Chapter Text

BERTHA 

Bertha outgrew many things—being a mother was not one of them. 

It didn’t matter that her children were grown. She worried for their well-being, for their security and stability, and yes, of course, she worried for their happiness as well. 

But she was a realist—hopes and dreams were good, of course, but romantic notions hardly met the demands of reality. If she were to be reduced to the villain in footnotes of her children’s chapter in great history books, then she’d happily accept the role. 

If neither Larry nor Gladys could see that, then she will trust that the narrative will set the story straight. 

But still, she worried. She worried for Gladys, across the ocean, and she was thankful that she had Adelheid by her side. And now, she worried for Larry, who was  to leave for miles and miles apart headed for Arizona, but with no one by his side. 

Particularly, she worried for him at breakfast. 

“You look awful. Are you sure you can’t persuade your father to leave later today?” 

Larry groaned, closing his eyes for a short moment and resting his forehead in the palm of his hands. “Please, do not speak so loudly. I don’t need the lecture.”

Bertha sighed, mildly annoyed. She had stayed up late last night, waiting for Larry to arrive home hoping to talk to him, to try and persuade him to evaluate his decision to marry Miss Brook, but he had come back drunk out of his senses during an unreasonable hour. 

“Perhaps you won’t need one when you stop coming home drunk.” 

She had even helped him to room, with the help of Church. 

On that front, at least, he looked sheepish and apologetic. 

“I’m sorry. I’m just waiting on Father to give me the metallurgy report on the mines. After that, I’ll leave for the train station.” Larry lifted his eyes from his hands and resumed eating his breakfast. He sighed at her expectant look. “I've only had a few drinks, that’s all.”

She raised a brow, but said nothing as she pulled the seat closest to him. “That’s all ? You expect me to believe that your Harvard friend’s stag night at Delmonico’s merely consisted of drinks?” 

“We may have decamped to another establishment after.” 

Bertha bristled. She had suspected that, of course—she was no fool to think that his Harvard friends, young men of just as much privilege with social standing and deep pockets, would not indulge themselves. But she had hoped that Larry would have more sense than that. 

“Is this how you intend to behave once you’re married?” 

He paused. “What?”

“You came home late in the morning, drunk out of your senses. Your fiancée told me you’ve gone out to Delmonico’s, but respectable establishments do not smell of cheap perfume.” 

“I don’t—” 

Her face pinched. She looked away first, catching the attention of a footman and signaled for him to go outside. When the doors clicked closed, she sighed and continued: “I know you’ve gone to the Haymarket, Larry.” 

His face fell and his lips were set into a pursed line. “I would never be unfaithful to Marian, if that’s what you’re getting at. I only had a few drinks.” He said vehemently, standing up as he did, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “I would never betray Marian.”

“I’m not saying you’re betraying her,” she countered smoothly, her eyes softening, pleased by his reaction, but she still frowned at him, “I’m saying you’re young and young men often make decisions they’re not ready for… or decisions they think are for the best, but in reality they’re not.” 

“What is your point?”

She replied quickly and sharply. “You don’t know what’s best for you yet, Larry. Not really.”

“And you assume you do?”

“In this matter, I do.” She tried softening her voice, calling to reason. “She’s not suitable for you, Larry.” 

He looked at her in disbelief. “Not suitable ,” he echoed, the word sounding cruel from his lips. “She’s perfectly suitable! Or did you forget that when we first arrived, we were snubbed whereas Marian was welcomed everywhere, or that her own acceptance of us was instrumental in your own ambitions?” 

She was growing tired of this endless back and forth. “She is not what’s best for you.”

“Please stop insisting you know what’s best for me! I know what’s best for me.”

He had said it with such disdain, with venom that she could not help the recoil and the coolness that seeped into her voice. “Is this the same sound judgment that said a widow twice your age was best for you?”

Larry stopped, the outrage on his face making way for hurt. “Marian is,” he started slowly and tentatively, “you can’t even compare—” 

“Marian Brook is a woman with not one, but two failed engagements, Larry. On top of all her material disadvantage… surely, even you see how she’s not right for you.”

His narrowed eyes widened in realization and the scowl he had pulled deeper. “Of course,” he scoffed. “This was never about me being young or foolish or not knowing what’s best for me… this is about my choice not meeting your impossibly high standards, this is about my choices not fitting your ambitions.” 

“That is beside… that is not the point.” 

He paced, moving one step up and down, and he repeated it until it made no sense. 

“But it is a point for you,” he shot back. “I can’t hear this right now.”

“Larry, please!” She stood up, coming up to him. Thankfully, he stopped and she had brushed away an errant curl from his forehead. “You know I only want what’s best for you.” 

“Marian is what’s best for me.” While Larry didn’t pull away, he had tensed as she held his arm. “Why can’t you at least try to accept that? She’s always been in our corner. She’d do anything for me, for our family, why can’t you see that?” 

Bertha paused before replying. She saw that Miss Brook was kind, of course. And she liked Marian. She meant what she said to her children on that first dinner they hosted—they were neighbors and they ought to know one another.

While romantic entanglement wasn't what she had imagined (not for Larry, not for the Russell legacy), she could not deny his argument. 

“Of course I see that. Miss Brook has always been a loyal ally of our family.” 

“Then why can’t you fight for her, or fight with her as a member of our family—as I intend to make her my wife, with or without your blessing—instead of fighting against her.” The clock chimed in the distance and not a beat later, a knock sounded and Church soon appeared, announcing that the carriage was pulling around. “I have to leave... I don’t want to fight. Especially since I’ll be gone for about a month.” 

She gave him a look. “And I don’t want to fight as well, Larry. You know that.” 

Her son gave her a pleading look, one of frustration and pleading. “Then please try to accept my wishes.”

Before she could say anything else, he had walked out, meeting George in the foyer, leaving her alone in the dining room with Church. 

She looked at the clock and sighed. "Church, would you please tell Andre to prepare my clothes for the luncheon later?" 

Her butler left the room and just a few moments later, Andre arrived.

ANDRE

Andre circled the park for a second time before settling on a bench. Soon after, a man arrived, sitting on the other hand, carrying a copy of the newspaper and opening it wide across as to hide his face. 

"I'm surprised to receive a message from you." 

Andre retrieved a piece of paper, folded into a thin but long slip, that she hid under her sleeve. "The mistress announced that we are leaving for England. We are to visit her daughter, the Duchess." She reached across, slowly, and handed the paper to the man who quickly began to read it. "I will not be around for many weeks." 

The man, in turn handed her an envelope. Andre frowned. "It's thin." She counted... maybe a hundred-twenty dollars, a far cry from what she was earning from before the wedding. 

The man beside her laughed. "No one wants to hear news about stock speculation from a gossip column." The man said gruffly. "It's a good thing you're going to England then. People love reading about the Duchess. Get more news about her, and that envelope will be fatter. That'll print."

Andre stared at the man. "Pardon? Quoi?" 

The man made a motion with the tips of his thumb and index finger. "Dollars!" He exclaimed. "Duchess news will get you more dollars!"

JACK

It was a steady rhythm—Mrs. Bauer whisking the egg whites for the merengue. 

And it was always in the same direction, going clockwise around the bowl, her wrist just twisting the angle on each turn. 

She had been sweating all morning, working on the merengue because Mrs. Forte had asked her to try a receipt for a lime pie from an evening telegram from Boston, saying it had been a favorite of the late Mr. Forte. 

He had tried helping once, whipping up the egg whites and his arm had been sore the whole week because of that, and Mrs. Bauer had been sorry to tell him that the whites broke and would become a mess of a puddle when baked—

"Ah!"

The skin near his wrist stung from where the iron nicked him. He placed the iron away and pulled his hand closer so he could blow on where he had been burned. 

"Oh, what's the matter, Jack?" Mrs. Bauer rushed to him, looking over to the angry red mark that marred his skin. "You should hold it under running water." 

He smiled tightly, partly in gratitude, and then in pain. "I will, just as soon as I finish ironing the paper." 

Mrs. Armstrong made a comment on paying attention and it looked as though as much Mrs. Bauer wanted to protest, she did give him a look and told him to be careful. 

Jack pulled on one end to make sure the paper is straight. He ironed across the surface, the wrinkled section making way for a smoothened plane of paper. The letters were bold, bigger than the body. It was the title of an article, printed dead in the center, the biggest of the articles. 

"Ballroom to brothe—" 

He stood up straight.

"Mr. Bannister?" 

He set aside the iron again, pulling the paper from the board. "Jack?" 

Jack set the paper across the table and pointed on the article in the middle, the title printed in bold. "Mr. Bannister, sir, I think you need to see this."

Chapter Text

AGNES

Agnes once said, at the prospect of meeting the Russells at a charity bazaar, that rolling in the gutter would have saved them time. 

Now, she realized that rolling in the gutter would have been more merciful and less severe. 

“These people,” she seethed. She couldn't even bring herself to look at the paper. “I told Marian what would befall her if she continued to associate herself with those… those upstarts—”

Ada winced. “Agnes, please be kind.”

“Kind?” She repeated the word with incredulity. 

In fact, in a brief uncharitable moment which she banished as quickly as it arrived, she had momentarily wondered if her sister had gone mad with grief. 

Kind, at the moment, was not in her vocabulary. She believed that only a fool would think that the Russell family had anything resembling honor and now she was proven right. What more, the good name of her family’s honor was now impugned. She had descended from the family of Robert Livingston the Elder, cousins to the Schuylers and the Rensselaers, her forefathers were the heroes of the Revolution—to think that a potato digger’s daughter from Kerry would deign to sully her family name. 

And perhaps what was worse, Marian’s heart was undeservedly broken. There were times she thought her niece reckless and impulsive, but she was good while mild, gentle yet impassioned. To think that her niece has survived the carelessness of her own father, only to now suffer this unwarranted attack on her character, reputation, and virtue. 

