This season has truly ramped up the excitement. Recall the days when everyone merely lounged in circles, sipping tea and indulging in idle chatter? (Occasionally, Peggy would meticulously jot down notes.) Now, we witness transatlantic confrontations and clandestine gatherings of industrial giants. Peggy is actively organizing suffrage meetings for Black women, and none other than Phylicia Rashad graces the scene. What an era to be alive in! Granted, the world presents numerous dire challenges, but then again… there's Carrie Coon.
This week teems with action: Bertha ventures to England to assist Gladys, George endeavors to acquire a railroad, Jack's clock fortune comes to light, Marian reacts to Larry's trip to the Haymarket, Oscar engages in conversation with Maud Beaton, Peggy enlightens William Kirkland about T. Thomas Fortune, Ada faces a crisis involving her medium, and two servants harbor mistaken beliefs about the gossip leaker to the papers. (Their suspicions are way off the mark.)
Last we saw George, he was dramatically announcing to Bertha that she shouldn't count on his presence upon her return from England. Alright, George. You're grappling with overwhelming emotions at the moment. We next catch sight of him at JP Morgan's residence. Adore JP. He has convened Russell, the Merricks, and Risley Sage. Given that Sage's first name is Russell, it seems they're sidestepping that name altogether and sticking with his other two. Historically speaking, Sage appears to be quite the jerk, as evidenced by the time someone tossed a bomb into his office, and he utilized an employee as a HUMAN SHIELD, refusing to compensate the then-disabled employee for damages. The New York Times headline declared, "Sage Must Prove that Laidlaw Would Have Been Injured to the Same Extent Had He Not Been Used As a Defense Against Norcross’s Bomb." So, Sage didn't even bother denying his actions. His defense amounted to, "Well, he would've been maimed anyway."
Russell finds himself in the company of Sage and the Merricks, who currently possess a substantial shareholding in the coveted Illinois Central Railroad. Morgan reveals that he's sequestered them at his house, cut off from their horses, and no one's leaving until someone secures 51% ownership of the railroad. Additionally, George's former best friend, Clay, is present! Working for Sage. Betrayal! George and Morgan strive to persuade the Merricks that Sage is unsavory, and it works—except it's merely a handshake agreement, devoid of legal binding. A risky gamble, George! Sage and Clay concoct a plan to disseminate the notion in the newspapers that Russell Industries is in distress, causing the stock to plummet and the Merricks to withdraw from the deal. Oh no! But then again, George, what did you anticipate Clay would do? You unceremoniously dismissed him. This is his forte, so of course, he's now working for some shady character. George desperately needs to secure more funds, but lenders remain elusive. What they crave is a British heiress for Larry. It's akin to a cross-cultural exchange, albeit with money instead of culture. George vows that if he can't salvage his company, he'll let it burn. He's been radiating intense energy lately.
After the tumultuous altercation last week between T. Thomas Fortune and Dr. Kirkland, Peggy finds herself encumbered by a sense of discomfort. Marian, ever the encourager, urges her to bare her soul to William, an act that takes immense courage considering the societal norms of the 1880s—or is it the 1890s? Which era have we stumbled upon? In an age when men held sway, it was anyone's guess how they might respond to women asserting themselves in any capacity.
Peggy confides in William, revealing that her time working for Fortune blossomed into something deeper. With a nonchalant air, William remarks that everyone possesses a past. Peggy, seemingly poised to divulge her pregnancy, finds herself thwarted as William insists that he is solely concerned with the present. William, you have my undivided attention, especially given the show's penchant for revealing engaged men as suspects. Yet, they are not engaged—at least, not yet.
Peggy then informs William about F.E.W. Harper's forthcoming tea gathering, aimed at fostering discourse on women's suffrage. He entrusts her with the task of inviting his mother. Mrs. Kirkland, upon attending, promptly expresses her disdain for the gathering's progressive leanings, believing that the vote should be left to future generations. Peggy, undeterred, asserts that she very much represents that next generation.
Misled by William's silence, Mrs. Kirkland had envisioned a pleasant afternoon of recipe swapping and child-rearing tales. When Peggy confronts William about this misunderstanding, he cavalierly claims his mother wouldn't have attended had she known the true nature of the event. Sir, really?
As Mrs. Kirkland and William depart, she quizzes him on his vision of Peggy as a homemaker and mother. William, to his credit, expresses pride in a wife who champions reform and equality. His mother corrects him, wisely distinguishing between a wife and any woman who might do so. If these sentiments hold true, William, it behoves you to exit stage left and cease toying with Peggy's heartstrings. She has weathered far too many storms.
