Oh my goodness! Was that episode nothing short of breathtaking? Indeed, it was a whirlwind of events that left me utterly captivated! As Ada's wedding drew near, I couldn't help but feel as if I were watching an intense episode of "The Bachelor," thinking, "They surely can't squeeze in a rose ceremony with mere minutes to spare!" Yet, they managed to pull it off. Kudos to whoever orchestrated this week's thrilling plot twists; this is precisely how "The Gilded Age" should be done – a mixture of absurd, over-the-top events orchestrated by the wealthy intertwined with genuinely significant moments. It's all about showcasing the opulence and excess of that era, if you will.
Bertha, now in Newport, finds herself in the midst of preparations for a lavish dinner honoring the Duke of Buckingham, only to face potential sabotage at the hands of the cunning Mrs. Winterton. Just kidding, of course. Mrs. Winterton's schemes to ruin the event were as juvenile as they come, akin to a ten-year-old's ideas when prompted with, "How would you sabotage a dinner party?" Idea one: Ruin the sauce! Imagine the guests' reactions – revolted by the disgusting taste, wondering why they even bothered to attend. Embarrassment ensues! Idea two: Spill scalding soup on the duke's trousers! What a disaster! Hot soup pants, indeed – revenge achieved, right? Come on, Winterton. When you tossed that newspaper into the fire, I expected something far more clever from you. It's laughable how these feeble attempts at revenge completely fell flat. You can't even get your revenge right, Winterton!
Witnessing Bertha's triumph is incredibly gratifying, despite her husband being a ruthless robber baron intent on crushing a union. Moreover, we're observing her growth as a Lady of Society, as she casually mentions her desire for Bernardaud china paired with Saint Louis glassware. I've researched both, and they're indeed worth every penny she spent. Bravo, Bertha, for acquiring such knowledge without the aid of the internet. It must be challenging indeed. She's also aware of the need for a new lady's maid, as her temporary maid, Adelheid, lacks expertise in tiara placement. Okay, just kidding about that. I've watched this show; tiaras are a weekly occurrence, and how else are they to showcase them to their fullest advantage without a skilled tiara artisan? It seems like nobody wants to work these days, and by work, I mean mastering the intricate art of tiara placement.
Now, about Peggy and T. Thomas Fortune – I'll just call him "Fortune" because "T. Thomas" is tongue-twisting. They're still in Tuskegee, enjoying the company of students at the Tuskegee Institute. The good times, however, are bound to take a turn for the worse, and sure enough, they do. Peggy and Fortune dine at a Black woman-owned restaurant with an ambiance that's out of this world when a racist white man bursts in, behaving despicably, grabbing the owner by the neck, and demanding food. Fortune steps in to stop him and ends up shoving the man's accomplice, prompting them to flee, grab their belongings from the Washingtons' house, and hide in a barn. Terrifying, indeed. In the barn, adrenaline takes over, leading to an unexpected kiss between them. He's married, and I'm not condoning this, but adrenaline can make people do irrational things. Their situation was genuinely frightening, and I sincerely hope they find their way out soon.
Now, let's delve into the enigmatic world of Maud. My initial theory about her was born out of a historical misconception. I recalled Jay Gould once fleeing to New Jersey to evade arrest for his railroad shenanigans. However, it transpires that this occurred some two decades prior to the events of our tale, which left me somewhat disheartened. Maud, a character teeming with potential excitement, left me indifferent until a thought struck me like lightning: "Could this all be an elaborate ruse to lure wealthy investors into this railroad venture?" The idea of Maud as a master con artist ignited my enthusiasm. Though I haven't completely abandoned hope, it seems Gould refrained from any conniving escapades in the 1880s, eventually passing away. Nevertheless, hope remains eternally spring-like.
In this episode, Maud sports a hat reminiscent of Georgia O’Keeffe's style, hinting at a possible union of equals with Oscar. Imagine a scenario akin to 'The Lady Eve', where Oscar marries Maud despite her duping him. The imaginary show I conjured sounds delightful indeed.
Recall from our last discourse, Ada is now betrothed to Reverend Luke Forte, who proposed after an extremely fleeting acquaintance. As someone who thrives on fictional intrigue, my suspicions were aroused instantly (yes, I am indeed suspicious, and they weren't unfounded). Despite the oddity of their swift engagement and impending marriage, all seems well on the surface. Ada confides in Agnes, and the ensuing conversation unfolds as one might expect, culminating in Christine Baranski's finest scene of the season. She labels Ada a spinster, always has been, and commands Bannister to withdraw his felicitations. The icy retort, "Please do not tell me how to speak to my own butler," encapsulates the essence of our beloved show. When else would one encounter such dialogue in daily life, unless you address your dog as your butler, which could be adorably quirky or perhaps just plain bizarre.
Ada reveals not only her engagement but also that the wedding is set for the following week. What on earth is transpiring here? If this were one of those Christian circles' stories where abstinent youth tie the knot hastily due to passions unfurling, well, okay, but they're both in their fifties. I get it. Yet, it remains questionable. Trust no one! Be ever vigilant! What dark secrets could the reverend be harboring? But no, their words of love, marriage, and embracing new beginnings preclude such revelations, no matter how amusing they might be. After initially refusing to attend, Agnes finds herself sufficiently shamed into making a dramatic entrance at Ada's wedding. Oscar walks Ada down the aisle, and everyone is united in joy. This bliss can't last, can it? Or perhaps it can. Intriguing, indeed.
Briefly, let's address the subplots simmering beneath the surface. Bertha's attempt to pair Gladys with the duke is apparent, but I'm concerned about its impact on the Russells' marriage. As we've discussed, Gladys is Consuelo Vanderbilt, who doesn't love the duke, and George is determined she'll wed someone she adores. This bodes ill!
The other plot, which I'm fifty-fifty about, hints at Larry and Marian being endgame, maintaining a low profile until a pivotal moment reveals their love. If true, it's been exceedingly subtle, so only time will tell.