Agnes felt only mildly vindicated, if not mostly devastated that it had taken character assassination for her house (if she could still call it that) to realize that her wisdom was hard-won for a reason. This scandal could only be the result of the scourge of new money entering society at an unregulated pace. Not even Henry, she thought begrudgingly, would make his indiscretions so publicly known as to make the morning papers, let alone for it to published right after announcing his engagement—

Agnes tried to calm down. She never thought she’d live to see the day she’d defend the character of her brother or even come to praise him, but it appeared that the Russells—especially Mrs. Russell, who she and Mamie Fish suspected was the provenance of constant leak of information to the papers—were capable of freezing Hell itself over and driving her to the unthinkable. 

"As if publicizing the fact her son did not even have the decency to be discreet of his dalliances to those kinds of establishments was not enough," she looked sideway, catching a glimpse of that palatial manor that stood across her living room, and she nearly spat. Of course, men were forgiven for their indiscretions, for there were no harsh whispers against the son, but women were crucified. In a little more than a month, the young Mr. Russell will escape with his dignity intact. 

But Marian? This was a stain on her niece, a burn that will not go away. Her first engagement, while not a secret, was not openly known. But now, a Pandora's box was opened. How cruel they were, she thought to herself. To reject Marian is one thing, but to so publicly destroy her reputation with an event that happened on the night of their engagement no less?

It was unthinkable. It was cruel, and it was precisely the ruthlessness she has come to know as synonymous with the name Mrs. George Russell. 

"Now, Mrs. Russell's rumor mill also saw it fit to add insult to injury by reporting Marian's previous engagements to make out as if our niece was some sort of scarlet letter—"

"Oh, but that's an idea." Ada, to her great surprise and horror, suddenly looked hopeful. "Perhaps we could write a letter, or Marian could write to him, asking either young Mr. Russell to shed some light on the situation—"

“Absolutely not!” Agnes slammed her hand on the arm rest of the chair. "Has Marian not suffered enough? Must she suffer this indignity as well, that we must be resigned to beg for an explanation to save her reputation like mutts clawing for scraps? No. Marian deserves better."

“While I don't disagree that our niece deserves better," Ada said gently, shooting the house across the street a skeptical look, "all I’m saying is that the poor boy may have an explanation.”

Her brow arched, defiantly and challengingly—much like how Henry was, but she wouldn’t dare admit that fact even if her body was broken, limb by limb.

She stood up to close the curtains and paused by the fireplace.

“Even if Caligula offered his generals an explanation on his war on the sea—” Agnes poisonously eyed the society papers which defamed her niece's good standing and reputation, the latest installment of what was being circulated, and now which she considered as prohibited contraband, before crumpling up in her fist and tossing it straight into the fire where it belonged, “—it still wouldn’t make things right.” 

Chapter Text

MARIAN

Marian froze in bed. 

At first, it was a series of sounds. Footsteps padded just outside her door, loud and then soft—pacing away, and then drawing closer.

Someone was coming. 

Marian dried her tears as fast as she could and shoved the already wrinkled pamphlet under the duvet and watched the door knob with an intensity she didn't know she had in her, not quite sure if she wanted it to open or to remain closed. 

Finally, a voice filtered through from outside the door.

“Marian?” It was Aunt Ada. Her voice was soft and gentle, of course, concerned and hurt for her. Marian now felt worse—her Aunt Ada was still mourning Uncle Luke and now she's disrupted that with her own troubles. 

But before she could try to tell her aunt not to worry about her or to put on a brave face (she'll pull through, Marian thought to herself, she'll live through the heartbreak as she always did), the door knob twisted and any inkling of courage that seemed to form had seemingly disappeared.

She pulled up the covers and fisted the blanket tightly—when the bedroom door opened, she made sure to hide her face and tried her very best to level her breathing and appear as though she was still deep asleep. The floor boards creaked, as they do in older houses, and she heard her aunt sigh. 

There was a shuffle of footsteps that followed, then the sound of metal clinking against metal, and then nothing. The hinges of the door creaked in a high pitch before closing in a low thud. 

Marian pulled her head out of the covers and, on top of the dresser, she saw a tray for the breakfast she missed. There was a note, even, set just beside the tray, that she suspected to have words of encouragement or perhaps an order or command from Aunt Agnes. 

It's only been two days since the gossip column reported the incident. They tried to hide it from her, or Oscar at least tried to tell her not to worry, but the news broke like wildfire—the ink on the paper was hardly even dry and yet every household in New York must have had copy and read it twice at least before breakfast. 

Aunt Agnes banished the pamphlet. But she waited until the dead of the night before begging Peggy, who had just returned from her interview for The Globe, to secure her a copy.

She pushed herself upright and slid the pamphlet from where she had hastily shoved it into. She straightened the paper, carefully doing so as to not tear the material, and she scanned the words again, trying to make sense of what she saw and reconcile it with how she felt. 

FROM BALLROOM TO BROTHEL

---

New York, 5 August 1884 — A scandal in connection with a private Sixth Avenue nightclub is reported. The son of a prominent New York railroad industrialist was seen going to and returning late at night from an infamous Manhattan dance hall, on the night of his engagement.  Young Mr. R, who is frequently seen with a Ms. B,  a neighbor from across the street of the family of the prominent R family, reportedly announced the engagement privately to members of their family and to a guest of his father and possible business partner. Mrs. R was allegedly displeased by the news and her son’s choice of bride. The reason for Mrs. R’s disapproval of Ms. B was supposedly her only very recently broken engagement to a Mr. M, and a prior romantic entanglement with a now married Mr. R, as well as the B-V-F household's near financial ruin. CONTINUED ON PAGE 6.

Perhaps, she should have listened to Aunt Agnes—what good could come out of her reading this, what possible outcome other than hurt could she hope for? 

Her mind conjured up details of Larry Russell that she could not have imagined thinking before. In a matter of seconds, the image of the kind and gentle friend she had in him was now shrouded in darkness, shrinking in the distance like a distorted memory that never was. 

For how could this man in the paper, the one who smoked and drank in a house of ill repute, be the same man who shared her heart break? How could the man who so easily lied to her and her aunts be the same man she shared her truths and her secrets with? How could the man she told of her heartbreaks cause her heart such grief? 

Marian wished she knew what to do. Or at the very least, she wished she could carefully consider her options—if she had options—and not just the whispers and opinions of society. But she was a woman, completely at the mercy of the men in her life.

Almost everyone in her life had an opinion on how she should deal with the issue: Oscar was telling her not to think the worst (“I’m sure it’s not what you think.”), Aunt Agnes ordered decisive action (“I hope now you will listen to my wisdom and break off the engagement, better now when only abstracts can be made and not definitive conclusions.”), Peggy advocated for caution (“Are you certain of all the facts?”), Aunt Ada advised to merely trust herself (“You alone know what best to do, my dear.”). 

Marian wished she could take Aunt Ada’s advice. 

She tried to look into her heart, to trust in herself, but how could she, when she was so confused? 

Her logic dictated the patterns of her past: her father who spent nearly every dollar he had on wine, women, and song. What else could Larry be doing in a house of ill-repute, on the night of their engagement no less?

But her heart said another: Larry was her friend, her dearest and oldest friend since arriving in New York. She knew Larry Russell—her friend contra mundum and her comrade in arms—and this all felt unlike him. Surely, she knew the man she was going to marry better than some gossip column peddling news for a dollar. Surely, there was no one else who could straighten out the misunderstanding better than Larry? 

There was nothing she wanted more than to clear up the matter—but with whom? 

The people in her household hadn’t been very helpful and the very people she thought she could speak to the issue—Mrs. Russell, Mr. Russell, Gladys, and Larry—were all far from New York. 

His sister Gladys, now Her Grace, the Duchess of Buckingham, lived an ocean away now and Mrs. Russell was en route to visit her daughter in England. 

On Mr. Russell’s whereabouts, on the other hand, the staff had informed her, had been called away on business by Mr. Morgan. 

And Larry… while she didn’t even know if she wanted—truly wanted—to speak to him, was away in Arizona. A telegram would have reached him, nevermind that Aunt Agnes forbade her from writing lest it be leaked to the papers as she suspected how the issue began.

Marian, against her better judgment, against the ache that stung deeply in her chest, reached for the pamphlet again, despite already knowing the words by heart. But she still looked, she still read the lines again and again until the world seemed to blur with her tears. She kept searching and scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign to tell her it will be fine. 

But she found none. And the world seemed to burn. 

So, she sunk into the bed, feeling more alone than she ever did. 

Chapter Text

ADA

Ada hated to think uncharitably, for her dear Luke always believed the good in all people—but she could not help the feeling that allowing Marian to join them to Lina’s dinner was a mistake. 

Marian had only recently begun leaving her room, for it had been mere weeks since the paper had published her broken engagements and the young Mr. Russell’s betrayal (for Agnes refused to call it anything but a betrayal). 

And they worried, of course. Marian would tell them not to, the brave dear, but they worried. In fact, even when her sister bemoaned their niece’s new position as a teacher in the Female Normal and High School, Ada knew that Agnes would have much rather Marian keeping busy as opposed to locking herself in her room, thinking God knows what. 

But the term break had started just as the pamphlet was published, and Ada knew all too well the dangers of too much time and the absence of a purpose, for she had been in that position. She had lived through the unimaginable as well, she had experienced the moments where the despair clawed her too deep and there were times, she hated to admit, where it felt easier to just swim down instead of fighting and kicking her way to break to the surface. 

Ada knew all too well the pangs of heartache. Which was why she didn’t fight Agnes when she decided that all of them should attend Lina’s dinner. 

Ada wondered if it was a good decision, of course, as she suspected that Lina—and the rest of New York—read the papers. She wondered, admittedly uncharitably, if the invite came from a genuine reason. But she ultimately thought it was good for Marian to be out of the house and to see other faces. 

Only now, she wasn’t quite sure. 

Their dinner had ended as the gentlemen took to their port, and Ada was less convinced as time went by.

