You might have observed that I've been sidestepping the servants' subplots. The truth is, they lack spark. So, for those of you solely relying on these recaps due to a TV blackout, meet Jack, a servant who's been subtly juggling the affections of two maids (just kidding; he seems decent, but where's the justice for Bridget?). For weeks, we've witnessed Jack tinkering away at a clock—a task as captivating as watching paint dry! However, this week, his alarm clock invention finally clicks into action, weaving a charming little narrative thread worth mentioning.
Jack submits a patent application, only to be turned down due to his lack of membership in a horological society. What gives? Tell that to the sharks on 'Shark Tank,' folks. Not one of them seems to belong to a society relevant to their inventions! Jack isn't exactly revolutionizing alarm clocks (one could argue they date back to 725 AD). Mechanical alarm clocks did exist in Jack's era, but Marian claims they were far from perfect. Yet, she offers no further insights. Time to educate impoverished kids on reading, but not a moment to elaborate on the flaws of contemporary alarm clocks? Thanks a lot, Marian. Really, just peachy. Regardless, other Van Rhijn household members pitch in for Jack's patent fees, hopefully paving the way for his whimsical alarm clock enterprise, tailor-made for his Timothée Chalamet-esque physique.
Oscar is being duped, and it's agonizing to behold. As if none of these characters have ever seen a movie before. (#JOKES!) Remember that sketchy railroad investment Oscar bought into last week? The big cheese behind the grand desk informs Oscar they're restricting it to an elite group of high rollers and "tries" to bid Oscar farewell with a check for his modest earnings thus far. Oscar counters with, "What if I hand you a much juicier check?" Big Cheese replies, "Oh, I couldn't possibly; please reclaim your money." Is this scam supposed to be subtle, or is it meant to be as obvious as the nose on your face? I can't tell! The ultimate scam would be if Julian Fellowes penned this plot with a straight face, leaving Oscar with a mountain of railroad booty. Fortunately, that's not the case, and Maud will likely slip away under cover of night, hopefully slipping Oscar a note expressing her fondness but confessing her love for money trumps all. Oh well. Here's hoping Oscar walks away with something tangible.
Excitement buzzes around cousin Dashiell's garden party, except for Marian, tied down to teaching duties. When Agnes learns of this, she chirps that the children's poverty and needs won't vanish overnight. It's a snarky remark, albeit mean-spirited and out of character for Agnes. My perception of her is that she's somewhat domineering but mainly flexes her muscles among equals. Being a straight-up Scrooge McDuck towards underprivileged kids? It smells of Fellowes trying to channel the Dowager Countess of Grantham vibe, albeit with a different character. Later, Agnes refers to the children as a "mob of hobbledehoys," which…well, it's quirky, I suppose.
Dashiell's infatuation with Marian is unmistakable, yet her lack of reciprocal feelings toward him is as evident as the nose on one's face, leaving viewers cringing as he, in a Michael Scott-esque moment during Diwali, pops the question to Marian in front of a gathered crowd. "In front of everyone, Dashiell?!" One can't help but marvel at the sheer number of ill-conceived gestures before the advent of television and film revealed their absurdity. Marian, clearly unenthusiastic, stumbles over her words, torn between her reluctance and Dashiell's decent, if unremarkable, nature. She reluctantly agrees, her consent more a concession than a declaration of love, uttering the words, "If you really want me to."
Switching gears to our real-life melodrama, we have the steel strike in Pittsburgh, loosely based on the Homestead strike, intertwined with Peggy and T. Thomas Fortune's harrowing escape from Alabama. Though we miss the actual flight, we witness their tense concealment in a barn, and their subsequent safe return brings a sigh of relief. Peggy eagerly shares the ordeal with Marian, recounting their terror of the mob and their refuge in the hayloft. Marian's response, "I imagine it brought you closer," is a stunning display of insensitivity. Imagine your African American friend in the 1890s recounting their harrowing escape from a lynch mob, only for you to focus on how it might have "brought you two together." Marian's comment is nothing short of bizarre. Regardless, Peggy confesses to Marian about her kiss with Fortune, who is married, much to Marian's astonishment. Peggy, aware of his marital status, now faces the daunting task of collaborating with him in an era devoid of digital distractions.
Their collaboration becomes necessary when Peggy's mother, Dorothy, informs her of the NYC education board's attempt to shutter schools for Black children, citing doubts about the competency of Black teachers. They head to Sarah Garnet's seamstress shop—a real-life figure—where Peggy decides to pen an article about the looming closures. She pitches the idea to Fortune, who suggests they co-author it. Hmmmm, indeed.
Regarding the steel strike… I'm at a loss, buddy. The Homestead strike didn't bode well for the laborers, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Perhaps this chapter will diverge somehow, but the optimism is hard to muster. As for the strike narrative, it's passable, I suppose? Yet, it only whets my appetite to revisit the magnificent BBC miniseries "North & South," whose strike storyline is infinitely superior. Did you catch that the stern and pragmatic mill owner's mother in that series also portrays Napoleon's equally strict and practical mother in "Napoleon"? It delighted me to no end. Two decades hence, and she still nails the essence perfectly. Meanwhile, George crosses paths with the strike leader's family, awakening to the humanity of the workers. He halts the militia from opening fire, much to his henchman's visible distress and disappointment. This brings me to my question – could the militia really have fired upon them? Picture two lines of rifle-toting men confronting workers who stood chanting in unison. That seems glaringly unlawful! My search for historical precedence yielded naught. Even during the Homestead strike, though gunfire was exchanged and bayonets wounded some, there wasn't a massacre where riflemen riddled a packed crowd. If you're privy to any such incident predating the 20th century, do share in the comments!
We were onto something with the abrupt Robert Sean Leonard-centric marriage storyline. I speculated a nefarious backstory, as such tales often pique my interest, but it transpires that Ada and Reverend Luke's romance was accelerated due to his impending demise. Perhaps RSL's availability was confined to a single season? The writers dragged out the revelation of his illness, frustrating me to no end until they finally disclosed it as cancer. I refrained from delving deeper into which cancers cause back pain, respecting those who've battled the disease. For now, let's leave it at that. Consequently, Ada will soon rejoin Agnes under the same roof, but for the meantime, we're treated to heartwarming scenes of Luke and Ada waltzing in their parlor. It was endearing, yet overwhelmingly sorrowful. Agnes, upon hearing the news, promptly visits Ada's house and envelops her in a heartfelt hug. Well done, Agnes.
And so, here we stand! Larry and Marian's dynamics simmer gently in the background. Bertha was a fleeting presence this week, perhaps indicating Carrie Coon's involvement in another project. Gladys vibes as usual. Mrs. Winterton attempts to pilfer Bertha's box at the Metropolitan Museum, but George thwarts her schemes through threats and a dramatic train abduction. Until next week!
