"And there stands George Russell, defying death's embrace, only to transform into a husband as dreadful, a robber baron as ruthless, and a man as despicable as our beloved city had ever witnessed. Oh, George, how deeply I worry for thee! We shall revisit this turn of events, but first, we must navigate through the treacherous waters of his emergency surgery and its aftermath. However, your character's trajectory, George, leaves much to be desired. You're embodying the antithesis of Ebenezer Scrooge's redemption.
Our narrative from last week's episode lingered with Bertha at the helm of the season's grand ball, Dr. William Kirkland gearing up to delve into Peggy's mysterious past, Jack the Clock Boy purchasing a home, Gladys and Hector on the brink of departing for New York, and then, tragically, George being shot. Not to be overlooked, Kathy Geiss lingered in the shadows.
A carriage raced through the city streets, George within its confines, en route to the sanctuary of his home, hospitals being havens of filth and disease for the less fortunate. Bertha swiftly had him conveyed to the parlor, and serendipitously, William found himself just across the street, engaged in a melodramatic discourse. No juicy soap opera revelations for you tonight, William! Only daring surgical marvels awaited. With Marian's assistance, William expertly extracted the bullet, only for George to plunge into shock. Bertha remained steadfast at George's side throughout the operation, waking the next day in the very same pose. When the Russells' regular physician finally arrived, he promptly scolded William. Hush now, idle physician! You were absent during the crisis! He conceded, however, that William had performed a remarkable feat, saving George's life. (Take that, sir!) William then stood beside Bertha, revealing to all that Jordan Donica towers over mere mortals.
Marian, drifted into slumber in a hallway chair, found herself in a conversation with Larry where she apologized for calling off their engagement. Larry, in return, responded with, "Well, now I'm angry with you." This was undoubtedly a conversation of relational depths. "Alright, you apologize, but you didn't trust me, so now I refuse to speak with you." Thus, the engagement remained null and void. Listen here, Marian, Larry. Amidst the myriad of pressing matters, I implore you both to mend this rift swiftly."
Allow me to weave your narrative into a tapestry of richer, more vivid imagery, preserving the essence while enhancing its expressive power.
Here we are, our hearts shattered like fragile glass at Peggy's bewildering exhilaration over William's desire to converse with her. Oh, Peggy, dear, this is hardly the sort of dialogue you had in mind! This is one of those conversations fraught with peril! She and Dorothy are basking in joy, only for us to be abruptly jarred by the silent tableau of Peggy and William in the parlor, the aftermath of her excruciatingly traumatic past laid bare. William, if you don't mind, she ventured to share this burden with you, and your response? "Oh, the past holds no sway with me." Lies, plain and simple! Now, he believes the obstacles are "insurmountable" and abandons her. Why, oh why, must all the gentlemen this week (save for Jack and Oscar) behave like scoundrels of the utmost order?
Speaking of Oscar, he has concocted a fresh life blueprint, one that entwines with the recently widowed Mrs. Winterton. Did she dispatch her spouse to the great beyond? One might hazard a guess—perhaps she did. Let us decree it as fact, etched in stone. Thus, the presumed murderer, Mrs. Winterton, crosses paths with Oscar at the opera. He yearns to oversee her finances, whereas she dreams of gracefully descending upon Mrs. Astor's ball, an invite from Mrs. Russell as improbable as a camel passing through the eye of a needle. Undeterred, Oscar accepts this formidable challenge, fueled by his love for wealth and an existential void that leaves him yearning for purpose. He approaches Bertha, quipping, "So, Marian has won your favor now. It would surely delight you if she graced the ball with her presence." Bertha nods in agreement, contingent upon Oscar's prowess in persuading Marian to attend. This scheme smells of the upper crust's equivalent to speculating on pork belly futures.
Bertha mentions to George her intention to cancel the ball amidst his "shooting" ordeal, yet he urges her not to let his plight dictate her decisions. Very well, George, but she did offer, and she vows that your health stands as her paramount concern. That "only" clause, I concede, is a fib, yet it rings true that your wellbeing tops her list of priorities.
As Mrs. Astor and Bertha deliberate over the ball's guest list in Charlotte's presence, Bertha reveals her invitations to Aurora Fane and Charlotte herself. Mrs. Astor gasps in horror. If divorced women gain entry, divorce will become rampant! However, did you catch that viral TikTok illustrating how, pre-divorce legality, desperate women resorted to murdering their spouses? Not everyone possesses Mrs. Winterton's infamous cunning. Society must afford women an escape route from dire marriages. Mrs. Astor fails to grasp this, her marital bliss secured by her husband's perpetual absence aboard a ship. She opposes Charlotte's attendance. When Charlotte protests, asking if needlework awaits her eternal fate, Mrs. Astor retorts that Charlotte must first master the art of threading a needle. A zinger worthy of Mrs. Astor herself.
Shall we delve into Jack's domain? His screen time is scant, yet whispers of a burgeoning romance with Bridget hover in the air, borne from his profound loneliness. Bridget bears him lamb stew, and he confides in her that her presence brings him solace. Bridget, marry him and become his cherished companion, a beard in name only. He shall continue his inventive pursuits, and together, you can revel in game nights amidst friends. Bliss, pure and simple.
