Chapter Text
Fifth Avenue was alive again. Carriages glittered under the autumn sun, their brass polished, their horses gleaming. Banners draped the entrance of the charity bazaar, announcing the season’s return from Newport. Bertha Russell descended from her carriage in pale silk trimmed with sapphire velvet, a choice meant to catch every shaft of light.
She had left Newport behind, and with it the ache of separation. George had not answered her letters—weeks of them, written in her best hand, each one carefully worded. And yet, each one ignored.
Still, she told herself he was occupied, probably buried in railroads and steel.
Now, she was finally home.
And New York would see that Mrs. Bertha Russell had returned more determined to fight for her marriage than ever.
Inside, the bazaar glittered with shawls and lace, hand-painted fans, and imported trifles for charity. The hall buzzed with conversation, the clinking of coins, and the occasional laughter of children tugging at their mothers’ skirts. A harpist played near a cluster of tables, the melodic notes floating through the air.
Bertha moved among the stalls with ease, offering a word here, a compliment there, her presence commanding attention without a word of boast.
At one table, a merchant displayed a series of delicate porcelain birds. “Mrs. Russell,” he said, bowing slightly, “perhaps you would want one in your lovely home?”
Bertha lifted a gloved hand to stroke a tiny wing. “Exquisite craftsmanship. Truly, no detail has been spared. Are these from Limoges?”
“They are,” he replied, pride lighting his face. “You notice the subtle variations in the feathers?”
She nodded. “One can tell the hand of the artist who labored over them. The care in every stroke is clearly evident.”
With a small smile, she placed a generous sum in the box beside the stall. “These belong in a home that will treasure them,” she said. “And all the proceeds to the children, of course.”
“And they would be grateful for your patronage,” a young vendor on a nearby booth said, eyes bright with admiration. "I will have all of them delivered to your home within a day, Mrs. Russel"
Bertha allowed a small, polite smile as a murmur of agreement rippled through the surrounding crowd. She moved on, floating through the crowd like a practiced conductor, orchestrating attention without demand. Her purchase of a hand-crafted porcelain decor quietly reminded everyone that her wealth, like her influence, was at the service of society—and her generosity confirmed her status.
Heads turned as she passed, some offering bows or nods, others whispering behind their fans. Bertha was home. The room recognized it, acknowledged it, even if only subtly.
And then, as she approached the center of the hall, a familiar voice called out.
“Mrs. Russell!” cried Ms. Aurora Van Rhijn—previously Mrs. Fane—approaching with a flutter of silk. “How good to have you back. And Mr. Russell? We were shamefully expecting him to purchase everything, just as he did last time.”
“Unfortunately, my husband is consumed by business this morning,” Bertha said smoothly, opening her fan with a flick. “I remind him New York will not collapse if he spares it an hour, but George is tireless.”
“Of course, he must have other calls to make with dear friends," Aurora replied, patting Bertha’s gloved hand. “In fact, I actually met with one of his older acquaintances. How delightful it was! To be introduced to Mrs. Montclair. I never knew you both to be so well-acquainted with such an esteemed and noble woman.”
A beat passed.
“Who?” Bertha asked, her hands suddenly shaking as she clutched her fan tightly.
“Mrs. Montclair?” Aurora blinked, confusion passing over her features. “Née Whitcombe? You must have heard of her—Mrs. Clara? No?"
Bertha couldn't help but stare, wondering if she should feign recognition or wait for Aurora to explain. Though internally, she wanted to demand answers while wringing her husband's neck.
Aurora continued, "Well, Mr. Russel introduced her as such when I passed by them in the park.”
The name brushed against Bertha’s ear like a faint echo. Clara Whitcombe Montclair. She remembered it dimly—something George had once mentioned, long ago, in the careless way men recall a youthful fondness. She had dismissed it at the time.
Now, the name returned fully formed.
“She is a widow, is she not?” A lady close enough to hear their conversation whispered to the other woman beside her. “Mrs. Montclair?”
“Yes, and quite situated, if I dare say so myself.” The other woman replied, hiding her face behind her fan, but failing to keep her voice low enough not to be heard by Bertha. “Mrs. Astor has already welcomed her to her home. They say she is charming, graceful, and a joy to converse with.”
“I hear Mr. Russell has been most attentive,” The lady replied, lowering her voice only slightly. “Several visits already. It’s quite touching, really.”