Lina had welcomed Marian, which had been a relief to her and Agnes, and Mamie had been gracious enough to be friendly, but the same could not be said with the other guests. 

It was the old crowd, of course: Betsey Townsend Bend, Lucy Rhinelander Jones, Eliza Webb, Nelia Redmond, Harriet Goelet, Caroline Acker, Laura Van Rensselaer, and the others. 

Agnes had been called away by Lina and Mamie, and Oscar had been drinking and smoking with the men. It left her and Marian, together, for no one thought to include them into any conversation, which was through no fault of her niece as any attempt to join was met with a ‘sudden’ need to talk to someone else. 

Except Eliza Webb had a misstep and tipped over Marian’s glass, staining her sleeve dark red with wine. Marian left to wash the stain out whereas she had left to retrieve a new glass. 

She was just outside the hall returning to the drawing room, when she heard the whispers. 

“But nevermind the news with Charlotte!” Nelia had exclaimed excitedly and conspiratorially. “For why should we bother with yesterday’s news when we can discuss Miss Brook!” 

“Careful,” Betsey cautioned, although her voice was far too amused. “You’ll be falling right into Lina’s trap, or haven’t you put together that our host invited Miss Brook to stave away the chatter about her daughter?”

"It doesn't matter if we're dancing to Mrs. Astor's tune, the scandal is there, out in the open—" Caroline interjected. "I mean just imagine what it says of Miss Brook's character, to be proposed to in the morning and to be betrayed by night of the same day? That she cannot keep the attention of a man even before courtship is properly finished? Especially since there was gossip of that Russell boy and Mrs. Blaine in Newport... I won't say it aloud, for the sake of delicate sensibilities, but surely it says a lot about Miss Brook when Larry Russell is seemingly the kind of man who takes what he wants and moves on after succeeding."

A chorus of hushed and scandalized laughter broke out. "Caroline!" Harriet exclaimed, giggling. "What a thing to say! How indelicate indeed! And better yet, how delicious!"

“If that’s the case, I have to say that I can’t decide whether she is awfully brave or entirely too foolish,” it was Lucy Jones, who proceeded to fan herself rather furiously. “Going to a dinner like this so soon after her embarrassment was published for the whole city to read. I wouldn’t even dare, if I were her.” 

Then she heard Laura’s voice in a scoff: “Is it really brave or foolish when she’s brought this all on herself? This wouldn’t have happened if she married a good and decent gentleman. She had a smart match in Dashiell, that poor man… and poor Frances, who was so looking forward to the wedding, but she’s thrown it all away for that nouveau riche rake who can barely hold his knife like a gentleman? No, I dare say that she’s the architect of her own fate. She’s brought this all on her own.”  

Ada had felt a fire, a temper building up inside her, and she had nearly marched into the room when the floorboard had creaked behind her and when she turned around, Marian was there, unnoticed like her, and had heard every word that was said about her. 

Marian had walked further away from the room. When she caught up, she reached for her niece’s hands, which trembled, and her heart broke. “Oh, my dear,” she opened her arms and Marian sank into her embrace.

From the study, Mamie, Lina, and Agnes emerged. 

“What’s wrong?” Agnes asked, her austere air broke to make way for concern. 

“Marian’s not feeling well.” Hefty arrived from the servant’s hall and she instructed him to retrieve Oscar right away while a junior footman went out to the street to hail a carriage. Ada was not about to let Marian spend another second here, being ridiculed for no fault of her own. 

“Oh, but that’s a pity,” Lina frowned, but it was devoid of any genuine remorse. “Would you like to rest upstairs, my dear? It’s a shame to leave the party so early.” 

Hefty came back with Oscar in tow, who immediately went to Marian’s side.

“That won’t be necessary, Lina.” Ada said firmly, her voice sounding much harsher and sharper than she intended, but it was the result all the same and she did not regret the way Lina stood down. “We’re leaving now.”

GEORGE

George didn’t think of himself as a man ruled by emotions—he was ambitious, he was passionate, and some would say he was ruthless. 

More than that, he was single-minded. When he received a summons from J.P. Morgan, all but ordering him to the seclusion of his Newport estate, had every intention of convincing the man to back his railroad expansion. 

Whatever social capital Bertha had worked for, whatever financial capital he still had left in the banks, he was willing to throw it all. He knew it in his bones that this westward expansion was the future of the railroad industry, and he planned to own it.  

But then the carriage in front of him pulled to a stop and two men stepped down. 

Whatever drive which had been ready to fuel him had been set aflame and dragged him down to the fiery pits of Hell—he might have been more amenable to seeing Edgar Merrick, the fool who had let Risley Sage into the control of the Illinois Central Line, but Alfred Merrick was not a face he wanted to see. 

And then Morgan announced his great purpose in holding them hostage in an estate that was practically established by the edge of civilization: no one was to leave his house until a majority was reached. 

George was realist, of course. He knew Sage would never sell to him, not when he was busy marauding through the country buying industries for pennies on the dollar and selling them for scraps like a pirate.

Realistically, he knew that the only way he could get the rail system and have the funds to begin the expansion was to convince the Merricks. 

But he couldn’t stomach the idea of it, out of sheer principle, the thought that he’d owe his future to a man who had made a cuckold out of him in his own home, at his own dinner table; a man who had flirted with his wife—

And perhaps, as insurance as well, because Clay’s defection to Sage’s side could hardly be a harbinger of good things to come. 

George waited until Edgar and Alfred were out of the room before he let his smile drop. 

“The minute we get out of here,” he said to Brinkley, rapping his fist against the polished wooden surface of Morgan’s library, “I want you to go to the Pinkertons. Tell them to get everything and anything under the sun about the Illinois Central Line.” 

His secretary looked puzzled. “Mr. Russell, you’ve just closed the deal. You now have the majority control.”

“I didn’t ask for a commentary,” George snapped, still glaring at the doors. “I’m not in the habit of leaving fate into hands of someone’s word.” 

“But you had just said—”

“What I need, Mr. Brinkley, is the majority share,  not necessarily Merrick’s majority or Sage’s majority. Now the Merricks have a large shareholding but it’s not enough to compose a majority to control the line, or he would have done away with Sage a long time ago. Thankfully, Sage is in a similar position.” 

He had done his research, after all. The Merricks had been the incorporators of the Illinois Central, but poor business climate and questionable decisions of the family had forced them to sell shares, most of them to Risley Sage, but not all of them. 

Chief among them was a gentleman who bought out the smaller stakeholders until he had gathered a twenty-five percent stake, but he couldn’t find enough information in time with the wedding and now that Sage was planning his own takeover, George had to focus on buying shares from people he knew who had them. 

And it would have been fine, had it not for Clay switching sides… had it not for the fact that Merricks who he would be indebted to. 

“Find anyone else who owns the common shares, and make sure, by the time you report back to me, that those shares are mine.”

ADA

Ada’s eyes briefly wandered to the decanter by the side table—

“I’ve brought you some hot lemon and honey, Mrs. Forte.” Mrs. Bauer had announced, setting down a tea cup in front of her. 

“Oh, but that is good of you, Mrs. Bauer. You didn’t have to. It’s so late in the evening.” Ada accepted the cup, her hand relishing in the warmth that it brought to her palm, and for a moment, she pretended that it was Luke’s hand over hers, keeping her warm against the chill that enveloped New York and this house. 

“But it’s no trouble, Mrs. Forte. I had made a pot and asked Bridget to bring some tea to Miss Marian’s room, but the door was locked.” 

She winced. Marian had been humiliated at Lina’s dinner, made to listen to comments and whispers, just to avoid talks of Charlotte Drayton’s own troubles. 

“I suppose Agnes is right.” She was never an advocate for Agnes’ suggestion of breaking off the engagement, but now that the news had spread throughout the city, now that there were talks against their niece. 

“About what, Mrs. Forte?” 

Ada closed her eyes, holding the cup tighter. “That Marian might need to act sooner.” 

“Oh, poor girl,” Mrs. Bauer bent her head, her hand flying to her heart. 

“But I won’t harangue her, not as Agnes wanted. Certainly not tonight. Tonight, she should get some rest.” Then, she looked at her cook and smiled warmly, gratefully as well for the kind ear she had lent. “You should get some rest, too, Mrs. Bauer.” 

“Ah, yes,” she dithered, looking askance, “only Madam Dashkova had written and left a note for you.”

Oh, Ada thought. She had forgotten about that. 

She stared at the note, and then at the ceiling, on the spot of just where Marian’s room was. Luke always told her to follow her heart. 

She had been begging for a sign. She had been missing him terribly. If this Madam Dashkova could help her talk to her dear husband—

Then she knew Luke would tell her to be where she was needed the most. And a house that is falling apart does not need an absent mistress, but a steady hand guiding it along, rebuilding it as a shepherd might to his flock, or a reverend to his congregation. 

Her purpose was not in finding Luke again (for he was here in the house, his memory and warmth still lingered in the spaces she remembered him in, and in every beat of her heart) but in leaning to others, and to let them lean unto her. 

Luke was a great chapter in her life, and a chapter she will again revisit in the future when her time of purpose is finished—but until then, she was needed here, and they needed her head out of the clouds.  

“Thank you, Mrs. Bauer.” Ada handed the note back. “But I won’t be needing her services any longer.”

Chapter Text

OSCAR 

“You must think me dreadfully unreliable, cancelling our meeting some time ago.” 

“Think nothing of it.” John waved it away dismissively before continuing, more gently. “I heard about what happened to your cousin,” John said carefully, in a low voice so as to not catch the attention of the other diners at the Union Club. “If there’s anything I could do to help, please tell me.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do on that front.” Oscar wished he could reach for John’s hand, but he settled for a grateful smile instead. “But thank you. It’s kind of you to offer.”

But the mere mention, or even the slightest reference to his family’s recent troubles, tempered his smile. A lingering bitter taste settled in the back of his throat—he thought of Marian, of course, but his mind was more and more preoccupied by the news Larry Russell had departed upon him regarding who he saw was working at the Haymarket as a woman of the night. 

