“Been expecting you. I’m Fitzroy, the head porter. Why don’t you wait inside while I arrange for your belongings?” He gestured to the right, where a steep set of stairs led to a small reception room. Two large windows let in ample light, and the walls were covered in handsome wood paneling that matched the built-in desk and countertop. A switchboard took up most of the back wall.
The porter joined her, rubbing his hands together. The side of his face drooped, as if it was falling off his skull, but his eyes, including the one that turned down at the edge, were a warm brown. He pointed at the switchboard.
“Got all the latest gadgets here, you’ll find. We have private wires going to the fire station, the stables, the telegraph messenger office, and the florist. Four thousand electric lights, even.”
“Very modern.”
“How was your journey? You came from abroad?”
“Yes, England.”
“Right. The building agent, Mr. Douglas, said to show you around.”
He led her into the courtyard, currently in use by the craftsmen, and they wove around toolboxes and sawhorses supporting large pieces of wood. She looked up once and the dizziness returned. The courtyard felt too small for the massive building around it, like the walls were about to cave in.
Mr. Fitzroy touched her lightly on the elbow to steady her. He pointed up. “That’s where you’ll be, on the top floor. Lovely view. Once the elevators are working, you won’t have to trudge up the stairs. First of their kind in a residential building in New York City, I’ll have you know.”
“We had several lifts in the London hotel where I worked previously.”
His enthusiasm remained undamped. “I’ll show you ours tomorrow, if you like. An amazing piece of machinery. Runs on water, all hydraulics.”
He must be balmy, a lift run by water. But she was too tired to inquire further.
Exhaustion swept over her. This Bavarian behemoth, out in the middle of nowhere, was to be her home. She should have stayed in London. Instead of continuing on with her comfortable, if predictable, life, she would have to figure everything out anew: the confusing geography of the building and the city, not to mention the foreign customs of America. The people who agreed to live in such a place must be desperate, unable to afford lodging in the city proper, and she’d seen desperate sorts before she’d started working at the Langham. Demanding, petty, and changeable. At least in her previous positions, the guests would check out at some point, head off to other destinations. The Dakota residents would be here to stay.
“For now, I’d like to get settled and rest, Mr. Fitzroy.”
They entered a door set in the far left corner of the courtyard that led into a dark foyer. A wide set of marble stairs wrapped around the lift, and the railings of the stairs were carved with ornate designs that gave the impression of serpents twisting their way down and around. Nothing warm and inviting like the Langham’s cream walls and brass finishes. Her room, down a claustrophobic hall at the very top of the building, had a small bed, desk, and chair. Simple and plain, as suited a domestic servant. But her attention was immediately drawn to the window.
In her London bedsit, she’d had no view, other than roofs and a blank sky. But here, at the very top of the tallest building for miles around, she could see farms and streets and even a wide river beyond.
“On a good day, you can see the Orange Mountains of New Jersey,” offered Fitzroy.
She thought of the harbor at Fishbourne, and her heart settled ever so slightly at the idea of having a view of water. Pathetic, that she should need to cling to something. But it helped.
“If you’d like a cup of tea or a bite before bed, come down to the kitchen in the basement. There’s no one else about; you can help yourself. I’ll be heading home in an hour or so, but I’ll lock the front gate so you’ll be safe.”
“No one else is here?”
“You’re the first of the resident staff to arrive.”
Her throat constricted at the thought of being alone.
Fitzroy shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a lamp on the desk for you to see your way after dark. I can stay late if you’re nervous.”
It was a kind offer. “Not at all. I will be fine.”
After he left, Sara remained at the window, watching the gray sky turn to black. It occurred to her that she was trapped, locked inside. What if there was a fire, or if she had to get out in an emergency? A terrible unease crept over her, uncertain whether she was safer locked inside this tomb or in the vast nothingness outside. Panic fluttered in her chest and threatened to take over her senses. She didn’t dare wind her way through the labyrinthine hallways down to the basement, not now, so she ignored her rumbling stomach, changed into her bedclothes, and laid on the bed until exhaustion took over, sending her into a deep, drugged sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
New York City, September 1884
A distant hammering startled Sara awake. She put on her nicest day dress, a dark hunter green with thin black stripes, and swept her hair up into a severe bun at the back of her neck before heading down the stairs. She wound her way down, landing by landing, the noise growing louder. As she stepped into the courtyard, she was greeted with a cacophony of sounds: men shouting, hammers and saws being wielded with great ferocity. Fitzroy appeared at her side and guided her back into the building through a different door and down a maze of narrow hallways with very high ceilings. The proportions seemed all wrong, but maybe that was the American way.
He opened the door to the dining room and pointed inside. “Help yourself to some coffee and eggs or whatnot. It’s meager pickings at the moment. Oh, and Mr. Camden asked that you come to see him after.”
“Where is he?”
“You’ll find him in apartment number 43 on the fourth floor. Take the stairs on the northeast corner of the courtyard to get there.”
The dining room rivaled her mother’s description of the grand one at the earl’s manor house. From the inlaid marble floor to the carved oak ceiling, no detail had been spared, including the enormous fireplace of Scottish brownstone. The room contained several recurring motifs: The bronze bas-relief covering the walls was decorated with ears of corn, arrowheads, and Indian faces, a play on the name of the building, she assumed. She gulped down her coffee but passed on the watery eggs. Hopefully, the cook would put more effort into the job once the tenants arrived.
The door to number 43 was partially ajar. She opened it and looked about. Beside her was a fireplace, unusual for a foyer, and away from that led another long, dark hallway. To her left was a grand library, where bookshelves flanked floor-to-ceiling windows. A Juliet balcony overlooked the park beyond, and a pocket door connected it to the adjoining room. The craftsmanship astounded her. Even the Langham, the most luxurious hotel in London, lacked this sort of detailing.
“Mr. Camden?” Her voice echoed off the walls.
“Right in here.”
She hadn’t seen him, tucked out of view on the side of the library.
Mr. Camden leaned over a draftsman’s desk, a pencil in one hand. He looked up at her and smiled. He was the only person she knew here, and the familiarity, though scant, lessened the panic that had gripped her ever since the Dakota had emerged into view.
“How was your trip, Mrs. Smythe?” The room was smaller than the adjoining parlor, but the eastern exposure granted it a lot of light. He put down his pencil and gestured to the two armchairs arranged on either side of the window.
“My trip was fine, thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He ran his hand over his chin. He didn’t have a beard, which was disconcerting at first, as most men wore thick, shaggy whiskers. His smooth skin made it difficult to gauge his age. Midthirties, she suspected.
She cringed with embarrassment. The silence had gone on uncomfortably long as she’d studied his face. “The work inside the building is quite beautiful.”
He shrugged off the compliment. “Overwrought is the expression that comes to mind. But I suppose I had better get used to it, as this will be my new home.”