The Address(11)

She’d pictured a handsome building like the Langham smack in the middle of the city, surrounded by shops and parks, where broughams with well-matched pairs of horses pulled up to discharge their passengers. But this place was dismal, the streets still unpaved. She should have asked more questions about the owners, the location. If the driver were correct, the clientele would be ignorant of the niceties. Fine linens. Good manners. A certain distance from the staff that made the role of housekeeper manageable.

The man pulled into an arch cut through the middle of the building. When she stepped out, the ground seemed to shift underneath her. She’d been told by one of the ship’s porters that it might take a few days for her sea legs to let her be.

A wiry old man approached, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

“Are you Mrs. Smythe?”

She nodded.

“Been expecting you. I’m Fitzroy, the head porter. Why don’t you wait inside while I arrange for your belongings?” He gestured to the right, where a steep set of stairs led to a small reception room. Two large windows let in ample light, and the walls were covered in handsome wood paneling that matched the built-in desk and countertop. A switchboard took up most of the back wall.

The porter joined her, rubbing his hands together. The side of his face drooped, as if it was falling off his skull, but his eyes, including the one that turned down at the edge, were a warm brown. He pointed at the switchboard.

“Got all the latest gadgets here, you’ll find. We have private wires going to the fire station, the stables, the telegraph messenger office, and the florist. Four thousand electric lights, even.”

“Very modern.”

“How was your journey? You came from abroad?”

“Yes, England.”

“Right. The building agent, Mr. Douglas, said to show you around.”

He led her into the courtyard, currently in use by the craftsmen, and they wove around toolboxes and sawhorses supporting large pieces of wood. She looked up once and the dizziness returned. The courtyard felt too small for the massive building around it, like the walls were about to cave in.

Mr. Fitzroy touched her lightly on the elbow to steady her. He pointed up. “That’s where you’ll be, on the top floor. Lovely view. Once the elevators are working, you won’t have to trudge up the stairs. First of their kind in a residential building in New York City, I’ll have you know.”

“We had several lifts in the London hotel where I worked previously.”

His enthusiasm remained undamped. “I’ll show you ours tomorrow, if you like. An amazing piece of machinery. Runs on water, all hydraulics.”

He must be balmy, a lift run by water. But she was too tired to inquire further.

Exhaustion swept over her. This Bavarian behemoth, out in the middle of nowhere, was to be her home. She should have stayed in London. Instead of continuing on with her comfortable, if predictable, life, she would have to figure everything out anew: the confusing geography of the building and the city, not to mention the foreign customs of America. The people who agreed to live in such a place must be desperate, unable to afford lodging in the city proper, and she’d seen desperate sorts before she’d started working at the Langham. Demanding, petty, and changeable. At least in her previous positions, the guests would check out at some point, head off to other destinations. The Dakota residents would be here to stay.

“For now, I’d like to get settled and rest, Mr. Fitzroy.”

They entered a door set in the far left corner of the courtyard that led into a dark foyer. A wide set of marble stairs wrapped around the lift, and the railings of the stairs were carved with ornate designs that gave the impression of serpents twisting their way down and around. Nothing warm and inviting like the Langham’s cream walls and brass finishes. Her room, down a claustrophobic hall at the very top of the building, had a small bed, desk, and chair. Simple and plain, as suited a domestic servant. But her attention was immediately drawn to the window.

In her London bedsit, she’d had no view, other than roofs and a blank sky. But here, at the very top of the tallest building for miles around, she could see farms and streets and even a wide river beyond.

“On a good day, you can see the Orange Mountains of New Jersey,” offered Fitzroy.

She thought of the harbor at Fishbourne, and her heart settled ever so slightly at the idea of having a view of water. Pathetic, that she should need to cling to something. But it helped.

“If you’d like a cup of tea or a bite before bed, come down to the kitchen in the basement. There’s no one else about; you can help yourself. I’ll be heading home in an hour or so, but I’ll lock the front gate so you’ll be safe.”

“No one else is here?”

“You’re the first of the resident staff to arrive.”

Her throat constricted at the thought of being alone.

Fitzroy shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a lamp on the desk for you to see your way after dark. I can stay late if you’re nervous.”

It was a kind offer. “Not at all. I will be fine.”

After he left, Sara remained at the window, watching the gray sky turn to black. It occurred to her that she was trapped, locked inside. What if there was a fire, or if she had to get out in an emergency? A terrible unease crept over her, uncertain whether she was safer locked inside this tomb or in the vast nothingness outside. Panic fluttered in her chest and threatened to take over her senses. She didn’t dare wind her way through the labyrinthine hallways down to the basement, not now, so she ignored her rumbling stomach, changed into her bedclothes, and laid on the bed until exhaustion took over, sending her into a deep, drugged sleep.