The Address(29)

When she finally finished up her work for the day, she retreated to her tiny room, where the setting sun cast a reddish glow. She hung her lace curtains and marveled at how they prettied up the place, made it sweeter and cozier.

Daisy knocked and peered in. “You in for the night?”

“I believe I am.”

“Curtains! How lovely.” Daisy walked to the window and ran her hand along the delicate folds. “Where did you get them?”

“I made them.”

“You’re quite handy, then.”

“I’ve sewn a frock or two in my day.” She wished she’d had enough fabric to make two sets, as Daisy, such a young girl, ought to have something nice to look at.

Daisy draped the material around her head. “When I’m married, I’m going to hang gold velvet draperies in my windows, the better to show off my scarlet Worth dress.”

“What a lovely tableau. But you’ll need to find yourself a very rich husband in that case.”

“I plan on it.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Did you hear that Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish had elephants in the ballroom at her fancy-dress party? Guests fed them peanuts as they waltzed by.”

“I didn’t realize elephants could waltz.”

Daisy giggled. “No, silly. The guests did the waltzing.”

“Such excess.” Sara crinkled her nose.

“But such fun.”

“I hope you’ll be able to stay focused on the building, with opening day coming along.”

Daisy nodded. “Of course.”

She didn’t want to be too hard on the girl, not after the trauma of the man in the night. But Daisy was a dreamer. She’d managed similar types at the Langham, especially among the pretty girls. “Good night, Daisy.”

The sun disappeared over the horizon and drew Sara back to her window. Part of her envied Daisy’s hopefulness. The girl had a grand plan, and wasn’t that why Sara had come to New York City in the first place?

Sara’s grand plan involved running the Dakota according to the expectations of her employers, and while her gray bombazine silk was a far cry from a gown of seed pearls and antique lace, it would certainly do.

One mustn’t get carried away.



“Quickly, unlock the back gate.” Sara shoved the key into Fitzroy’s hand. “There’s a line of moving wagons on Seventy-Third Street waiting to get in.”

Fitzroy squinted down at the metal key in his hand, as if unfamiliar with the whole concept. “But it’s only seven in the morning. No one’s supposed to be here for another hour.”

“Let them in, we can’t keep them waiting.”

She’d risen earlier than usual, knowing that a smooth opening day was crucial to the future reputation of the Dakota. If chaos ensued, the building and its management would be written off. Already, there had been snide remarks in the press about the class of citizen who had signed up, that they were of a lesser sort than established society, wondering why anyone would choose to live in the hinterlands amidst squatters’ sagging homes.

Fitzroy skittered off. They were a sad pair, she had to admit. She knew nothing about this job, and was learning on the fly, while poor Fitzroy was far too old for the demands of his position. His hip had given him trouble lately, and his lopsided face was sure to disturb the ladies. Now this. Her meticulously scheduled agenda for the day was already in ruins.

Sixty-five families had rented out apartments, and of those, thirty were to move in today, while the others would file in over the course of the next week. She’d enjoyed having the full staff around during the past few weeks, the maids doing a final cleaning and the electricians fiddling with wires. Even the tailor, elderly and rather deaf in one ear, turned out to be a fine man, assuring her in a loud voice that she could use his sewing machine in the off hours whenever she liked.

The order that had been barely established was about to be turned on its head. She’d seen Mr. Camden only in passing recently, as they both rushed from one corner of the building to another, but his demeanor remained serious. As if their jaunt downtown had never happened.

A few minutes before eleven, Sara retreated to her office to catch her breath, as she’d been inundated with questions and concerns from the tenants’ staff for the past four hours. Although the servants’ rooms in the apartments were enormous by any other standard, she’d had to shut down squabbling about which maid got which room in apartment number 36, and barely prevented the new resident housekeeper, Mrs. Quinn, from giving the butler in apartment 32 a tongue-lashing when he complained about some invisible grime in the parlor. She was used to juggling two levels of help at the Langham: the guests’ maids and valets, who generally expected to be treated as royalty, and the hotel’s staff, who put up with their airs but talked about them behind their backs. She could allow no animosity like that here. No one would be checking out, hopefully, and the hierarchy had to be carefully maintained.

Daisy rushed in, breathless. Tendrils of blond hair fell along her white neck. Beautiful, but not acceptable.

“Fix your hair, Daisy.”

The girl caught her breath and then shoved her hair back into place. “The residents are here, Mrs. Smythe.”

Dread washed over her. “But they’re two hours early.” The plan had been to get the tenants’ staff and rooms settled before allowing the actual tenants entry. She’d imagined greeting them as they swished down the halls, opening their front doors and exclaiming aloud at their gleaming new homes in perfect condition.