It's the most exhilarating juncture "The Gilded Age" has ever witnessed. The intricate webs of relationships and storylines that have meticulously unfolded over numerous seasons are now converging into a cliffhanger. Indeed, it's primarily the Russells who are grappling with these crises, but they are undeniably the linchpin of our narrative, as she astutely pointed out.
Gladys stands at the threshold of her new life as a duchess—a duchess, mind you! Larry is morphing into the very image of his father, George teeters on the brink of ruin, and Bertha confronts the harrowing specter of her dreams and aspirations crumbling to dust. If these were acquaintances of ours, their plight would evoke profound sorrow. But, being the realm of fiction, it fills me with glee.
Our characters are hurtling towards their fates with breakneck speed. I'd love to weave in a railroad metaphor here, but my knowledge of trains leaves much to be desired. George yearns to wield majority control over the Illinois Central Line, yet his assistant, Clay, manages to secure but a mere 30 percent for him. Chicago's dominance is unassailable; other cities be damned! The Merrick family holds the keys to handing over Illinois Central to George, yet perversely, they resist relinquishing their power. How contrary to human nature! George enlists Bertha to host Alfred Merrick, a member of the Metropolitan Board, for dinner, hoping to charm him into cooperation.
Beyond Clay's failed endeavor with the Chicago trains, he also strikes out in his bid to acquire Arizona land, as the mine owners refuse to sell. George is incensed. He laments that the old Clay would have stopped at nothing—even desecrating his mother's grave—to secure those mines for him. It's akin to a lovers' quarrel, where instead of "You never pick me up at the airport anymore," it's "You no longer tread on your mother's grave for me." In a fit of rage, George dismisses Clay. George, that's your indispensable right-hand man! Who understands you better than Clay? George is venturing into dangerous psychological territories, alienating anyone who doesn't give him unwavering support. The irony is, while his ambition knows no bounds—an era that condoned such grandiose schemes—Clay warns him he's gone too far. George, however, believes he hasn't gone far enough.
Now, I'm no businessman; I'm a recapper. On one hand, George has amassed his fortune by taking bold gambles and being unscrupulous. On the flip side, when virtually everyone, including his long-standing patrons and fellow unscrupulous souls, urges caution, it's worth heeding. However, I'm also someone who hesitates to discard the box my iPhone came in, indicating a vastly different risk tolerance from George's. What if his gamble pays off, and he emerges as the Railroad King? Then, he'll have the last laugh, rubbing it in the faces of countless skeptics. Perhaps, at this juncture, he's driven purely by spite.
Delving deeper, it becomes evident that he senses his grasp slipping, a prospect George detests with all his being. Gladys finds herself ensnared in a luxurious but miserable marriage, while George's former allies are deserting him. He no longer commands respect or obedience as he once did, and to add insult to injury, Bertha is now flirting openly with Merrick, the very man who refuses to conduct business with him. Is Bertha at fault here? Hardly, for it was George who tasked her with enchanting Merrick, inviting him over for dinner, and she fulfilled her role admirably. It's undeniable that George is treating Bertha abysmally, despite her past mistake of ruining her daughter's life—a regrettable act, indeed, but one that should now be water under the bridge. Instead, he excludes her from his business endeavors and hurls baseless accusations her way. Marital bliss seems to be in short supply for everyone involved!
Switching gears, let's focus on Gladys's narrative. Oh, how I adore Gladys's storyline! I crave more of her escapades in England, amidst the delightful chaos orchestrated by the formidable yet enchanting Lady Sarah and the ducal tenants who hail her carriage with flowers as though transported to 1513. Sidmouth is a vision of unspoiled beauty, a setting ripe for a modern-day "Beauty and the Beast" tale, with Sarah embodying the beastly allure. I can picture it vividly: Sarah reluctantly concedes that Gladys may use the library if she desires, leading to numerous chance encounters there. Amidst tense book discussions and simmering tensions, passion eventually ignites between them. However, Gladys hesitates, mindful of the societal constraints. Enter Hector, who dismisses their dilemma by asserting his asexuality, stating that he never desired such a liaison in the first place. Ultimately, Gladys and Sarah would rest side by side in eternity, their profound bond celebrated by historians. Why must this show shy away from embracing such a compelling gay narrative? The sole gay couple exists merely to sit across from each other, conversing about con artists, devoid of the passion and intimacy that define many same-sex relationships.
Regarding the canonical events in Sidmouth, Sarah's adherence to etiquette borders on absurdity, yet she defers to Hector's cue to change seats at the table. Come now, Sarah, consistency is key! The English aristocracy chuckles at a mundane joke, leaving Gladys puzzled. Hector explains, "He mistook the valet for the rector," to which Sarah remarks that it will take time for Gladys to appreciate their humor. Perish the thought! That joke was hardly amusing. When Gladys opts not to join the other women post-dinner, Hector quips, "Are you staying for some port? Ho ho ho." Enough, Hector! (Granted, Hector semi-stands up to Sarah, suggesting he might not be entirely odious, but I'm still miffed at him.) Sarah summarily dismisses Gladys's maid, sending her back to America for failing to adequately train her in the ways of duchesshood. I understand Sarah's perspective, yet firing the maid without cause is harsh. Only Lady Sarah could pull such a stunt with impunity, and she does so with such cartoonish relish, making her a delight—albeit not for Gladys.
