“I’ve seen enough of high society at the hotel in London. Believe me, you don’t want to have to deal with that set.”
“But they’re the ones with the power in the city; it’s in the newspapers every day. Everyone here is so ordinary. Dry goods and woolen merchants, that sort.”
“As they’re paying three thousand dollars a year for a ten-room apartment, I would think that’s far from ordinary. Perhaps you’d be happier working as a maid for Mrs. Astor?”
Daisy didn’t answer.
Mr. Camden appeared, checking his timepiece. “How long do you think you can prevent them from storming their new apartments?”
Sara lifted her chin. “Follow me, please.” She sidled up to one of the new residents, Mr. Camden trailing in her wake.
“Mr. Schirmer, how are plans going for the printing plant?”
Mr. Schirmer smiled, quite pleased. “Very well, Mrs. Smythe. Thank you for asking. We hope to have it running in the next year or two.”
“Of course you must know Mr. and Mrs. Steinway.” She turned to the right and drew them into the group. “We are so lucky to have true music aficionados among the residents.”
Mrs. Steinway threw her fur over one shoulder. “We will create our own private village here beside the park, shan’t we, Mrs. Schirmer?”
“What a lovely way to refer to the Dakota.” Sara offered up a subtle smile, one that suggested agreement without being overly familiar. “I was just saying to Mr. Camden here that the uptown rural landscape is much better for one’s health.”
Mr. Schirmer spoke up. “I consider this to be my ode to Magellan, heading into the northern frontier, weapon at my side.”
“What exactly is your weapon, dear?” asked his wife.
“Why, you, of course.”
Mr. Camden chuckled, playing along beautifully. The atmosphere tinkled with laughter and heady conversation.
“I daresay I like this idea of having cocktails before luncheon,” Mrs. Steinway said to Mr. Camden. “Will that be a regular occurrence?”
“If that will please you, Mrs. Steinway, of course.” The traces of Mr. Camden’s irritation with Sara disappeared as he made a subtle bow.
A man with a thick mustache stepped over. “I say, as members of the F.F.D.s, this is a bang-up way to begin our communal living experiment.”
While the group gaped at the impolite intrusion, Sara spoke up. “Mr. Tatum, what a lovely thought. The First Families of the Dakota, no?”
“On the nose!”
Never mind that he’d been using the term in his correspondence with Sara, where he’d inquired weekly about the size and number of water closets in his apartment.
“Commodore, we’re honored to have you on board.”
The group closed in on itself, and Mr. Camden guided Sara away.
“‘Commodore’?” Mr. Camden murmured.
“Mr. Tatum is the head of the New York Yacht Club. I’ve been reading the society columns religiously since I arrived.”
“Clever girl.”
Once the last drop of the champagne had been downed, Mr. Camden led the group on a tour of the public rooms on the ground floor, the basement level with its amenities, and then up to the roof garden, where the clear day offered a view twenty miles in all directions.
Finally, the group splintered off to their own apartments, the ladies walking with a slight sway to their step and the men whistling under their breath.
The Dakota was officially open.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
New York City, October 1884
The wind threatened to blow her away, but Sara stood firm on top of the roof of the Dakota, holding on to the metal railing. Opening day had been a success, thanks to the champagne toast. In fact, the alcohol had lubricated more than the throats of the tenants; it had eased the transformation of the building from one that was under construction to one that was up and running, teeming with life. She’d finished up the day by meeting with all of the tenants’ staff, making sure they understood where their duties ended and the building’s began—and so far she’d seen no bruised egos—before climbing up to the very top of the building to get some air.
The roof garden looked out over Central Park, with its picturesque castle and lake in the distance. Although the sun had set, the glow of gas lamps lit up the pathways that carved through the trees.
“Mrs. Smythe!”
Mr. Camden sauntered toward her. He carried the afternoon edition of the newspaper in his hand and drew up beside her, his eyes twinkling with excitement. He unraveled the paper, not easy with the breeze, and read aloud.
“Probably not one stranger out of fifty who ride over the elevated roads or on either of the rivers does not ask the name of the stately building which stands west of Central Park.”
A corner of the paper blew loose from his grasp and she reached out and held it taut while he continued on.
“The name of the building is the Dakota Apartment House, and it is the largest, most substantial, and most conveniently arranged apartment house of the sort in this country. An astonishing geographic and architectural landmark, the Dakota will undoubtedly be known as ‘The Address’ of New York’s West Side.”
“How wonderful. You must be pleased.”
“I gave the reporter a private tour last week, but he was tight-lipped the whole time. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or horrified. But here, look at the headline.”
She glanced down and followed his finger, which tapered to a curved, elegant tip. “‘One of the Most Perfect Apartment Houses in the World.’ That’s brilliant.”
“Mr. Douglas will have a waiting list for years to come.”
Mr. Camden’s boyish excitement made her laugh. “You’ve done it,” she said.
“We’ve done it.” He closed up the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I don’t know how I would have managed earlier today; it would have been an angry stampede of F.F.D.s without your quick thinking.” He looked down at her. “Sorry to disturb your stroll on the rooftop, but I was walking across the park and saw you.”
To think that he was able to recognize her from so far off. A breeze played with her skirts and she patted them down.
“Shall we sit out of the way of the wind for a moment?” he inquired.
A bench beside the enormous gabled roof protected them from the elements. Sara tucked the loose strands of her hair back into place. “What shall you do next, now that this project is finished up?”
He leaned back and stretched out his legs. “Hardenbergh has me already assigned to a new building, all the way downtown. But in another couple of months, I’ll be starting up my own firm, thanks to this newspaper article and Hardenbergh’s backing.”
“I’m sure it will be a great success. You’ll probably be quite happy to have Mrs. Camden and your children back in town.”
“Of course.”
Silence fell between them. She struggled to fill the space. “Where did you study architecture, Mr. Camden?”
“I was on a scholarship at the Hasbrouck Institute in Jersey City, where I first met Hardenbergh. When he got an early commission from Rutgers and asked me to work for him, I jumped at the chance.”
She admired the way he’d forged his own path. Part of her had hoped that by coming to New York City, to America, she would do the same, but she lacked his brash confidence. Her mother had done her a disservice, constantly reminding her of her blood connection to nobility, while at the same time cursing her bastardy. She didn’t know where she belonged.
But it had made her good at her job. She could tell people what to do and sound authoritative, even if underneath it all was a fear of being discovered, found out, a fraud. In some ways, her natural reticence, her refusal to get too close or to let someone know who she truly was, had decreased since she’d arrived in the States. Being thrown into the lion’s den of the Dakota, among strangers who didn’t know or care what her parentage was, had toughened her up a touch. America seemed to be a more open, forgiving place.
She didn’t want to go back into her shell.