldiers—truly, her accomplishments far outshine those of any characters we encounter today. Enthused, Marian and Ada decide to attend her talk together.
The episode weaves a tapestry of plots: George Russell locks horns with fellow aristocrats over finances; Ada teeters on the brink of acquiring a beau; Oscar embarks on a quest for a beard; Marian and Tom's saga continues, among other subplots; and Peggy's optimism about racial harmony is swiftly dashed by prejudice. Oh, and let's not forget the charming date between the Irish Maid and the Younger Butler!
If you harbored high hopes for Clara Barton's prominent role, think again! She barely makes an appearance. Justice for Clara Barton, indeed! During a post-lecture chat, Mrs. Astor mentions Presidents Rutherford B. Hayes and James Garfield to Barton, and I must confess, hearing Hayes referenced on HBO instead of my usual Twitter feed was a surreal experience. Moreover, Mrs. Astor erroneously slanders Garfield's support for the Red Cross—he was indeed pro-Red Cross until his tragic assassination. Her misconception will surely leave her embarrassed once enlightened.
The true crux of this scene lies in the introduction of Cornelius Eckhard III, a former acquaintance of Ada's, who flirts in an endearingly nerdy manner. Marian invites him to visit, prompting giggles from Ada. However, the true highlight should be the radiant splendor of Kelli O'Hara as Aurora Fane. Allow me to revise—she doesn't merely glow luminescently; she shimmers with a pearlescent beauty, her gown and gleaming hair rendering her otherworldly stunning.
Ada finally confides in Marian about the enigmatic Mrs. Chamberlain, revealing a scandal so underwhelming it left me fury-stricken. The entirety of the scandal? Mrs. Chamberlain conceived a child out of wedlock and subsequently married the father. That's it. No further drama. I had harbored hopes that Mrs. Chamberlain might embody Victoria Woodhull, a.k.a. "Madam Satan," a pioneering stockbroker, medium, suffragist, and the first female presidential candidate who exposed a prominent clergyman's affair. Backed by Cornelius Vanderbilt, all the elements seemed ripe for an intriguing narrative. Alas, perhaps she'll make an appearance later.
So, the narrative surrounding George Russell, wherein he lambasts "rich people fighting over the need for more money," is intertwined with his bribery of city aldermen to secure approval for his train station. Having immersed myself in 19th-century literature during my college days, I find myself utterly baffled by the current uproar. After passing the legislation and reaping profits from the marginally purchased stocks, the aldermen are now poised to rescind the law, thereby thwarting the train station's construction. I grasp that part of the saga. However, George's ire stems from their apparent scheme to tank the stock prices and then reacquire them? Despite having perused two articles on stocks, I remain in the dark, perhaps due to some obscure intricacies involving short selling.
In an attempt to contextualize, I delved into Martha Stewart's saga to see if her escapades mirrored such maneuvers, but no, her crime involved insider trading. Did you know that the illicit gains from her insider trading amounted to a mere $45,000? Sure, it's a tidy sum to me, but Martha Stewart, with a 2002 net worth of $650 million, could barely notice it – a mere 0.0069 percent of her fortune. It seems that even the wealthy have an insatiable thirst for more (Martha Stewart, please refrain from seeking me out).
George and Bertha share a moment where he vows to risk their entire capital to exact revenge on the aldermen. She reassures him, reminding him of his past successes, hinting at a delightfully nefarious couple dynamic. Yet, the chemistry between them is non-existent. I yearn for it! However, the dialogue is stiff, and some actors struggle to transcend the "I'm portraying someone from the 1800s" mindset, resulting in wooden, subpar performances. By "some," I mean everyone except Carrie Coon.
Oscar van Rhijn graces the Russells' dinner table, attempting to engage Gladys in conversation, but her thoughts are elsewhere, fixated on a man we've yet to meet: Archie Baldwin. Oscar later confides in John Adams' descendant, viewing Gladys as the perfect front for his upcoming nuptials. Here's hoping better fortunes await Gladys. I wonder if she'll find herself entangled in a scenario reminiscent of "Washington Square." Poor Gladys. George dislikes Oscar, and Bertha promptly dismisses him. Later, George and Bertha indulge in amorous activities in bed, only for the camera to shift focus to a candle, blurring them into the background. Is this "Days of Our Lives: The Gilded Age"? Nay, for even its plots would offer more entertainment. Recall when Marlena was imprisoned in a colossal golden birdcage beneath Paris, ultimately saving John from the guillotine at the hands of the malevolent Stefano? Why can't "The Gilded Age" embrace such drama?