“Are you alright?” 

He was taken aback. “Why do you say that?”

“You’ve got that look on your face.”

Oscar raised a brow innocently, cutting off a piece of his steak. “What look?” he asked, his voice muffled by chewing. 

John gave him a knowing look. “That troubled, anxious look. You sent a note to me some weeks ago that Larry Russell told you something important before leaving for Arizona. You told me that you’d tell me what happened over a meal, but you then cancelled, and now here you are, all dark and brooding, looking like Atlas with the weight of the world set upon his shoulders.”

He sighed. Trust John to read him like a mirror. He set down his cutlery and leaned closer. “Larry Russell told me that he thinks he’s found Maud Beaton.” 

John stilled in his seat, his eyes widening in shock. “Oh? And what happened? What did you do when you learned of the news?” 

“Nothing,” he nearly spat the word out, his mood souring. He sunk in his seat, picking up his glass of wine. He loved his Aunt Ada very much, but he was thankful not to hear the echoing tales of the supposed benefits of sobriety and temperance or the voice of that speaker of how his indulgence will earn him his spot in eternal damnation. “I haven’t done anything. Not with everything that’s happened. But I plan to go there soon. Hopefully, she’s still there.”

“Where is she staying then? I suppose she’s somewhere in the likes of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, living it up here in New York, and spending your mother’s fortune?” 

“Not exactly. Russell found her working at the Haymarket.” 

“Oh.” 

Oscar snickered, humorlessly and gratingly. “Yes. Oh. She’s not exactly living it up if she’s working there, which I suppose is only a mild consolation, penniless as I am still.” 

“You are not penniless. Your hard work saw to that,” John reminded him, giving him a concerned look. “But surely, you’re not still interested in revenge. If she is working there, in every sense of the word, then surely justice has already been served.” He stared at him, imploring and pleading. “Tell me you’ll let this go.” 

“Let this go?” Oscar echoed back, looking at John feeling attacked, his voice rising and heating up due to the indignation of the suggestion. “She stole from me. She ruined me and my mother. At the very least, I deserve answers.” 

“And had you married her,” John retorted smoothly, still calm like a voice of reason, “you would have stolen her entire life. Neither of you were being honest, and you both would have made victims out of each other.”

He scoffed. “That doesn’t justify her actions.” He didn’t say it aloud, especially to John, but her actions didn’t just ruin his family’s financial standing, it had hurt him. He thought, as he was stuck in the moments he thought they had, that they were at least friends. 

For Maud Beaton—the woman he had courted, and not the character that woman played like wearing a costume in a play—was someone he thought would understand. 

Only she did understand him too well, her and that man Crowther. They understood him too well as they played him like a mouse to a trap. 

“On my part, my dishonesty wouldn’t have ruined her.” 

John gave him a kind, but discerning look. “But it would have destroyed her. Which is why it doesn’t justify what you’re about to do, whatever it is I think you’re planning to do. You’ve already begun healing, Oscar—I hope you’ll try to remember that before doing anything you’ll regret later on.”

 GLADYS

“I think your mother is going to think of me as a very poor host,” Hector joked, half apologetic (but not particularly regretful) as he spared a glance at her mother who was left to fend for herself to entertain the guests, “especially considering I’ve been monopolizing your time. She must think I’m a horrible influence.”

Gladys laughed. “I think she’d sooner blame me for corrupting her Duke with bad manners.” She hadn’t expected Hector to laugh loudly, especially as they seemingly planned to fade into the background of the corner while chatting, but he did laugh, catching the attention of some of the guests. 

She felt oddly vindicated, lifting her chin triumphantly as if to say: see? 

Hector tempered his smile, but his eyes were light and amusement danced in them. “You think you’re right, but you should have seen Sarah trying to raise me—she’d tell you right away that I was a proper barbarian, a brute really with no manners.” 

At that, she giggled. She could picture Sarah younger than she is today, face pinched with frustration, drilling table manners to a pimply faced version of her husband. 

“I suppose I should introduce Sarah to more of New York society—if she thinks you’re a brute, heavens know what she’ll make of Larry’s friends from Harvard.” 

She looked up, expecting to see him laugh with her, but instead he had this soft look on his face. 

Her face heated up, feeling oddly exposed. “What?” 

But he smiled, warmly and widely, and then a bit guiltily. “You speak so happily of New York,” he began, staring at his shoes, “and I’ve taken you away from your home, haven’t I?” 

She was taken aback—she missed New York, she missed her friends (Carrie, Eliza Jones, and Marian especially), but his words gave her pause. 

“You know,” she interjected, “I’m not quite sure if New York is my home.” She missed the city, of course, and the friends she’s made ever since they moved to East 61st Street, but she couldn’t help but think that New York was never her home. 

“Then what is home for you? Was it Chicago? Your mother mentioned spending some time there before settling in New York.” 

She shook her head and smiled, a bit sadly. “We used to move often, as my father had to grow the business. I don’t really remember Chicago more than the city where I went to a finishing school… in fact, I don’t really remember feeling at home in any of our old homes.” 

“But surely there were fond memories?” Hector asked and she smiled, nodding enthusiastically. 

“Of course there were fond memories.” She smiled to herself. She was young, just a girl barely out of the nursery room, but she would remember how her father came home bursting through the door, how he’d take her and Larry into his arms and he’d smell like steel and sweat from supervising the work at the foundry or the extension. And then her mother, who would be strict and disagreeable since the moment he left, would start smiling again. 

Her husband looked at her with near wet eyes. “That’s… that’s a beautiful memory.” 

She flushed red. She hadn’t realized that she had said that out loud. “We’re a family, and family is both a home and the fondest memory one ought to have.” She rationalized, not knowing what else to say.

“Well,” Hector glanced at her mother, who was commanding the crowd with an anecdote from the Metropolitan, “I hope you can make some fond memories here at Sidmouth with your mother.” 

Then, one of their guests (the fifth Earl of Gillingham, one of Hector’s maternal uncles), called out her husband’s attention. 

Hector sighed, shooting her an apologetic look. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.” 

He pulled away, but before he could walk further, she reached for his hand. “I think I’ve made my first fond memory here at Sidmouth,” she squeezed his hand purposefully, keeping his gaze steadily, “with my family.”

His eyes widened, then his lips broke into a wide grin. “Then I’m very glad.”

“Do you think Hector would be long?” 

Albert Fawkes, the estate’s agent and, distantly, a maternal cousin of the Vere family, frowned and checked the clock. “I’m sure they’re only getting ready for your departure, Mrs. Russell, but I’ll go see if I can hurry him along.”

Gladys had just been to see Hector coordinating the staff in making sure her mother’s belongings were properly packed and organized for the long trip ahead, for which she was thankful—she honestly didn’t think she’d get through that ordeal without getting emotional. 

Instead, she was grateful to spend the time with her mother, who took her into a warm embrace. “Thank you for coming here,” she murmured against the fabric of her dress, her voice muffled into her mother’s shoulder, only letting go to hold on to her mother’s hands. “And thank you for helping me stand up to Sarah. I don’t think I could have done that without you.” 

“Nonsense,” her mother said parried, the pride in her voice growing more audible as if it were possible, “you would have done that by yourself. Perhaps not tonight, but you have too much of a backbone to let anyone walk over you. You were marvelous last night.”

She shrugged, all but pacing around in her spot. “I don’t know about that.” She liked to think, with Sarah, that she could have stood up to her new sister-in-law at some point (she did run away from home, running away like a thief in the night). But being marvelous was a stretch. 

“But you were,” her mother insisted, “and I wasn’t the only one who noticed that, you know.” 

Gladys met the gaze, and nearly rolled her eyes when she caught the meaning, even if her cheeks burned with the thought that her husband had noticed. “Hector was just being kind.” 

“Kindness does not entail whispering in your ear like a teenager. Your husband is smitten,” her mother’s eyes lit up with equal parts mischief and relief, “and if your coloring is any indication, you are as well.” 

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked around to see if there was anyone around, before attempting to glare at her mother—which failed spectacularly when she could not help but smile. “We’re not smitten with each other,” she argued, giving her mother a winning smile, “we’re simply friends.” But even as she said the truth (for that could only be the truth), her chest fluttered and her stomach felt alight. 

“Does friendship not lead to greater things?” 

“Mother!” she exclaimed, albeit laughingly. 

Her mother followed her gaze and smiled knowingly. “Alright,” her mother slipped away to sit down on the couch, “I’m glad to see you settled. Hopefully, your father will be in a better mood once he hears you’re not miserable.”

The hopeful but near dismissing tone caught her attention. She never brought it up, but she could something was wrong between her parents. They argued more (for sometimes, she would stay up late and leave her door cracked open, and she’d hear the parrying arguments rallied back and forth). She thought it would have resolved after the wedding, but her mother’s tone told her everything she needed to know. 

And if that wasn’t enough, the fact that her father never once wrote to her about her mother’s arrival was telling. Perhaps that was alright with some other couple, but her parents were Mr. and Mrs. George Russell. 

Her mother reached out to place her palm on her cheek tenderly, jarring her out of her thoughts. “I miss you already, my darling. Promise to write as much as you can.” 

“I will,” and then, her eyes widened. She nearly forgot the reason why she insisted on meeting her mother in the drawing room. She reached inside her pocket and pulled out an envelope. “And speaking of writing, I was hoping you’d give this to Miss Brook.” 

Her mother’s brows furrowed together in confusion. “Miss Brook? I wasn’t aware you wrote to her.”

Gladys recognized that look, and briefly deflated. That was the look her mother had whenever Billy was mentioned in her presence after she found that he was courting her. She had hoped her brother might not experience the same opposition. “Well, I am,” she held out the letter. “We’ve been exchanging letters since I left but she hasn’t replied lately, so I was hoping you’d pass on a letter from me.”

