The Address(34)

On the way back to the Dakota, Sara’s bike hit a large hole. She stayed upright, but her front wheel began to wobble. She disembarked near the statue of Daniel Webster and examined the tire.

“Something wrong?” Mr. Camden asked.

“Looks like this needs to be tightened.” She pointed to the hub of the wheel.

He leaned his bike against the statue and knelt down to examine hers. She wished he didn’t have a hat on, as she’d have liked to see what the top of his head looked like, how the hair whorled this way or that.

He looked up suddenly, his eyes wide. Her own expression had been unguarded. She gave him a quick smile and looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

He stood, one hand on her bike’s seat, and spoke quietly. “I’ll have one of the staff take it to be repaired. Thank you for a remarkable afternoon, Mrs. Smythe.”

The vibration of his voice practically undid her. He was so close, and it was as if the sound traveled through her skin and muscles and into her bones.

She loosened her grip on the bike handles. “Off I go, then. I must check in and make sure there have been no fires that need putting out.”

“Wait, you must take this.” He dug into the picnic basket and handed over the rolled drawing.

The act felt overly intimate and improper, as if he were handing her a lacy chemise in the middle of a city street. She took the paper and hid it behind her back, embarrassed. “Thank you, Mr. Camden.”

She ran off without waiting for his reply.



“There you are. Sit and tell me the day’s gossip.”

Sara took her usual place in Mr. Camden’s library. Even though it was only two weeks since the opening, the Dakota ran as smoothly as if it had been occupied for two years: Boys brought coal up to the apartments, past maids carrying buckets and mops, while downstairs, residents ascended into their broughams with the help of the porters. Fortunately, the new residents were far from the demanding upper-crust guests the Langham catered to, apart from the irritable Mrs. Horace Putnam. The men were debonair and kind and the women, while discerning in their tastes, exuded an unexpected warmth.

Not that her job was easy. While the deliverymen were obsequious enough, the clerks of the companies they worked for balked when Sara registered even the most minor complaint. Yesterday, she’d showed up in person at the offices of the kindling supply company after sending multiple letters complaining of damp bundles. The clerk refused to believe she was in charge, insisting that she instead send the “true manager.” She’d fired the company on the spot and directed Daisy to find a suitable replacement.

Each day at four in the afternoon, when Mr. Camden returned from his office, they shared tea and ran through the day’s events. What a relief it was to speak with a man and not have to prove herself. He encouraged a friendly banter, as if she were his equal.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Putnam’s son wore his skates in the parlor. The floors will need to be redone.”

Mr. Camden froze, cup half-raised to his mouth. “He did what?”

She smiled. “I’m joking. Sorry, couldn’t help it. She has insisted we polish the silver inlay of her floors twice a week, however.”

Mr. Camden burst out laughing and barely got the teacup back on its saucer without spilling. “That image will haunt me for days, thank you very much.”

“No, no gossip to tell today, I’m afraid. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

“Not at all. Between the good notices in the papers and the current residents’ satisfaction, I’ve been told we have a waiting list pages long for residence here at our private village.” He idly lifted an invitation from the table beside him. “That’s a shame.”

“What’s that?”

“The Rutherfords are having one of their mad masquerade balls on Friday. Mrs. Camden would have loved to have gone.”

Sara forced a smile. His wife and children were due the following week. The apartment had been furnished with their overstuffed armchairs and delicate French tea tables, and was just waiting for the rest of the family to arrive. She’d so enjoyed Mr. Camden’s company these past few weeks, but their relations would have to become more formal once Mrs. Camden arrived from London. It was only right.

For the first time, she reconsidered her mother’s relationship with the Earl of Chichester. Sara had never been able to imagine how her mother had fallen into the man’s hands, made herself so vulnerable. But perhaps they’d been united by the common goal of running a large manor, leading to shared confidences and a mutual respect that wasn’t bound by class. The loss must have been insurmountable, if that was the case. Her mother’s livelihood, and her love.

“Mrs. Smythe?”

She looked over. Had he said something? “I’m sorry?” Her face flamed with embarrassment.

“I said you should go with me.”

“To where?”

“The Rutherford ball.”

“No, of course not.” He was mad. A glorified servant did not attend balls.

He sat back and ran his finger over the thick card stock. “Too bad, as I’d love to show you the interior work. And they’re known for their soirees. Last year they held a costume ball for twelve hundred people, and even the discerning Mrs. Astor showed up.”

“What was her costume?”