The situation with Hector, the Duke, has reached a boiling point. He, along with George and Hector's lawyer—whose name escapes me but I believe it's something like Steve or Phil, perhaps even Philbert?—are locked in negotiations over a potential marriage settlement. George is all too willing to throw money at the problem, but Hector demands more, much more! Bertha had hinted at the vast sums involved, and now the duke is irritated, feeling shortchanged by mere immense riches when he had expected fantastically immense ones. In a huff, he storms out! Could this mean Gladys is finally rid of this ducal albatross around her neck? Believe that at your own peril; I've got a bridge I'd love to sell you—though I wouldn't dream of it; it's rather unkind.
Bertha, if anything, is relentless in her pursuits (and quite partial to tiaras, am I correct?). If step one was gaining entry into high society and step two was besting Mrs. Astor at the opera, then step three is undoubtedly marrying her daughter off to the Duke of Buckingham. One might joke about step four being profit, but in reality, they're actually losing quite a pretty penny with this proposition. What if, just imagine, step four were "assassinate the president," and we discover that Bertha Russell was, in truth, the mastermind behind the murder of William McKinley? When queried about her motives, she would simply reply, "Because I could," and cackle maniacally, her ruthless ambition having been suppressed by society to the brink of madness. Where else is she to channel it if not through balls, cotillions, weddings, and diabolically orchestrated political upheavals?
What I'm saying is, Bertha will make this marriage happen, rain or shine. Where Gladys gets her optimism from in this scenario is beyond me. Seriously? Do you think your mother can be stopped? Have you met her? Have you witnessed any of her accomplishments over the past two years?
Then there are Larry and Marian, who find themselves in Bertha's crosshairs after being caught kissing by her lady's maid. Marian, rightly panicking, spills the beans to Ada. Ada's reaction? A stunned, "Whoa, I thought you were going to be cautious," hardly the reassuring words Marian needed. However, Ada suggests that this incident might help Marian decide whether to proceed with Larry or not. If I'd been engaged as frequently as Marian, I'd be cautious too; but then again, one shouldn't be smooching in parlors outside one's own home! Larry, of course, bears some blame too, but he's unperturbed, being a man whose reputation hinges less on his actions and more on how his handkerchief is tucked into his front pocket. I don't know, whatever he whispered to Jack during their suit fitting was certainly queer-coded.
When the conversation turns to Ada, it becomes evident that she and Agnes are still entangled in a tug-of-war over who wields the reigns of power within their home. Agnes remains steadfast in her conviction that the mantle of authority rests upon her shoulders, regardless of the recent shift in financial responsibilities that has altered the answer to the question, "Who foots the bill?" Ada, on the other hand, finds herself growing increasingly frustrated by this stance.
Matters are further complicated when Agnes discovers her name conspicuously absent from a charity list, while Ada's inclusion is almost an afterthought, as if her contribution was an implied necessity. I'm sorry, Ada, but considering your generous donation, it behoves you to draft a note requesting the addition of Agnes's name to the roster. Should Ada decline to participate, well, that's a different matter entirely. Agnes, caught up in a whirlwind of melodramatic fancy, declares that she might as well relocate to Newport, mingling with society's outcasts and women of questionable reputation. "At least they'll have wine," she quips, adopting a tone reminiscent of Baranski's wit.
Ada is also distressed to learn that, among the household, Miss Armstrong stands alone as the sole signer of the temperance pledge. Agnes, incensed, summons Armstrong, who replies solemnly, "Alcohol has wrecked countless lives and brought families to their knees. Haven't you noticed I abstain?" Agnes, unamused, shoots back, "All I notice is you're no party animal." Oh, the barbs they exchange! Identity theft, Jim, is no laughing matter. Really, in the year 2025, must we still mock those who choose sobriety? To that, I can only respond with a noncommittal, "Hmm. Intriguing."
As for Clock Boy's saga, does anyone truly find it captivating? He attempts to peddle his invention, only to be met with disappointment when it fails to sell instantly. Miss Armstrong, however, experiences a heartwarming moment of empathy towards him, evoking a fleeting sense of warmth among us all.
Meanwhile, Peggy finds herself in Newport, residing with her parents under the roof of her mother's cousin, delightfully named Athena Trumbo. The show, however, fails to exploit the comedic potential of such a moniker. Come on, writers! I would have had my characters exclaiming, "Why, Mrs. Trumbo, how delightful!" "Oh, Athena Trumbo, you shouldn't have gone to such trouble!" "I assured them, I insisted, they would make this happen or let it be known that I, Mrs. Athena Adelaide Trumbo III, am no pushover." And so forth.