Her mother took the letter before placing it in between the pages of her diary. “It may be some time. Wouldn’t you rather send a telegram?” 

“Well, I’d like to be sure this letter gets to her. She’s the only one from New York by far who writes to me regularly, and now that those letters have stopped… well, her last letter left me on the edge of my seat and I need her to write to me as soon as possible.” 

Her mother looked mildly surprised and partly impressed. “I didn’t realize you kept up with New York gossip, though I don’t agree with how the vultures have descended on poor Mrs. Drayton.”

Gladys arched her brow. “Carrie’s sister? Gossip?” She echoed the word before laughing. “No! Marian wrote that Larry proposed. They’re engaged!” The look on her mother’s face resurfaced. “Please don’t tell me you’re not supportive.” 

“I’m merely cautious.” Her mother said carefully, the look on her face softened in an invitation for diplomacy rather than an icy fight. “I only want the best for you and your brother, which would naturally include good marriages. Miss Brook is not a suitable bride for the Russell name. All I ask is trust that I will make the right decision. Could you really fault me for that?” 

“As a matter of fact I can,” Gladys felt as though, for a moment, she did not recognize the voice that left her own lips, for it was was equal parts soft (for she understood where her mother came from) and edged (because she was once the recipient of her mother’s machinations). 

“Gladys—”

“Please, let me say this, for I don't want Larry to despise your actions the way I did,” she interjected quickly, pleading in a way she made sure not to take no for an answer, “I know you think Hector and I are in a good place… and maybe we are. But you didn’t make the right choice, Mother; you were lucky.” 

Her mother tried to argue at first, or she looked as if she wanted to argue, but no words came out. It was only when her mother’s face had stilled that Gladys knew the realization was starting to sink in. 

"You weren't right when you threatened Billy, you were lucky that he didn't fight; you weren't right when you married me off to Hector, you were lucky that we might be happy together. You're not right in saying Miss Brook is unsuitable, and if you persist in this... you might not have the good luck in repairing Larry's trust in you."

MAUD

"Well, hello, Mr. Kane." 

It took everything in her power not to take the nearest drink left on the bar and not throw it in the man's face. 

Because he was rough, not just with her, but with the younger girls as well. And he was violent when he drank... and he always drank coming here before picking one of them to go to the rooms upstairs. 

But he was a regular. More than that, he was powerful. She didn't know who he was entirely, but she knew that he was in the government and that looked the other away, in exchange for enjoying his liberties. 

Even then, that didn't stop her from wanting to die when she's with him upstairs, when she's suffocating in the cloud of tobacco and the scent of sex and sweat, drowning in the alcohol to make it bearable (though, it never was). It didn't stop her crying each time he lead her to bed, and violated her.

His grip on her arm was tight, but he allowed her to leave for the bar, to get his drink. She had just placed his order, and gave the instructions to have the drink sent to the room upstairs when someone walked up to her. The Haymarket was dark, it helped set the mood, and it helped make it difficult to recognize people. But she had no trouble recognizing his face.

Her world spun until it no longer moved. In front of her was a man she thought she'd never see. 

"Hello, Miss Beaton." 

Chapter Text

OSCAR

Oscar was no stranger to the Haymarket—there were one or two times when he found himself staring at the dark alleyway leading to the backdoor, in his hand was a wad of dollars tightly fisted in his fingers, and the management would give him one look before sending him on his way upstairs, a man to follow him soon after. 

There were even times when he’d cross the front door, put on a mask of dim smiles and sip whiskey by the bar until a woman would approach him. They’d end up upstairs, as well, and he’d leave money on the night stand and slink away, feeling more ashamed than he ever thought he would.

He was never proud of those moments, sneaking away like a thief in the night. 

And he supposed he was never proud of himself, wasting away in those dark halls, hating himself while pretending to be someone he’s not when not just thirty minutes away across the city, John accepted him, wholly and unconditionally. Then Marian came along, and despite his missteps, he realized that he was accepted, even if the finer details weren’t said aloud.

Oscar had thought he’d come a long way… or at least he hoped he had.

But, in that moment, slipping inside one of the upstairs rooms of the Haymarket, he found himself drowning in and drawing that same anger as he followed Maud Beaton into the middle of the room. He had been spiraling into slippery slope of self-loathing that he needed to focus his attention on something more concrete, so he grabbed an ornament from a dresser.

And he might have then truly fallen into that same depression that plagued his early adulthood had he not seen her flinch when he raised his hands.

A flash of fury crossed his face, but not at her, and for what seemed like the first time since he’s lost the money, his vexation was not directed at himself, either.

He was angry, yes, but he was not his father.

The rage that seemed to ebb and flow inside him drained in an instant. His face collapsed and he faltered, backwards first, until he found his footing and slumped into a chair, feeling as though he had lost everything all over again.

“Don’t,” he growled in warning, but it was really a call of defeat. “I would never lay a hand on you or even threaten it.”

He didn’t know what he wanted. John saw that, and he tried to argue, of course. He thought his rage could carry him into suddenly realizing what he wanted, but he was still just as lost.

“Why?” Maud said, looking at him with a mix of shame and confusion. “I deserve it.”

The way she said it had cleared up something in him and when he looked up, he suddenly found a fire of determination. “No, you don’t,” he said, “no one deserves that.”

Her sob broke through the silence. “You must hate me.”

“Of course, I do.” He answered readily and quickly. That was a fact that she was going to live with, just as his ruin was a fact he had to live with. “You ruined by mother and me.”

She nodded, tearfully, swiping away any errant tears clumsily with the back of her hand. “I wish it were true, you know.”

“What was?”

She smiled, wistfully, solemnly… shamefully. “The lies I told you. I wish that I was a proper lady, that my father was some rich industrialist. I wish that we could have married and lived off my mythical fortune.”

“So did I.” Oscar inhaled sharply. He blinked rapidly, chasing away any wetness in his eyes. “Gullible fool that I was, I fell for it—hook, line and sinker.”

She laughed, but it was humorless, coming off as a sharp bite, scathing like a bitter guffaw. “That makes the both of us, I suppose.”

He stared at her, resting his head against the bed post. “I suppose I thought I could escape this life… my father lost me in a card game when I was twelve.” She gave him a cutting look before he could even react. When he said nothing, she shook her head. “Don’t pity me. I’m tough.”

“I don’t pity you.” I hate you, he wanted to remind her, or perhaps he wanted to remind himself. But he met her gaze steadily, his lips pursed into a thin line. But he did pity her, or at least he pitied a version of her—twelve and innocent—the way he didn’t feel sorry for himself with all his faults but felt sorry for a younger version of himself.

Instead, he asked: “Tough or not, you should have known I was coming. After all, someone was bound to tell me.” He didn’t say Larry Russell, partly because the young man had nothing to do with this, mostly because he didn’t want to hear anything Maud Beaton might have said that would have confirmed the worse theories being exchanged in whispers in every great house in New York.

“I owe the people of this establishment… and when Mr. Crowther approached me, he said his scheme could finally pay off my debt. But I trusted a man who conned others for a living. It’s only very fitting, I think, that he fooled me as well. The realization of his deception, however,” she let the sleeve of her dress slip and when she turned around, he looked away immediately at the sight of skin that was more black and blue, “was a painful awakening.”

Oscar had a million things running in his mind, but instead, he gave her a sturdy look that his mother had perfected. “Do you have anywhere to go, if you weren’t here?”

And in an instant, her face was wistful, almost innocent. “Sandusky,” she whispered. “I have a sister there… if she’ll recognize me, that is. But in my mind, she’ll recognize me and that’ll be that. It won’t be perfect, but this life will be behind me. But that’s just a dream, and everyday I wake up and I have to return to real life.”

He cleared his throat. In a perfect world, they can escape their cages. “Well,” he began, finally standing up and making his way to a decanter set up on a table and poured them both a drink, “here's to living in a dream.”

Maud accepted the glass. “To Crowther dying in pain.”

Oscar nearly smiled. He’ll toast to that.

BERTHA

Bertha stared out the carriage windows—despite herself, she used to gawk at New York and all its splendor, awed by the fact that she was no longer a bystander looking on from the outside. Even when she had cemented her family’s position in society, she indulged herself by looking outside the window and marveled at the city of promise and tomorrow, and pinched herself as if it was a dream. 

But it was different now. 

When she stared out the window, she didn’t see that same city that welcomed her with the promise of the challenge of an upward climb. Instead, with each step the horses took, drawing her closer to the heart of the city, she felt dread build up in her chest. 

She tried to review her decisions and argued for her own side—she knew Hector, knew that a man like that, a man who would sacrifice love for the safety of the people who relied on him, would be a man of honor.

It was some sort of an understanding. George knew business, and she knew people. 

She knew Hector. That meeting in his hotel, when she asked him why he’d rather go to the Academy, she learned his motivations and knew him to be a good man—

Then, the memory of her sister surfaced to her mind in graphic reproduction. Her eldest sister Erin was a willful child, and she had been determined to marry for love only to return to their house, beaten to a pulp and she vowed then and there, that there would no longer be marriages akin to a cage. 

Then she met George, and they had their darling children, her babies—

Even if she had to work herself to the ground, to shoulder every form of indignity or humiliation, she would have never left them to fend for themselves in a bad marriage. 

She would never engineer Gladys into a marriage with a cruel man… but her daughter’s words rang in her mind like a clock ticking, every minute it reminded her: had she truly just been lucky? 

She thought she could handle her children’s anger. 

She used to be able to handle her children’s anger. But it was only because she thought her actions correct, that it was her family who merely lacked hindsight. 

Now, the thought of Gladys’ anger directed at her, coupled with a desperation for a call for help plagued her. It wasn’t real, she knew it in her heart because she had seen the way Hector looked at her daughter and knew in her bones that it was a look of love, or quickly falling into it. 

But fear was never logical. 

And logic had very little effect on a mother's concern.

More than that, whenever she closed her eyes, instead of her sister barreling through the doors of their home, left eye swollen black and blue and the edge of her lips busted and bleeding, it was now Gladys. 

