Did you ever fathom that during the Gilded Age, a sumptuous silk-stocking dinner might feature a pool of elegant swans gracing the table's heart? Such opulence sets the tone for this enthralling series. I seek those swan-adorned tables, where luxury knows no bounds. This week, the Russells steal the spotlight, with Bertha forcefully inserting herself into the exclusive Four Hundred circle. I admire how the narrative focuses on fewer plotlines, allowing us to delve deeper into the characters' souls. Bravo, show!
Our tale begins with Gladys Russell attempting a clandestine escape, aided by a loyal maid. Gladys, in her selfish pursuits, continually jeopardizes the livelihoods of those who serve her. Just last week, it was her governess who bore the brunt, and now, another servant stands on the brink. Fortunately, Bertha intercepts Gladys before her flight, sparing the maid from becoming an unwitting accomplice to her folly.
Now, let's delve into the crux of the matter. Bertha's desire to shield Gladys from society's gaze until they gain the seal of approval from The Fancy People is logical. However, Bertha strikes me as a mirror image of Alva Belmont, alias Alva Vanderbilt, whoforcefully etched her name into society's pages. Alva compelled her daughter Consuelo into a loveless marriage with the Duke of Marlborough—Consuelo's tears on her wedding day spoke volumes of her unhappiness. This tale of marrying an English aristocrat might resonate, reminding us of Cora Crawley's union in 'Downton Abbey,' albeit a more successful venture.
Bertha's cryptic hints about Gladys's future suggest a similar fate. Poor Gladys, yearning only to wed her kind, unassuming suitor. Yet, such dreams seem distant, especially after George's conversation with him.
Over at the van Rhijns', Marian harbors a desire to witness Clara Barton's inspiring talk in Dansville, New York, the birthplace of the American Red Cross's first branch. Aurora Fane extends an invitation, but Agnes remains skeptical, her doubts fueled not merely by Aurora's recent questionable decisions. Agnes posits that charity serves dual purposes: it raises funds for the downtrodden and serves as a stepping stone for social climbers. Imagine being part of an elite club where philanthropy is met with suspicion, lest it be a guise for social mingling. The audacity! Bear in mind, the Astors amassed their fortune by hunting beavers in Michigan. Bertha, you have quite a hurdle to leap before the descendants of those beaver killers welcome you into their gilded circles.
Agnes wisely informs Marian that she may go, provided Peggy accompanies her, a tactic astutely devised given Marian's incessant penchant for poor judgment. Just recall the shoe fiasco from last week—Marian's still grappling with the aftermath, alongside Peggy. How could she ever recuperate from bringing an old shoe-laden carpetbag to Peggy’s affluent parents' abode? I’d cower in embarrassment, never to resurface. Marian’s half-hearted attempts at apologizing to Peggy lack sincerity; she tries to justify herself by claiming curiosity about Peggy's life, despite Peggy’s reluctance to share. Marian: Perhaps the epitome of ill-advised decisions? I struggle to conjure a scenario where a friend employed by my family, who never divulged personal details, would find me uninvited at their parents' house, offering up old shoes (an incident I'll forever cringe at), under the guise of entitlement to know more. Marian, look at your life, at your decisions!
Remember Miss Armstrong, the van Rhijns' employee whose exact role remains vague? Portrayed by Broadway luminary Debra Monk, she often grumbles at Peggy. A glimpse into her life beyond the van Rhijn mansion reveals her tending to her invalid, elderly mother in a dilapidated tenement. This context explains her grumpiness; caretaking is arduous and stressful, exacerbated by financial constraints and her mother’s unkind treatment. Despite this, Miss Armstrong manages to maintain a semblance of decorum towards Peggy, embodying a complex character enriched by her backstory.
Aurora hosts a luncheon for Ward McAllister, the creator of the Four Hundred and Mrs. Astor’s right-hand man, portrayed by Nathan Lane with a nasal Southern accent (unclear precisely where from, but assuming Savannah, given McAllister’s origins). Nathan Lane’s adoption of this accent is striking, as his voice is unmistakable, even when he voiced a talking meerkat. He assures Bertha that he’ll ensure her house attracts the right crowd, propelling her closer to social triumph.
I eagerly anticipate the upcoming trip, eager to witness Clara Barton speak, as the ladies will stay overnight—a perfect setting for some much-needed queer camaraderie. Thus far, we’ve witnessed none. Oscar is somewhat paired with a descendant of John Adams, who barely appears, leaving me yearning for more representation of queer women. Among Aurora Fane, Marian, Peggy, and Bertha, pairing Marian with anyone seems problematic. The dynamics between Peggy and the others are also problematic, leaving Aurora Fane and Bertha as viable options. I wouldn’t mind that pairing at all.
Unfortunately, rather than witnessing the anticipated, electric tension brewing between Aurora and Bertha in the hotel hallway following Clara Barton's discourse, it was Marian and Tom Raikes who stole the scene – yes, Tom, the creepily persistent shadow who tags along after Marian incessantly. He escorts Marian back to her room, finding themselves alone in the hallway, a blatant disregard for Marian's reputation. Bravo, Tom, for your lack of consideration. As they share a kiss, he attempts to devour her face with ardor. Thankfully, Peggy arrives like an angel of mercy, halting his advances. Beat it, Tom!
Peggy enters Marian's room and regales her with a tale of her own romantic entanglement, a love affair with a humble stock boy named Elias at her parents' pharmacy. Now, here's the rub: I place infinitely more trust in Peggy's discernment than Marian's. I'd wager that Elias, the Stock Boy, was a decent fellow, far from creepy.
I am utterly disheartened that the hotel's corridors offered no more excitement than that revolting hallway kiss. Imagine the scenarios that could unfold – corsets in need of unlatching, with maids nowhere to be found!
Eventually, everyone returns home, where Bertha extends a luncheon invitation to Archie Baldwin, Gladys's paramour. Adelheid, Gladys's new lady's maid, beams with excitement at the prospect. I cringe whenever they utter her name, Adelheid, which, though still in use in Germany and neighboring countries, conjures images of historical figures like Aethelred the Unready, amusement for me alone.
Church, the Russells' butler, wisely cautions that Bertha plays a long game, advising against making assumptions based solely on this invitation. Indeed, Church is spot on. Archie appears genuinely kind and deeply fond of Gladys, a revelation I hadn't anticipated. He describes her as "just about the best girl there is," an endearing sentiment. However, Bertha ensures that Archie and George are left alone, and George presents Archie with an ultimatum: a prestigious brokerage job if he severs ties with Gladys via a final letter and never contacts her again. Harsh, perhaps, but predictable. Archie, however, is taken aback.
Archie hesitates to accept, but George warns that refusal will blacklist him from the financial sector forever. Poor Gladys. Even George, who likes Archie, bows to Bertha's master plan, forcing Archie out the door. As Archie bids farewell to Gladys, her brother Larry confronts Bertha, demanding an explanation. Really, why are we focusing so much on Tom when Larry, steadfast and far more handsome, stands right there?
Gladys, visibly devastated, attempts to confide in her mother, professing her love for Archie. Yet, Bertha remains unyielding in her conviction that she alone knows what's best for Gladys. She reminds me of Consuelo Vanderbilt, a figure destined for wedding-day tears.
George's chief enforcer arrives with dire news: a train derailment in Pennsylvania, claiming at least three lives so far. George fears this could ruin the company and the Russells. "Then ensure your survival," Bertha replies coldly. And thus, we're left hanging on that precipice of suspense!