Back in bustling New York, whispers of Jack's $300,000 windfall from his clock circulate, yet he remains tight-lipped about it. Ada hosts another seance, revealing why mediums could excel as therapists in the late 19th century. Meanwhile, has Andrea Martin adorned herself with the fur of deceased rabbits? Peggy's connection to the other characters this week is tenuous at best, limited to attending a baseball game with William, where she encounters T. Thomas Fortune, the married newspaperman. He extends an invitation for Peggy to interview Frances Ellen Watkins Harper in Philadelphia about her suffrage event. Peggy's intrigue is palpable, for FEW Harper is nothing short of remarkable. Long hailed as the first Black woman to publish a novel (a claim contested by some, but still, she penned a highly acclaimed novel), she was also a poet, an abolitionist, a temperance advocate, and a fervent suffragist. Let us hope her presence is felt in the forthcoming episode.
In any case, Peggy declared with resolve that she would conduct the interview and embark on the journey to Philadelphia. William graciously escorted her to the train station, only to be met with an unanticipated surprise: T. Thomas Fortune awaiting to accompany her. Peggy handled the situation with remarkable poise, asserting firmly that she would either go alone or not at all, establishing her boundaries clearly. When William stepped in, urging Fortune to depart, the latter responded with an abrupt and uncalled-for shove towards William. The situation escalated in the blink of an eye! Peggy reiterated, her tone unwavering, that she intended to pen the article solo or return home altogether. Thankfully, Fortune eventually relented and left. What was your intention, sir? We were all privy to it, but seriously, how disappointing. William, on the other hand, commendably stood by her side. If only he could exhibit such support towards his mother.
Marian and Larry were steaming ahead with unyielding enthusiasm – a train metaphor if ever there was one. After George entrusted Larry with the task of stepping in for Clay and venturing to Arizona, Larry revealed his intentions to propose to Marian. George, ever supportive, expressed his encouragement while simultaneously urging Larry to make haste for Arizona. Thus, Larry and Marian embarked on a stroll in the park, where she confessed that John had conceived the clock, and they had sold it together. "That's a true partnership," she murmured. Is it indeed, Marian? Or did Larry merely leverage his connections, contributing nothing tangible? Imagine a pitch on Shark Tank where a 50% stake in Jack's patent was requested – the viewers would have been outraged, wouldn't they? Fifty percent? Without even an offer from Lori akin to QVC? Astonishing, indeed.
Larry led Marian beneath some willow trees – forgive me if they weren't willows, but that's the poetic liberty I'm taking. He popped the question, and she eagerly accepted. A heartwarming, lingering shot of their kiss followed. Ada and Agnes offered their congratulations later, as Larry informed them of his plans: a dinner at Delmonico's with his buddies and a departure for Arizona the next day, with an anticipated return in a month. Little did they know, "Delmonico's" was code for a less savory establishment, as Larry took Jack to The Haymarket. The scene was a wild mix of women boxing, men fiddling, and Larry hinting at the variety of companionship one could find there – "men, if you fancy." Do you fancy that, Larry? We all recall that particular scene involving Jack. Larry caught sight of a familiar face, and for a moment, I thought it might be Laura Benanti, a.k.a. the woman with whom he had an affair – whose character's name has escaped my memory entirely. But no, it was Maud Beaton, the woman who had fleeced Oscar of all his money.
The following morning, Larry bid farewell to Marian and revealed to Oscar that he had encountered Maud. Oscar, seated at a table with John Adams (in a moment of unabashedly gay camaraderie), pondered whether to confront her. John opined that if Oscar's motive was revenge, Maud had already suffered enough, consigned to labor at The Haymarket. I sincerely hope Oscar catches up with her and uncovers the reasoning behind her actions. Why, Maud!
We embarked on a fleeting excursion to Newport for a charity gala hosted by the esteemed Mamie Fish. Aurora, accompanied by Marian, graced the event with high hopes, only to be met with Mamie's hesitant warning, "Ah, perhaps it might be prudent to reconsider your stay. Mrs. Astor is in attendance, and her disapproval of Aurora's marital status looms large." While the other female attendees ostracized Aurora with derogatory whispers, Bertha stood out as a beacon of kindness. This versatile lady confided in Aurora, revealing that Mrs. Astor's scrutiny of Aurora's divorce served merely as a diversion from her own daughter Charlotte's troubled marriage. Not a very noble act, Mrs. Astor. Aurora departed with Marian, while Mamie boldly confronted Mrs. Astor, stating that she must either embrace Aurora back into society or face the exile of her own daughter should she ever divorce. Mrs. Astor remained stoically silent.
Our collective concerns regarding George and Bertha deepened with this dramatic turn of events. George, already chilled towards her, was pushed to the brink by a heart-wrenching letter from Gladys, revealing her profound unhappiness within her marriage. This revelation made a twisted sense; he had squandered funds he couldn't afford to lose on a union deemed beneficial for his daughter (per his wife's conviction), and now found himself teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, with his daughter trapped in a miserable existence. To add insult to injury, George suspected Bertha of flirting with Alfred Merrick. He accused her of weakening him, a sin he found hard to forgive. Bertha, visibly flustered, vowed to journey to England to rectify the situation; to mend everything that had gone awry. George, however, responded coldly, "Don't anticipate my presence upon your return." What? Where could George possibly go? The club? Oh, the sheer melodrama of it all!
Five stars, indeed. This is precisely what we have yearned for – let Bertha wage a valiant battle to win back George's heart.
