The lavishness of New York City’s high society rested upon a few unyielding pillars. First—money, of course. Without it, one simply did not belong. Whether it came from banking, railroads, or industry mattered less than it once had, much to the old families’ irritation. The divide between old money and new was narrowing despite their resistance, due in no small part to Mrs. Russell’s relentless insistence that the age of one's money was irrelevant.

Second came exclusivity. If everyone might secure a box at the Academy or a seat at the Met, such honors would lose their meaning. Superiority required careful curation. And third—image. Truth was irrelevant. What mattered was the story presented to the world. Quarrels were to be kept behind closed doors, indiscretions buried beneath as many layers as possibly and one prayed the servants understood the value of silence and loyalty. To appear unsteady—financially or socially—was to invite ruin.

The Fanes, the Brookes, even the Astors harbored secrets they would pay dearly to keep from print. An article could destroy them outright; whispers, at least, could be endured. Society preferred it that way—mutual discretion for the preservation of the whole.

Perhaps the least well-kept secret among them all was the nature of Mrs. Russell’s marriage. There had been love once, certainly. Less of it now. Yet by outward appearances, Bertha and George Russell remained among the city’s strongest unions. Behind the doors of their Fifth Avenue home, however, the truth was rather more…unexpected.

It began with the presence of their constant guest—one who never truly left and soon felt more like a fixture than a visitor. You. Bertha had known you since girlhood in Albany, and upon hearing of your recent widowhood a year ago, she had insisted you come to New York “for a time.” That was the story, at least. From the moment you arrived last winter, it was clear you were not meant to leave. And you hadn't for another winter was already upon you.

Quiet murmurs followed. That the Russell marriage had fractured long before their arrival in New York. That while Mr. Russell devoted himself to business—railroads, banking, expansion—Mrs. Russell devoted herself to you.

However no one dared voice such suspicions aloud. Not of Bertha Russell. And yet the evidence was difficult to ignore, as though Bertha herself welcomed the risk. You did not arrive arm in arm at events, nor present yourselves as a pair, but your closeness was unmistakable—where she stood, you stood and even the most restrained women cannot hide the words their eyes seem to speak.

There were even rumors of shared rooms, which was only partially untrue. Bertha’s chamber had long been separate from her husband’s; you merely occupied the room adjoining hers. An arrangement obvious enough to suggest unspeakable intimacy, yet respectable enough to defy accusation.

In truth, were Bertha to speak plainly, she would call you her wife. The title was unofficial, impossible—but accurate in every sense of the word except literal. And she would not have it otherwise.

The dynamic scarcely changed whether George was present or away, though it became undeniably more real when he traveled on business and the house belonged solely to the two of you.

That night, after dinner, Bertha retired to her room expecting to hear the knock on the connecting door as she prepared herself for the night. When none came, she found herself mildly displeased and worried. She changed into her nightgown regardless, then crossed over to the threshold herself, knocking only out of courtesy as she pushed the door open slowly and leaned against the doorway to find you seated before your mirror.

“You were quiet at dinner”

She said, voice calm but unyielding as she attempted to lighten the mood while she stepped into your room.

“And you are quiet now. That simply will not do."

Bertha stepped till she was stood behind you sat before her, her hands moving to your shoulders with a gentle caress.

"Tell me what troubles you my dear—so that I may look to set it right.”