Mr. Camden’s shoulders dropped an inch.
“And do the plaster as well. Gold leaf.”
Mr. Hardenbergh offered to escort Mrs. Putnam back to her carriage. After they’d gone, Mr. Camden ran a hand through his hair. “This is the third time she’s come in and demanded drastic changes. I have no time to redo this room. We’re behind schedule as it is.”
“Leave it for a week or so,” advised Sara. “My guess is she’ll have a new idea by then that may be less painful.”
“Or more.”
They laughed.
“Thank you for trying to reason with her,” he said.
“Well, it’s not like the building is subtle to begin with.” She glanced away, hoping he wasn’t offended.
“It’s far from subtle. I see it as a last gasp in an age of excess. Maybe if I overdo it completely, as is all the rage, we will as a society move on more quickly to another way of design.”
“There’s much to look at. I especially like the gargoyles out front.”
A smile crept over his face. “Now you are teasing me, I can tell. Save it for Mr. Hardenbergh. I promise I won’t take it personally if you find it distasteful.”
“Distasteful is too harsh a word. If you did indeed design this, it appears as if you enjoyed yourself. I see a sense of humor throughout. Is that your contribution?”
Mr. Camden shook his head. “You’ve found me out. I keep waiting for Hardenbergh to come down on me for taking it too far. Corncobs and Indians, for goodness’ sake. Do you mind if I show you something?”
She really should be getting back to her desk, but she couldn’t resist his enthusiasm.
They walked back down to his apartment. Mr. Camden laid his drawings out on the table in the library, blocking the glare with his own shadow. “Blasted sun. Here’s my favorite contribution.”
Mr. Camden was so close to her, she could feel his breath on her neck. She pressed her arms to her sides, embarrassed by the intimacy, as he pointed to a drawing of the low fence that encircled the building. The cast-iron visage of a man with a long, fluffy beard and mustache emerged from each post, with a couple of dragons coiled around the horizontal railings at either side. “Is he supposed to be Father Christmas?”
Mr. Camden’s lip curled up on one side, as if he were trying not to laugh. “It’s a sea god entwined with sea urchins.”
She couldn’t help teasing. “Sea gods and sea urchins, of course. That was my second guess.”
“Just wait until the city gets a sight of what we’ve done up here. Hardenbergh’s reputation will be solidified.”
“And yours?”
“I’ve only just begun. Hardenbergh has promised to help me start up my own firm if the Dakota does well.”
“Won’t you be in competition with each other?”
“Not at all. He’ll continue on with his grand apartment houses and hotels. I want something else entirely. I’m like the canary in the coal mine. If my vision takes off, he’ll have a stake in it. If not, he won’t have risked any damage to his reputation.”
A gust of wind made the drawings flutter. Mr. Camden placed a paperweight on the edge to keep them still.
“It’s awfully bright in here.” Sara pointed to the window. “You really need some draperies. That would help with the wind as well.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll see if the tailor can put something together.”
Sara had seen the tailor’s room in the basement, which so far was empty of everything other than a sewing machine.
“I’m afraid he’s not set up yet. I can make you something, if you like. It won’t be grand, but at least it will keep out the light.”
He looked up. “Could you?”
“I apprenticed as a seamstress, before going to London.”
“That’s right, you had mentioned it. But then you ended up working in a hotel?”
“Yes.” She quickly changed the subject. “I could have them for you within the week, once I have the fabric.”
A lopsided grin crossed his face. “Say, have you been into town yet?”
“No, there’s been no time.”
“You need to see the sights. Tomorrow morning, then. At the same time, I can check in at the office and we can purchase some fabric for the drapes. Thank you for offering to make them—as long as you’re sure it won’t take you away from your duties.”
“Of course not. I assume you’d like them to be Limoges green?” She couldn’t help but tease, and was rewarded when he laughed out loud. She liked his laugh.
“I knew I made the right decision to ship you overseas, Mrs. Smythe.”
Sara slipped out into the hallway before he could notice the blush spreading across her cheeks.
CHAPTER EIGHT
New York City, September 1884
Sara had been asleep only a few hours when the sound of heavy footsteps woke her up. A man’s footsteps. They stopped, and for a moment she thought she’d imagined it. A storm had rocketed through earlier in the evening, bringing with it lightning and fierce, rolling thunder, like the dynamite used to break through the granite boulders along the avenues. But this sound wasn’t thunder. She strained to listen, but now all was still. Unnaturally so.
Someone was outside, in the hallway.
She put her ear against the door but heard only the blood drumming in her ears. She grabbed a poker from the fireplace and yanked the door open.
A man.
He wasn’t one of the staff, she was fairly certain of that. In the dim light, he appeared to be in his late twenties, with a dark beard and mustache.
Her voice quavered. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
He looked away, behind her. “I work here, a builder. Sorry, ma’am. Got lost, is all.”
“No one is meant to be here after hours.”
From around the corner, Mrs. Haines appeared, pulling her wrapper around her and carrying a lamp. “He came out of Daisy’s room.”
The man tensed.
Sara’s insides crumpled with fear. Her breathing was shallow, cutting off the possibility of speech.
“How many are you, then?” The man had a rough voice, thick with menace.
Mrs. Haines glanced over at Sara, her face white with fear.
Sara held the fireplace poker firmly in her hand, pointed midway between the floor and horizontal. At the ready. “There are eight of us on this floor.”
The man eyed the poker, then Sara. “Eight? Where are the other five, then?”
“You best be gone.”
“Is that right?”
His sneering tone reminded her of Mr. Ainsworth, from when she apprenticed as a seamstress. Someone who enjoyed wielding power. As well as Mr. Birmingham, with his filthy looks at the young Langham maids. The Dakota was now her domain, her responsibility, and the thought of this man strutting about like a peacock, as if he owned the place, infuriated her.
An electrical energy surged through Sara. Without thinking, she heaved the poker up over her head and let out a scream that echoed down the hallway, hurting her own ears. The dramatic transformation, from quivering lady in distress to screeching madwoman, worked. In a flash the man was gone, sprinting down the hall and turning the corner. The poker fell to the floor with a clatter, leaving a white scar in the newly varnished floor.
Mrs. Haines and Sara scrambled around the corner. Daisy’s door was cracked open and at first it seemed the room was empty. Until the girl emerged from behind the bed, crying.
A wave of memories flooded over Sara. Of smiling at the seamstress’s husband, who was so kind at first. Of him moving past her and brushing his hand over the small of her back, a gesture that was difficult to parse as to its exact meaning. Of such pride in her work, in what she could accomplish at the sewing machine, and how wonderful it was to hear compliments from him, as his wife was so dour and cold. She’d been a young, eager girl, like Daisy.
“Daisy, are you all right?”