“Oh, how very gallant of him,” said Mrs. Winterton, suddenly approaching from god-knows-where, fanning herself delicately. The gold trim of her gown caught the light, but not blinding enough to hide her dark eyes blinking with mischief. “I heard he escorted Mrs. Montclair to the conservatory last week. Not merely once, mind you, but several afternoons in a row. One wonders what constitutes such constant visits.”
Bertha couldn’t help but narrow her eyes at the veiled implication.
“And did you notice,” Mrs. Winterton added, her voice sly, “how attentive he is, hanging on her every word. One could almost mistake it for affection, though naturally, one must assume the utmost propriety.”
Bertha clenched the fan in her hand tightly. The chatter swirled around her like perfume, heavy and cloying. Every phrase struck her with a sudden and unwelcome clarity.
A widow.
Several visits.
The insinuation hung in the air, as subtle as a brush of silk, yet sharp enough to prick her composure.
Mrs. Winterton continued, staring straight at Bertha with her calculated amusement. “Loyalty, they say, is rare these days. One wonders how long such friendships endure when a man can be so… devoted to another woman.”
Before Bertha could react, Aurora stepped forward, her voice light but firm. “Oh, Mrs. Winterton, surely you exaggerate. Everyone knows Mr. Russell adores no other lady but his wife.”
Bertha’s lips curved into a polite smile, but a small edge of unease prickled at her. Adore his wife, she reminded herself. Of course, George loves—loved her. Yet the insinuation stung, and the imagined attention he had given this… this Mrs. Montclair pressed at the corners of her mind.
“And adore he does,” With careful composure, she lifted her fan and inclined her head. “Please excuse me, ladies. George has given me more than enough to spend a great deal for the children’s charity, and there are still many stalls that need my attention.”
Aurora and Mrs. Winterton nodded their polite approval, though the latter looked as if she were holding back a snicker. Bertha chose to swiftly drift away, her mind racing even as her steps remained calm and deliberate.
She was Bertha Russell. With measured steps, she moved on and left the murmurs behind her, already plotting the next move in the quiet war for her marriage.
Although, later that evening, she sat alone in her study. The lamp casting a warm glow over the mahogany desk.
As Bertha settled into her chair, she did not immediately reach for her stationery. She sat still in the glow of her lamp, fingers slowly drumming her mahogany desk, listening to the gaping and consuming silence of her once lively home.
Clara Whitcombe Montclair.
She could see George as he had been years ago, younger, not yet the titan of a man he is now, speaking to her with that unguarded frankness men allow their wives in rare moments. They had been in their bedroom, Bertha in her dressing gown and George tugging at his cravat after a long day. Somehow, the talk had turned to youth, to the lives they’d had before each other.
“You can’t fault an attractive woman, such as I, to not have attentions from other men,” she had teased him while smoothing his collar.
She then gently dragged her fingers to the edge of his pantaloon, and slowly pulled him towards their shared bed.
“It is unfair of you to be so jealous, George,” Bertha smirked, as she sat on the edge of the bed, allowing him to hover over her. “My husband is a very attractive man. You would have me believe there were no others?”
“None that matter,” he’d said with a half-smile, leaning towards her. His lips a breath away from hers. She could see his eyes softening into a warm shade of gold as he tipped a finger to raise her chin.
She slowly let herself close the gap between them—but George paused. His eyes held a faraway look, as if staring into a life she would never know. “Although… there was this girl.”
Bertha’s brow raised, more curious than jealous.
“Clara Whitcombe,” George spoke of her name with soft fondness. “She was—well…a good girl. The sort of person I might have married, if life had gone differently.”
At the time, Bertha had laughed it off, certain of her place, certain that George’s future was hers alone.
Now, with Clara Whitcombe Montclair newly arrived in New York, radiant and welcomed by Mrs. Astor, the memory stung. The thought of George’s attentions and afternoons spent with this other woman pressed at her mind, sharp and insistent.
With a deep, steadying breath, Bertha pulled a sheet of her finest stationery toward her. Her pen moved swiftly, each word honed with restraint but precision.
My dearest George,
It warms me to hear that you have found time to renew old acquaintances in my absence. How curious, then, that your wife’s own letters could not be answered with such devotion. Still, New York welcomes me back with great anticipation. Tomorrow, there is to be a luncheon in the gardens, which I shall of course attend. It would be only fitting for you to join me there—if you can spare an hour from your generous attentions elsewhere.
Your devoted wife,
Bertha
She set down the pen. The dark ink still gleaming in the lamplight, as though it were an omen.
If George failed to appear, she thought, he would find her patience gone. And Bertha Russell’s patience was a thing men crossed at their peril.