Her darling daughter. Her baby—

The carriage jerked to a stop and one of the footmen arrived to open the door. “Madam,” Church’s voice cut through her thoughts, holding out a hand for her as if he was a junior footman. 

Wordlessly, she took his hand and stared at the grandiose façade of the house her ambition had built. Was it ambition and cunning, or bullying and luck? 

Her butler was saying something, accompanying her inside and the house was silent. “Is Larry not back yet?” She knew that, with the advancements of the technology, with ship companies like the Cunard and the White Star Line devising all sorts of grand ships boasting luxury and speed, that she would arrive home faster than her son. But she felt Larry’s absence more keenly, especially considering how they had fought before he left. 

Church frowned, at first starting delicately. “Not yet, madam. Although, we’ve been told by Mr. Brinkley that a development with the mines held his coming home off.” 

The phrasing had thrown her off, and she looked at him as though she was struck. “Where is George? He ought to be back now from Newport after his meeting with J.P. Morgan.”

“Mr. Russell has been staying at the Union, ma’am.”

He had said that he would not be around, but she had thought that a threat was in passing, a bark with no bite. Clearly, she had thought wrong.

What other things had she been wrong about?

A panic started to bubble in her chest as she made a quick turn, heading straight for the door, leaving poor Church to run after her. “Fetch the carriage. I’m going to the Club,” when he hesitated, opening his mouth and then closing it again, she snapped, “what is it?”

“At this hour, Mr. Russell is still at the office—”

“Then tell the driver to go there.” She barked her orders as she took quick and long strides back outside and to the carriage that had just barely begun offloading her bags and luggage. “Mrs. Russell, there’s something you need to know. When you were gone, a paper had been published—” 

Bertha climbed into the carriage, quickly and without regard for safety. “Whatever it is, it will have to wait.” 

She closed the door and the driver eased his way into the street. She didn’t quite hear what it was that Church wanted to say, but for a moment, she had thought that it was about Miss Brook.

GEORGE

It was very rare for George to find himself speechless—but a letter from his daughter did just that and now he was staring blankly across his office, not knowing whether to stand up or to keep sitting until the end of time. 

He had been expecting Larry to cable him from Morenci to bring him news on the land purchase, but not a letter from Gladys. Especially not a letter in which he was told off by his daughter. 

A small part of him had been pleased—he had feared, when he walked her down the aisle, that the light in her eyes would fade in the face of a loveless marriage, or perhaps in realization that her trust in him had failed. But the drive behind every line she wrote dispelled him of that notion. 

And he was glad. He could not bear to think of his daughter so dejected, moving only to the ripples of the water. 

An even bigger part of him was impressed—he knew Gladys had a backbone, but this proved, more than ever, that she was a robber barron’s daughter, and would not suffer fools gladly. 

But, he had also been ashamed. 

He had been so angry at Bertha, lashing out at her. For good reason, he thought at first. He should have never allowed her to bully their daughter into marriage. But Glady’s letter was akin to falling through thin ice into freezing waters.

When, his daughter wrote, does mother’s manipulation end and your acquiescence begin? 

Gladys wrote that she had settled in Sidmouth. In his mind, he pictured it as a cold, unforgiving palace. 

If your anger towards mother is solely rooted from my unhappiness, George read the line over and over again, then wouldn’t my growing contentment or my own forgiveness absolve her?

He held his wife responsible for his failings. His business had been teetering on the edge of collapse, and in a moment of fury and frustration, he had pinned it all on Bertha. And perhaps, there was some truth in that—his expansion was a fragile reality held together by money stretched on a tightwire and the added stress of negotiating their daughter’s dowry hadn’t made things better. 

I am not saying she’s right, near the end, the next line was underscored, but you weren’t right either. 

But her ambitions didn’t cause the miners to cling to their lands like dying men clawing their way to an oasis in a desert. He knew that his expansion would be difficult, but he never anticipated it to be a gamble of that magnitude. 

In a clearer mind, he couldn’t attribute that to Bertha, no matter how much his anger rationalized it. 

In a clearer mind, he had walked their daughter down the aisle. He liked to bring up that he was an unwilling conspirator when he had negotiated the dowry. 

And in a clearer mind, he could have said no. 

In her letter, Gladys wrote that she could see herself becoming happier than as a New York banker’s wife (funny how, just before that line, the letters of a capital B and a small letter i had been crossed out). 

And that, in the spirit of happiness, his daughter hoped to visit New York for Christmas, not wanting any gifts as she used to as a child, but for her family. 

You raised us to value love and family, that blood ties are stronger than mistakes, surely you still believe that.

He read the letter, again and again.  

Suppose he owed it to Gladys, suppose he owed it to himself… suppose, he was tired of fighting his wife and wanted so badly to fight with her, to fight for her. 

“I need to go.” He said aloud, his voice nearly echoing in the space of his room. He was still, for a moment, before the burst of energy compelled off his chair. He pocketed the letter. “I need to see my wife.”

Church had told him, when he had fetched his clothes from the house, that Bertha was due to arrive today. 

He needed to see his wife. He reached to yank the open when it moved of its volition and—

“George.”

A breath of air escaped him. From his lips to God’s ears. 

“Bertha.”

LARRY

Larry walked over to the platform, whistling as he waited for the coach that would take him far away from Yuma and back to New York—and, he thought with a grin, back to Marian. 

He had not expected to use his share of the clock profits so soon, especially to buy acres of land in Morenci, but the initial yield report of the copper mines had been promising to the point that he’s recouped his three hundred and earned a steady interest with each passing day. 

The ground began to rumble under his feet and he checked his watch—

“3:10 to Coloma approaching!” 

Soon enough, the loud screech of the train whistled louder, the steady beat of the engine moving to the routine of the gears. It was an impressive train, but it was not his ride to catch. As the Yuma Crossing was one of their busiest routes as the steady migration for work in vineyards and manufacturing, the platform was filling up with more people who began to arrive as well as the people who began to dismount the train. 

He began to walk back to the small waiting area where the Russell Corporation employees had prepared a small spread of sweet pastries and refreshments for him to help with the heat—

“Larry Russell, as I live and breathe!” 

A familiar voice called him out and when he turned around, he saw one of his old classmates from Harvard. “Christopher!” 

Christopher Armstrong had been one of his classmates, and a good friend to him at Harvard. In fact, it was Christopher who made introductions to Nick Fish, which earned him his invitation to a party in Newport—that was when he first met Oscar, and the first he heard of Marian.

He clasped his hand into a firm shake, leading them both out of the rush of the crowd of people and into the waiting area. “After nearly a month of travel, I have to admit: it is good to see a familiar face.” 

He grinned back. “Likewise,” he looked around and through a window, he stared at the stretch of land in the direction of Morenci. “It’s been a long month.” 

Christopher’s brows knitted together. “Surely, not long enough.” 

His smile faltered. “What?” 

His friend leaned back, a bit confused. “You were sent away, at least that’s what Simon told us.” 

“Oh,” Larry chuckled, understanding dawning on him. Simon Winthrop had been the friend to invite him on a stag night the day before he left New York. “My father had me undertake a negotiation in Morenci on his behalf, and now I’m very glad to say that it’s concluded and I’m on my way back to New York. And you?”

“On my way to California,” Christopher lifted his portmanteau slightly, “I have a land case, which was a great aid to my slumber on the drive from my hotel to the station here.” He opened the bag and showed a thick wad of papers. 

“How exciting,” he drawled sarcastically, teasing his friend good-naturedly. 

“Not all of them,” his friend grinned, eyes dancing with mischief. “Some of them are society papers. Ever since my father has been appointed a circuit judge in the California districts, well… my mother asked me to bring her the paper, not wanting to be left out of New York drama and the latest intrigues of Mrs. Astor's Four Hundred.”

“That’s kind of you,” he praised. “And after California?” 

“I will go back to New York, maybe after a month’s time, maybe two. That depends entirely on how fast I get there and how fast I solve the case.”

Larry offered his hand, which Christopher accepted and they shook hands. “Well, I won’t hold you up longer than needed, except to say I hope I’ll see you in New York when you get back?” 

“In New York,” Christopher said lightly like a joke, smiling tentatively, “but that’s so close to the formidable Mrs. Agnes Van Rhijn. Are you sure you want to risk life and limb just like that?”

Larry raised an eyebrow and grinned, his smile reaching his eyes in a way that could only be emboldened by the fact that Marian’s aunt would soon become his family. “I’m confident,” he brightened—that first tea at the Van Rhijn house hadn’t been promising, but that was about to change. “In fact, in the future, I think we ought to celebrate when we’re both in the city.”

“What? Like at the Haymarket?” The last word came out like a bite that he took a step back. 

Larry blinked, hesitating for a second. “I… it’s not the first place that comes to mind, but perhaps for drinks—and only for drinks.”

Simon had tried to send one of the working women his way, but he refused categorically—how could he even look at another woman that way, let alone go to the rooms upstairs when his mind was consumed by Marian?

“Very good then. I’ll insist on it—only drinks,” Christopher said firmly, clutching the handle of his bag meaningfully, showing the wedding band that reflected the light of the sun. “For you know I would not want my wife to worry.” 

“Nor would I want my fiancée to worry.” He paused, but he realized his mistake too late. 

Christopher did a double take. “You’re engaged?” 

He had the decency to look sheepish. He wasn’t supposed to say anything to anyone. Not yet, at least. But they always did plan on announcing their engagement when he returned, and he had mentioned it to his friend. Surely, no harm can come of that. 

“I am,” he nodded. “To Miss Marian Brook.”

In an instant, Christopher’s smile had dropped. “Larry,” his friend started, “stop joking around. It’s unfair, especially to Ms. Brook. You should know better.”

“What?”

“More than that, it’s cruel to joke like that. Just because she’s not around here, doesn’t give you a license to say that, especially after what those nasty papers say. My sister Peggy’s told me—” 

Larry reeled, feeling as though the ground started spinning. “Papers? What papers?”