Meanwhile, Larry finds himself in Arizona, seeking fortune in copper mines. Oscar inadvertently lets slip that Larry was once at Haymarket, a euphemism for a brothel—a place where carnal pleasures are bought and sold. Marian, taken aback, rushes to inform her aunts. Agnes, with dramatic flair akin to Christine Baranski, suggests calling it quits with Larry, comparing him to an operatic tenor, perhaps a touch melodramatically. Ada, however, urges Marian to hear Larry out. But Marian, heartsick, perceives an insurmountable rift—a shadow casting doubt on their relationship. She pens a heart-wrenching breakup letter, entrusting it to Church to deliver in a month's time. Church, puzzled, suggests a telegram would suffice, but Marian's emotions are too profound for such a impersonal medium.
Switching gears to Ada and Agnes, Armstrong shares with Agnes the extent of Jack's earnings from his clock. Agnes reacts with over-the-top grandeur, likening him to a wealthy footman or a "Rockefeller in livery," and asserts her dominance over Ada in matters concerning their house. When Ada seeks solace from a medium, hoping to connect with Luke, Madame Dashkova claims Luke's spirit speaks Italian due to a newspaper misprint. Crushed by the revelation of her fraudulence, Ada scorns Dashkova for exploiting the grieving. Come on, Ada; it's just a service, albeit a deceptive one.
Ada eventually conveys to Jack that it is high time he ventured out into the world. In response, he confides in her that this very house has been the closest semblance of a home he has ever encountered, to which Ada assures him that the household staff will remain his family. Hardly so, Ada! One may declare to their coworkers that they will be intertwined in each other's lives forever, but how frequently does such a promise truly materialize? For instance, do I maintain a daily group chat with six colleagues from my previous employment? Affirmative, but Jack lacks the modern convenience of texting! Yet, unable to refute Ada, Jack promptly relocates and generously bestows money upon everyone, including Agnes and Ada, showcasing his inherent kindness.
As for Bertha and Lady Sarah, my anticipation for this confrontation has lingered since last week. Lady Sarah emanates a Mrs. Danvers-like aura, which, as a lesbian, I find intricately alluring; however, this does not deter my desire to witness Bertha decisively put her in her rightful place. Bertha sits down with Gladys and uncovers the harrowing truth: Hector and Sarah lost their parents when Hector was merely a child, rendering Sarah the perpetual authority figure in his life. Bertha impresses upon Gladys the need to remind Hector of his benefactor and the corresponding behavior expected of him. Furthermore, André, Bertha's maid, informs her of the grapevine's chatter—Sarah is attempting to mold Gladys into a submissive pupil. At this juncture, the gloves are off—except, of course, for social engagements demanding their donning.
During dinner, the English gentry discusses Mr. Gladstone's reform bill ("But do we really desire a rabble of vagabonds and farmhands determining our governance?"), thus revealing our setting to be 1884. Bertha introduces the topic of women's suffrage, and when Sarah expresses dissent, Bertha questions whether Sarah considers women intellectually inferior or unsuited for momentous decisions. Should the queen have confined herself to her prescribed domain and declined the crown, Bertha poses? Sarah responds with incoherent murmurs and swiftly diverts the conversation. Gladys acknowledges Bertha's worth—a triumph indeed! Gladys later reveals to Bertha that she has learned the art of management from her mentor. Considering the disarray of her life, Bertha's performance is nothing short of miraculous. And she does so without imposing unrealistic expectations on Gladys. She handles matters with the finesse of a seasoned pro, akin to the deft touch of a Mulaney.
At the subsequent dinner, when Sarah rises to lead the women away, Gladys assertively inquires about her well-being: "I presumed, when you stood without awaiting me, that you might be unwell." Sarah reluctantly resumes her seat. Yes! Yes, Gladys! You did it. You have embraced your role as Mrs. de Winter with unwavering confidence! The following day, I believe, Bertha and Gladys bid each other farewell, with Bertha expressing her immense pride in Gladys. She then gazes into the horizon, striving to suppress her tears. It's alright, Bertha! You vowed to rectify the situation, and you succeeded admirably!
We conclude our discussion with Oscar and John Adams, a topic I had initially hesitated to broach but will now address, given its jarring conclusion—or is it really? They engage in conversation as Oscar has just sent Maud Beaton off with a train ticket bound for Ohio and a generous $100, leaving John pleased with the person Oscar is evolving into. Oscar proclaims to John that he is his savior. My spontaneous notes capture the essence: "Aww, it seemed as though he longed to plant a kiss on him. Oh no, suddenly John is struck down by a horse-drawn cart!" Indeed, half of our LGBTQ+ characters have just suffered a fate reminiscent of Regina George's infamous encounter, but this time, it's a colossal horse in the middle of the street. Is John still alive? I am at a loss! Have we witnessed yet another LGBTQ+ character on TV enduring the traumatic spectacle of their partner/ex-partner severely injured, perhaps even fatally? Affirmative! So many lives could have been shattered by that relentless horse. The show boasts an array of characters, some of whom I haven't even managed to name yet. Enough, already! Sparing no LGBTQ+ character from being mowed down by horses! Due to its perpetuation of a tired cliché, one star is deducted from this episode's rating.