At the Van Rhijn-Forte abode, Ada delved into the intricacies of the Marian-Larry saga with Agnes, prompting Agnes to advise Marian that she must confront Larry and confess her mistake. Agnes, with a touch of Baranski-like assurance, added that she herself never faced such a necessity, for she was impeccably right in all her endeavors. Just then, an unexpected visitor arrived—Mrs. Foster from the New York Heritage Society. Agnes had been evading her for weeks, anticipating another plea for a donation. Instead, Mrs. Foster came bearing an invitation: to serve as the vice president of the society, a position where Agnes could channel her abundant energy. Ada's orchestration of Mrs. Foster's visit left Agnes unusually and quietly thankful, later whispering to Ada that she deserved the head of the table seat. A heartwarming display of sisterly growth, indeed!
Switching scenes to Newport and its opulent ball, Mrs. Kirkland's campaign against Peggy continued unabated. Dorothy, however, stood her ground firmly, accusing Mrs. Kirkland of lacking grace, manners, and acting with impunity. Mrs. Kirkland's stammered retort about 'those from Newport' only earned her a stinging rebuttal from Dorothy: "But I am not from Newport." Audra's retort was a masterclass in putting one's adversary in their place. Mrs. Kirkland left, leaving behind a trail of scorched earth and shattered pride. As the Kirklands readied for the ball, both William and Mr. Kirkland (played by the estimable Brian Stokes Mitchell!) lambasted Mrs. Kirkland for sowing heartbreak and calamity. Her nonchalant response, "Look at the time," was breathtaking in its audacity—even as those words echoed from strangers and kin alike, she remained an impenetrable fortress of self-righteousness.
At the ball, Peggy radiated ethereal beauty, her feather-adorned hair catching the light. The elegance of the dancing couples and the ambiance was nothing short of mesmerizing. As William entered, he made a beeline for Arthur and Dorothy, promptly asking Arthur for Peggy's hand in marriage. A remarkable turnaround, indeed, but one warmly welcomed, as the scene unfolded with the heart-wrenching charm of a Bridgerton proposal. William dropped to one knee amidst the dancing throng, his vow to never leave Peggy again echoing through the room. It was a moment so enchanting, so perfectly executed, that it warranted every ounce of heart-squeezing adoration. Peggy, you deserve this—a proposal steeped in romance, surrounded by feathers and dancers, from a man as tall and devoted as William!
Meanwhile, at the Astor (or perhaps Russell) ball, Church announced arrivals with the fervor of James Trickington hosting a garden party. Marian and Aurora arrived, as did Gladys and Hector. Charlotte Drayton, undeterred by Mrs. Astor's fury over her invitation—dubbed a "reckless folly" by the latter—declared that Mrs. Astor's true motive was self-protection, not familial concern. Charlotte, it seemed, had not absorbed the wisdom imparted in my interview with Donna Murphy—Mrs. Astor's actions, though stern, were rooted deeply in family loyalty. Now, it was time for Mrs. Astor to walk the talk and prove Charlotte wrong.
Bertha spent the entire evening looking restless and agitated, as Mrs. Astor had yet to make her grand entrance. But oh, the anticipation! And then, her arrival! This scene stands as my favorite of the entire season, perhaps even of the whole series. Mrs. Astor's carriage arrived with a flourish; initially, only her back was visible. The revelation of her jewelry was nothing short of mesmerizing, enhanced perfectly by the accompanying music. I found myself rewatching this scene an astonishing three times. She stole the show, embodying Dolly Levi descending the steps of the Harmonia Gardens once more. She was a mother figure incarnate. Charlotte approached her, inquiring about the change of heart. "Your situation may indeed be embarrassing, but you, my dear, are no embarrassment. You are my daughter," she declared. It was a heartwarming moment indeed.
From there on, the evening somewhat lost its charm. George and Bertha shared a cute little interchange, Oscar proposed a marital alliance to Mrs. Winterton, Larry and Marian reconciled, Gladys announced her pregnancy, and the phrase, "Bertha Russell's ballroom is brimming with the promise of the future," echoed through the air.
Based on their interaction at the ball and George's advice to Larry about not allowing misunderstandings to mar one's happiness, I believed they had patched things up. However, the next morning, George was back to his old self, heading back to New York with a dismissive farewell. He was incensed that Bertha had coerced Gladys into marriage. What was this about? But Gladys was right there, radiant with joy! What on earth was George thinking? He insisted that the shooting incident had made him reassess his life. George, what nonsense are you spouting?
I must express my profound disappointment with the underwhelming season finale. The season could have concluded with so many dramatic moments—Gladys's wedding, George's assassination attempt—yet it ended with a resounding thud, wrapped up far too neatly. Sure, George was still angry with Bertha, but Gladys was content and expecting a child; Larry and Marian were back together; Peggy and William were engaged; Ada and Agnes had new roles and seemed content; and Bertha had assumed her rightful place as the next Mrs. Astor. What were we supposed to anticipate for the next season? There was no grand declaration or perilous cliffhanger. A staggering 98% of our vast ensemble was merely...fine. What are your intentions, Gilded Age?