“The gossip column.” Christopher took a step back before rummaging through his bag. “I think I have a copy. I thought you knew. I thought that was part of why you went away." 

Larry reached for the pamphlet and—

“3:10 to Coloma now boarding!”

JOHN

The horse carriage came from nowhere. One second, he was standing to hail a cab, and the next thing he knew was the darkness and the pain.  

"Help!" Oscar yelled, his voice muffled, footsteps began to sound louder, crowding near him. The weight around him began to lighten, but there was a pressure pushing on his chest. "Please help me!"

A beam of light bled through the crack when a weight was lifted off him and he saw—

"Oscar." He said, feeling himself relieved. 

"You're going to be fine." He looked down and saw a piece of wood, jagged and sharp, protruding out of his chest. 

"No," he shook his head. "You're going to be fine."

"John?" he reached for Oscar's hand and held it tight. As tight as he can. 

It was fitting, he thought as he closed his eyes, that the last person he saw was the man he loved.

Chapter Text

BERTHA

“Bertha.”

It was almost comedic—just minutes before, Bertha had been teetering on the edge of her seat in the carriage, and she thought she would have gone mad just imagining how he’d react, all the while she looked out the carriage window, willing the driver to go faster or time to move slower.

And then the carriage stopped and she was suddenly a woman on a mission, marching through the dark, deserted hallway leading down to the only room with lights left on. 

But the minute she opened those doors, the second he said her name, she fell silent. Bertha had a million things she wanted to tell him, but all of that was gone in an instant. 

Instead, she just paused, relishing the silence and the fading light from the darkening dusk that filtered through the windows and into the office… she wanted to remember him like this. 

No matter what would happen, she would say her piece. If he wanted nothing to do with her, then she’d accept that with the grace her station demanded of her—she’s never begged before, and she wouldn’t dare start now—but she deserved the chance to be heard, and he deserved the dignity of his own choice. 

She’d respect his choice.

But she wanted a moment first, so she burned the memory into her mind: her husband’s gaze and the sound of her name made in his voice. 

She stared at him, and he stared right back, and they spent that long moment, frozen in time. 

“You’re back.” 

Bertha swallowed, finally moving, breaking her gaze to step aside, half circling the office before settling behind one of the dark leather armchairs with deep button quilting—the Earl of Chesterfield once owned that set—just to grip the edge. 

“Only just… I was at the house,” she looked up at him, “but you weren’t there.” 

Saying it aloud had hurt more than she realized. Knowing he left their home was one thing, but admitting it to his face, acknowledging his absence in front of him made it all too real and the possibility of everything being beyond the point of repair was now fear she had. 

“I’ve been staying at the Union,” George stared back at her. “I told you, before you left.”

She bristled, half wanting to get out. Perhaps, there was a part of her that wanted to leave now. It would have been easier to play pretend that everything was fine. 

But they valued and respected honesty, she and George. 

She owed him her honesty… and her apology. 

So, she looked him straight in the eye, and took his hands into hers and led them to a chaise, despite feeling sick to her stomach as she let go of his hands. “We have to talk, George.” 

But before she could continue, she spied a look on his desk, which had been covered in various papers. She felt a pang of guilt sting her again—she did it again, making a decision for them without even consulting him. 

“Or perhaps later, when you’re not so busy,” she amended quickly before moving to stand up but George shook his head. 

“No,” she couldn’t quite make out if his voice was cool or warm, “you’re already here. You should say what you came to tell me.” 

“Alright,” she adjusted herself on the seat. 

George leaned back in his spot. “So, why are you here, Bertha?” 

She swallowed. She straightened her back tensely, and clutched the fabric of her skirt. “I don’t know if this will mean anything to you, but I’m sorry.” 

George spun quickly to look at her, brows arched, but the rest of his face was unreadable, which was a fact that stung more. Her husband had always been an open book to her, and to see him so guarded felt like her mistake being flaunted right in front of her face. 

And she deserved it.

“What for?” George’s tone came off cool. “Gladys wrote to me, she said you were a success. You fixed things, as you always do. Just as you said you would.” 

“Well,” she frowned down, wringing her hands together and apart in quick succession, “I only want the best for our children, you must know that… but I lost sight of what truly mattered and so I lashed out on you. I know how important it was, for you to keep your word to Gladys, and how much it hurt having to break it. I see now that I was wrong, about everything, and for that I’m sorry.” 

George stared at the ground, looking away from her. But when he spoke up, his voice was wet. “What made you change your mind?” 

She inhaled deeply. “Gladys. She had made me realize that I hadn’t been right; I was lucky.” She reached for his hand, but froze midway and recoiled as if she’s been burned by fire. She was not sure if she deserved him, not now. “And I hadn’t been fair to you, making you do something you were against.” 

“You make it sound as if you had a gun to my head.” He joked weakly and she laughed. 

“I might as well have done so.” She laughed, wetly and softly, “I was blinded, George. And I had been so focused on my own goal, that I had not paused to see the damage that was done, or the hurt I had caused. And what was worse was that I kept thinking that, if I pretended long enough, or I willed it hard enough, then everything will be right and everything will go back to the way it was. But it won’t, because I can’t undo what I’ve done.” 

George frowned deeply. “No, you can’t.” Her heart had constricted—she lost him. 

Bertha breathed in, pushing away the wetness in her eyes, before she stood up. “Well, I’ve said my piece. Goodbye, George.” 

She quickly turned around, moving to the door, but before she could truly leave, his hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her back to him. 

“Do you think you can just leave without hearing what I have to say?” 

“I wasn’t aware you had anything to say. You were perfectly clear the last time we spoke.” 

“Look at me,” his words were barked out, like a command, but his eyes were soft and it wore as though a pleading. “Please, look at me.”

She fixed her gaze on his shoulder. “I am looking at you.” 

“I’d prefer it if you’d look me in the eye as I spoke to you.” She could hardly argue with him seeing as she had barged into his office unannounced and unwanted. “You know, I’ve been trying to understand why this means so much to you when it seemed to matter so little to our daughter. And I was angry for her—but then Gladys wrote to me, telling me to let go of any anger I hold, for she had let go of any ill will towards you.” 

Her eyes widened in equal parts hope and surprise. “And have you? Have you let go of your anger, or do you hate me still.” 

His face twisted, and he shuddered. “I hate what you’ve done,” she looked to the side, to avert his gaze when her tears had fallen, but his hand had cupped her chin, guiding her back to him. “But I could never hate you, my darling.” 

“Am I forgiven now?”

He stepped away, but held out his hand, and when she reached for him, he had pulled her into an embrace. “Of course you are,” he murmured against the side of her temple. “I’ve missed you, my darling. You can’t possibly know how much.” 

She pulled away to lay her hand gently on his cheek. “And I’ve missed you, too. So much.” But then, and only then when she’s so much closer to him, did she see his true state: his eyes were sunken, he was thinner as well, and he was much paler than he normally was. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?” 

She brushed a stray curl from his face. “You look terrible.” 

“Charmer,” he replied flatly, but his eyes had crinkled in amusement. 

“I’m serious. Are they feeding you at all at the Union? You don’t look like you’re sleeping well.” 

George groaned and gestured at his desk. “I don’t think I can blame the Union for my lack of sleep. The railroad expansion has hit a snag and it’s been more difficult than I expected it to be.” 

She followed him to his desk, to the mess of papers scattered, but the most intriguing one was the report bearing the Pinkerton header. “What’s this?” 

Her husband glanced just one look before grimacing, looking frustrated as he handed her the remaining pages which were mixed in with the other stacks of papers. “I’ve been looking for someone, a mystery shareholder that’s evaded me and Brinkley for weeks now. I was able to secure a sale with Alfred and Edgar Merrick, but that snake, Clay, sabotaged the deal and now my only chance of controlling the railroad is to find out whoever that mystery shareholder is and appeal to his sense of greed.” 

Bertha scanned the report, which highlighted major cities like Chicago, Pennsylvania, Washington, and California. “Do you need my help?” 

George chuckled. “I’m not sure you could throw a dinner and roll out a red carpet to impress this incognito, but thank you.” He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “I’ve missed this, you and I working together.” 

“We make the best team, after all.” 

“Which is why we should never let something like this come between again,” he squeezed her hand. “I should have never taken my frustrations out on you, but you have to make me a promise as well.” 

“Name it.” 

“What’s happened with Gladys, it can’t happen again. Our children deserve a love match, Bertha, surely that means something to you as it does to me.” 

She gave him a soft look. “You know it does.” She raised his hand and placed it on her chest, just above her heart. “We’re a love match, aren’t we?” 

“Then you must promise me that you won’t stand in the way of Larry and Marian’s engagement. Or if you had, then tell me now, so that we can fix it—he’s happy with her, in a way I know he won’t be happy with Carrie Astor or Martha Delancey.” 

Once, before the entire sequence of events that lead to the near implosion of her marriage, she would have argued with George. But she’s heard the argument in three separate occasions, delivered in three different frames. She had no idea what her family saw in Miss Brook, but it wasn’t worth losing them. 

“I wouldn’t interfere. I haven’t. And I don’t plan to, George. I promise.”

MARIAN

The ring still adorned her finger when her aunts sat her down—it had just been some weeks after Mrs. Astor’s dinner, but it was clear now that denying what had happened and pretending as if everything was fine was no longer a feasible option. 

Aunt Ada gave her a soft look, pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her forehead, before passing an empty envelope. “I trust you know what you have to do, Marian, for only you can do what’s best for you.” 

Aunt Agnes, on the other hand, looked on stoically. They had barely exchanged words since she received a ticket to Newport. Her only explanation was a clipped message: “It can’t go on like this.” It sounded like an order, but when she looked into her aunt’s eyes, it wore more of a plea.

But they left her in her room all the same. 

Marian drew in a sharp breath—she stared at her left hand, her gaze landing on the ring 

Weeks ago, she had been unsure. 