So, they find themselves at Athena's abode, where Peggy receives an inviting note from the benevolent Dr. William Kirkland, the very physician who aided her recovery at Ada and Agnes's residence. Also in Newport, he expresses a desire to pay them a visit. This scene is nothing short of enchanting, as Dorothy and Athena's camaraderie is a joy to behold. Additionally, Jordan Donica, a beacon in the world of musical theater and a Tony nominee for his portrayal of Lancelot in 'Camelot'—the very same production that featured Phillipa Soo as Guenevere—brings William to life. And who succeeded Phillipa Soo as Natasha in 'Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812' when it made its Broadway debut? None other than Denée Benton, aka Peggy. How delightful are these connections!
Peggy and William embark on a stroll along the rugged shoreline, where Jordan Donica imbues William's speech with a cadence that can only be described as that of a "chuckling gentleman." He extends an invitation to Peggy and her family to attend a gathering at his family's estate. At this soiree, we witness the unsettling revelation that, despite their prestigious background, William's family exhibits condescension and a distressing propensity for colorism. Yet, as an observer, one's sentiment is complicated by the presence of his parents: Phylicia Rashad and Brian Stokes Mitchell. As Peggy's parents, Audra McDonald and Brian Stokes Mitchell—the stars who stole the show in 1998's 'Ragtime'—share the scene. Stokes and McD! United once more. For us, this is a monumental moment. But then, can you fathom Phylicia Rashad towering over you? I'd likely faint on the spot.
Mrs. Kirkland emerges as the primary perpetrator of "I'm terrible" behavior, boasting about her family's five-generation tenure in Newport, looking down upon Peggy's father for his enslaved past and the remarkable life and business he built, and then reprimanding the governess for allowing her grandchildren to venture outdoors without an umbrella, fearing "the last thing they need is more sun." Oh dear. Upon returning home, the Scotts denounce Mrs. Kirkland's unpleasant demeanor. Arthur expresses apprehension about William's family accepting Peggy. Complex relationship dynamics abound!
Turning our attention back to Gladys and Hector, George offers Hector additional funds, albeit with the stipulation that it serves as an income for Gladys. Hector, puzzled, wonders if the extra money is truly his to keep. George is dismayed by Hector's apparent indifference towards Gladys and stands firm in his offer. The following morning, Hector announces his intention to stay elsewhere, prompting Bertha's fury. She declares she will partake of her coffee in the drawing room, far from the breakfast room and the "driving away dukes" drama.
The situation is further complicated by Bertha's lady's maid tattling on Larry's kiss with Marian, sending Bertha into a vigilant watch for any mischievous antics. Yet, who could possibly be vigilant amidst the allure of tiaras adorned for an evening at the opera? Bertha and Gladys find themselves at what appears to be a French opera, likely composed by Meyerbeer—yes, despite his German origin, the world of opera is indeed peculiar, so let it be. Hector is present too, engaging in flirtatious banter with Martha Delancey, whose father holds significant sway in the banking and shipping industries.
Later that night, Bertha sits motionless in bed, staring vacantly into the abyss until George enters. Annoyed by the whole affair surrounding the duke's marriage plans, Bertha insists that triumph in business and society are intertwined. She attempts to ignite his passions, but George, citing fatigue, retreats, leaving behind cracks in their gilded facade.
Bertha cunningly invites Mr. Delancey under the pretense of George's invitation, subtly hinting at ruin for Martha should she wed the duke. Mr. Delancey expresses his reluctance to have his daughter oceans away, to which Bertha, likely mocking inwardly, feigns delight. She requests his calling card and casually mentions Larry's dance with Martha, setting the stage for impending trouble for those who root for Larry and Marian. Do such shippers exist? Undoubtedly, for people adore the escapades of the young.
George, Bertha, and the duke engage in conversations about finance and Gladys's future, with Bertha casually informing the duke that he may take charge of Gladys's allowance, embodying the sentiment, "What's yours is mine, dear." The duke agrees to the marital arrangement, leaving Gladys utterly astounded. She and Hector converse, with him genuinely expressing his desire for her happiness. Naively optimistic, I find myself hopeful against all odds, whispering, "Perhaps this will work out!"
John Singer Sargent unveils Gladys's portrait, earning a "Marvelous" from the duke. George announces the engagement, met with polite, tepid applause. Bertha vows to orchestrate the wedding of the century, while Gladys, nervously fidgeting with her pearl choker, accidentally breaks it—a subtle metaphor from our subtly nuanced narrative!
