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.
Daisy shoved a piece of paper toward her. “There was an error on the letter that went out. It says eleven o’clock, not one o’clock.”
“Daisy, you typed this for me.”
The girl stuffed her hands into the pockets of her dress. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I’d hit the same key twice.”
A critical error, but still. “At least you got the date right.”
Two hours. She had to stall them, keep them occupied. Otherwise they’d chime in with opinions about what should go where and which way to arrange the dining room table, and the day would never end. Or they’d decide the place was uninhabitable and move out before they’d even arrived.
“What’s this I hear about the residents coming early?” Mr. Camden stood in the doorway, fuming.
“There was a miscommunication,” said Sara. “We’ll take care of them.”
“We spoke about this, Mrs. Smythe. How important it is that they enter a well-run, elegant apartment building. From what I can tell, it’s a madhouse on every floor.”
She’d be sent back to London on the next ship if she didn’t fix this fast. Mr. Camden was absolutely glowering at her.
She turned to Daisy and spoke with clipped vowels. “Get the cook and tell her to put out some champagne in the dining room. I’m going to the courtyard to round them up. I’ll take care of this.” The last sentence she directed at Mr. Camden. “If you would come with me, I would appreciate your assistance.”
Thankfully, he did as he was told, although she could see him clenching and unclenching his fists as they stepped outdoors.
Indeed, a line of broughams encircled the two fountains; and after the footmen helped off the ladies, Fitzroy moved the vehicles out and brought in another round of carriages. The residents were milling about, unsure of where to go.
“Why isn’t my personal staff here to greet me?” demanded a stout lady in a black beaver cape.
Sara stood on the stone base of the southern fountain. Using her natural height to her advantage, she called for everyone’s attention.
“I am Mrs. Smythe, the managerette here at the Dakota, and I would like to welcome you to this magnificent building. Please join me in the dining room for a champagne toast to your new home, followed by a tour of the highlights of the Dakota by Mr. Camden, one of the architects of this stately, modern apartment house.”
As she’d figured, the word champagne perked them up. She led the way into the south entrance and was relieved to see that the cook had done as asked, and set up a marvelous array of delicate glass coupes and champagne nesting in ice buckets.
While the bottles were uncorked and poured, Sara eyed the room, Daisy at her side.
Daisy leaned into her, disappointed. “They’re not the upper crust of society. The papers were all saying that no one of Mrs. Astor’s set would be caught dead living here.”
True enough, the tenants’ names were unlikely to overlap with Mrs. Astor’s list of acceptable society members. Certainly not Mr. and Mrs. Gustav Schirmer, of the music publishing company, or Mr. and Mrs. Solon Vlasto, who were moving downtown, not uptown, from Ninety-Second Street.