But weeks ago, she had been nursing a heartbreak where now, she’s grown accustomed to that ache of hurt to see that she can’t go on living in New York, accepting calls and attending dinners as if nothing had changed when everything had when nothing was the same, nor will it ever revert to the way it was. 

She knew it was painful for her aunts to even suggest it. She knew that her aunts had been generous, respecting her space, giving her time, and allowing her to grieve the future she thought once was hers, but there was a limit to the kindness of inaction until it became a severing damage. 

For as long as she remains in New York, she can never escape the whispers and the rumors. But in Newport, she could live a life again. Not quite her old life, which was the life she so badly wanted to wake up to and return as if everything had been a bad dream, but it was a consolation prize she was lucky to accept all the same. 

In Newport, she’d have Cousin Aurora. And Peggy wouldn’t be a ferry away, as she’s staying there currently for the summer season. 

Her aunts would visit, of course, and her exile wouldn’t be permanent. Only until the talks have ceased and some other gossip will have taken place of her embarrassment. And while she wouldn’t be the same respectable Miss Marian Brook, she’ll be welcomed back (although only by some) in New York. 

It would take a year, maybe, or perhaps even more. 

She’d miss her aunts, she’d miss the staff, and she’d miss Larry, despite everything that’s happened. But she needs to heal her wounds, and her scars will break open so long as she remains in New York. 

So she finished the first letter, to the Female Normal and High School, which laid out her resignation, and simply slipped the ring off her finger and placed it gently in the second envelope.

OSCAR

“And just where have you been?” 

There were moments when Oscar wished he could become invisible, hidden away from the rest of the world. 

This had been one of those moments. 

He had spent the better part of the night with the police, having been taken in for his testimony as to what happened. He wanted to tell them that it was a tragedy that took the life of the man he loved most, instead he was forced to be just a friend of John’s, to be set aside as one the police tried to contact the Adams family, as if he wasn’t important to John. 

The last thing he wanted was an ambush when he arrived home, but his mother had been expecting him, and her eyes fixed onto his person as if he was one of his grandfather’s regimental targets for rifle practice. 

Immediately, she harangued him for being an absentee. “Oscar, as the only man, you’re the head of this family. But you can’t even be relief on to be present when you’re needed the most.”

“Mama, can we please not do this, at least not now.” 

Footsteps sounded, and soon Aunt Ada descended the stairs with Marian following suit. His cousin had been dressed in loose travel clothes, and his mind, sleep deprived and addled with grief, had taken a moment to realize just exactly what was happening. 

His mother and Aunt Ada had discussed this before, that Marian needed to leave New York, and he was supposed to accompany her to Aurora’s cottage there or at least to the ferry to see her off, as cousins do. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, a bit absently, shaking his head as he fought back his tears. “I forgot you were leaving for Newport today.” 

His mother groaned, shooting him a poisonous look. “Honestly, Oscar. And you come home under the influence of drink? Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” 

“Mother,” he said with an edge. “Please.” 

Marian walked off the last few steps and looked at him with concern. “Oscar, are you alright?” 

“Where were you? When Bannister said that you hadn’t returned home last night, we were worried.” Aunt Ada said diplomatically, fussing over him as well. 

Well, they were fussing over him until Marian caught a glance of his sleeve, the end of it stained and crusty with a deep copper red, and tipped his suit blazer until she found more bloodstains. “Oscar!” 

“I’m fine,” he pulled away from her hand, making a beeline for the base of the stairs. “Nothing happened to me. I’m—” his voice broke, cracking in a painful way as he could not hold back the tears, “—fine!”

“Oh, my dear, what happened?” 

He sniffed, looking up at his family. “I had dinner at the Union with John Adams. We were leaving when a carriage had run him over.” 

Marian’s hand flew to her mouth to stop a surprised gasp. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Oscar!”

“Leave him alone,” Aunt Agnes barked from the living room. “He’s a man. Men don’t feel these things the way we women do. “ 

Aunt Ada frowned. “Agnes, I’m not sure if that’s a very kind thing to say. He’s hurting—”

His eyes snapped to his aunt. “Of course, I’m hurting!” 

“Oscar!” His mother yelled. “Don’t snap at your aunt! She merely wants to know how you’re managing.” 

“Well, I’m not managing! He’s my—” he choked. He was supposed to say friend, he needed to say friend, but John was so much more to him. “I sat there on the sidewalk, and I watched him die, mama. I sat there while a woman had to take his hand to give comfort where I should have been…” 

Marian approached him, carefully, taking each step with a calculated pause. “Oscar is very upset. John Adams had rescued him when he hit rock bottom. His kindness had brought Oscar back. If someone had done all that for you with no motive beyond kindness, and then they died, wouldn’t you be upset?”

His gaze flitted between Marian, his aunt, and his mother. 

And he regretted looking at his mother, because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have had to see the breaking realization that broke across her face. 

“Why don’t you go upstairs to your room? We’ll have Mrs. Bauer send a tray.” 

“No,” he shook his head. “I can’t stay. I have to pack some clothes.” 

“You’re leaving?”

“John told me that his favorite sister lives in Newport. I have to meet her. She deserves to hear it from me.”

GEORGE

They had not intended to spend the night at the office, but a stray beam of light hitting his face square in the eyes had revealed to him that they had done just that.

Just then the door opened, revealing Brinkley. 

“Mr. Russell, I apologize. I should have sent a note ahead, but you weren’t at the Union and—oh,” his agent blinked and his mouth hung open. Bertha had been sleeping on the couch, her head rested against his shoulder. “I hadn’t realized Mrs. Russel was here, sir.” 

Bertha, beside him, roused awake. 

“My apologies for waking you up, but Mr. Larry’s arrived at the office. He’s in a hurry, but I’ve convinced him to wait for you, sir,” Brinkley grinned as he handed him a stack of papers which were covered in a layer of fine dust and sand. 

It was a report from the mines at Morenci, and its outrageous copper yields. He could hardly believe his eyes. 

“Where is Larry?”

“Master Larry said he’s going to find Miss Brook.” 

“Bring Larry here. Miss Brook can wait, but the business can’t.”

George focused on the papers as Bertha scanned the metallurgy reports. “My God, George, look at the returns!” 

He laughed, half mad and half triumphant. The lands were worth more than he thought possible. Then, his eyes darkened. Clay had missed this, he had relied on reports and his mistake nearly cost him a fortune. 

“Tens of millions of dollars, just waiting to be mined. Our son is a genius,” he grinned at Bertha. “We could use this profit to leverage for capital to prop up the stock. This would reassure the Merricks, and have plenty leftover for the expansion and the company.” 

“Larry has returned victorious then,” Bertha beamed at him, and called Brinklet to have a bottle of champagne brought up from the bar. It felt like a relief had been granted to him, as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders. He had wondered if this was possible, finding a rhythm back to the way things were. 

“You wanted to see me—” Larry’s face darkened, cold and fixed into a glare. “Mother.” 

“Larry!” 

Brinkley arrived with glass flutes filled with champagne. “Congratulations, son. You’ve saved the company. We ought to celebrate.” 

Brinkley passed a flute to Larry but he refused to accept. “Forgive me, but I’m not in a celebrating mood.” 

Bertha paused. “Even after what you’ve achieved?” 

“You mean after what you’ve achieved?” Larry spat back to his mother. 

“What are you saying?” 

“Don’t pretend as if you don’t know anything.” Larry pulled out something from his pocket and dropped it on his desk. It was a ring, the ring he had given to Marian. “She called off the wedding. She won’t speak to me, her aunts say she’s not even in New York anymore.”

George took the ring and set it aside. “What happened? Surely you can sort it out?”

“If she’s changed her mind about you without explanation, surely that shows more about her character than yours.” 

Larry's gaze turned poisonous and sharp, his lips curled downwards in a cold sneer. “No one is ever good enough for you, are they? Marian was never good enough, but she was kind to you, to us, and even then that kindness never stood a chance when it comes to your exacting standards?” 

George took to stand between his wife and son, his stomach sinking lower as he began to realize that he's been had but didn't quite want to admit it just yet. His wife had promised him. Bertha had given him her word. “Bertha, what is he talking about?” 

“Well, go on! Tell him how you leaked the Haymarket to the papers just as you leaked the wedding details for Gladys!”

“Larry, of course I haven’t. I’ve only just been back. How could you ask such a thing?” 

“Because I know what you’re capable of! You’ve used us as pawns in your plan to dominate the world, and if it doesn’t suit your desires, you seek to destroy it. You did it to Archie Baldwin, to Billy Carlton, and now to Marian?” 

“I didn’t leak anything to the papers, Larry. Please!” 

“Who else would have known! You were the only one who knew of the Haymarket and my relationship with Susan Blane, and now the papers have printed pages upon pages of the scandal, ruining Marian… I can’t spend another minute around you.” 

Larry walked out of the office and George felt as though he fell through a thin patch of ice. His reality had been cruelly realized—last night was a dream, today was real life. 

"When you told me last night, that you regret everything, was everything you said a lie?" 

"Of course not. George, you have to believe me." 

His wife was never going to change. Their family was never going to supplant Bertha's true great love: society. 

Perhaps, if he were a lesser man, he could stand to play second fiddle to a woman who would only chase the glitter of high society. Perhaps, in another life, he could live with Bertha moving their family like pieces on the board. 

But he wasn't a lesser man, and he did not live a different life. 

The reality of Bertha's manipulation made him uncertain and now more than ever, he needed to be grounded in certainty. 

"I wish I could. But you told me you hadn’t schemed anything.” His voice turned cold, matching that of Larry’s tone. 

“George—”

“You know,” he began quickly, cutting off Bertha before she could respond, “I don’t blame for being ruthless. I admire it. But I’m ruthless in business, not the people I love, and certainly not with my children… but maybe that’s because I see them as people, not pawns, Bertha. With you, on other hand, I’m not so sure you can say the same.”