Marian and Peggy converge on Tom's office, with the intent for Peggy to engage in conversation, yet ironically, Peggy remains conspicuously silent throughout their encounter. Tom and Marian retire to his office in private, an arrangement that strikes me as somewhat inappropriate, but perhaps I'm overstepping. He extends an invitation for lunch at Delmonico's, specifying the Madison Square location, not the one on Broadway. My attempts to decipher the rationale behind this choice were complicated by the myriad of Delmonico's establishments that opened, closed, and even suffered from fires throughout the 19th century. My best guess is that either the Broadway location was deemed too modest or it was integrated within a hotel, lending it an unsavory reputation. Tom suggests a visit to Madison Square to admire the Statue of Liberty's hand, which was temporarily displayed there as a fundraising ploy for the completion of the statue. He mentions the outing as if spending time with Marian is a special privilege.
Their meeting transpires, and Tom pulls a surprise move akin to unfurling a banner of red flags by popping the question. He muses that he could have proposed to her on their first meeting in his office and encourages her to send a message whenever she wishes to see him. I sincerely hope that day never comes. Oh dear.
Now, let's delve into Peggy's segment, who remains voiceless for an astonishing 23 minutes despite her numerous scenes. When she finally breaks her silence, it's unfortunately only with the servants, which leaves much to be desired. The publisher of the Christian Advocate expresses interest in publishing her short stories, potentially marking a triumph for Peggy. We eventually encounter her father outdoors, who offers forgiveness, which Peggy receives with resentment. It seems their disagreement hinges on her decision to pursue writing, with him voicing concerns about the scarcity of Black writers who can sustain themselves financially. A valid concern, indeed! However, Peggy is extraordinary, and her father should unwaveringly support her endeavors.
Peggy experiences a harrowing moment of realization, fearing her father was right, yet she hesitates to confront him with the truth. When she visits the publisher, she's made to wait, sidelined due to racism, until all other visitors have been attended to. The publisher, who is refreshingly honest, delivers a devastating meeting. He desires to publish one of her stories but insists on changing the little Black girl's race to white. When she challenges this, he concedes that maintaining the story's authenticity would alienate much of their Southern readership. Peggy momentarily considers capitulating, but he adds an insulting twist: her race must remain concealed, and she must sign a document prohibiting her from publicly acknowledging her authorship.
"The Christian Advocate is urging me to weave a tale of deceit," Peggy articulated so succinctly. The publisher boasts of white males carousing in a nearby tavern, yearning to switch places with her, to which she retorts they could never fill her shoes. Spot on, Peggy! Absolutely! This predicament is indeed dire, prompting her to decline publishing her tale within their pages.
As I watched this unfold, I couldn't help but ponder Frances Ellen Watkins Harper and her novel, Iola Leroy, albeit it wouldn't see the light of day until 1892. And yes, I diligently searched for the Christian Advocate's circulation figures post-1840, to no avail. "Let it go, Burton," I muttered to myself.
Do you truly wish for me to delve into the intricacies of the railway stocks and financial maneuverings? Alright, in layman's terms: George makes a bold move to acquire all the stocks the aldermen are selling, sending them into a tizzy over the prospect of financial ruin, though the rationale escapes me. Rest assured, Julian Fellowes understands the nuances here. Patrick Morris, in a panic, confides in his wife Anne, while Charles Fane seeks solace in Aurora. O’Hara's portrayal here is nothing short of mesmerizing, and I finally found catharsis through her heart-wrenching grief, akin to what the ancient Greeks cherished. Morris urges Anne to grovel before Bertha, but she defies him, refusing to kowtow. Not a hint of subservience. Instead, she chuckles and pleads for mercy, reading the room perfectly, Anne! Bertha, rightfully so, shows her the door.
Mr. Eckhard, the gentleman from the Clara Barton discourse, pays a visit to Ada and Agnes. Agnes cleverly excuses Ada and informs Eckhard that if money is his motive, Ada possesses none, and he'd best be on his way. Understanding his true intentions, he complies, leaving Ada and Agnes to share a heartwarming sisterly moment. I hold Agnes in high esteem. More scenes of Agnes and Peggy, conquering the world through their letters!
The aldermen descend upon George, beseeching him to halt their financial demise. Fane laments, "We underestimated you, thinking ourselves the cleverer, when in truth, we are the fools," amusement bubbling within me. Morris, literally on his knees, laments their impending poverty. Tears stream down his face. Russell, stern and unwavering, tells them to face the consequences and dismisses them. Morris returns home, his intentions of self-harm all too apparent. And indeed, he takes his own life, a scene rendered even more heart-wrenching by its juxtaposition with George's leniency towards the aldermen. Morris's suicide concludes this episode, leaving the social order's fate hanging in the balance for next week.
