Some Constance & Orin work inspired by “Dragonwyck”, a story about a Dutch patroon in 1840s New York who woos innocent women of unimportant pedigree to him. It’s fun. 💕
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During the entire time he was courting her and doing his best to mask his true tendencies, what do you think Orin was thinking? Did he have a mantra to keep himself sane as he fought his true nature? Did he have to fight away doubts about what he was doing? Was there ever, at any point, some decent humanity in his line of thinking that he had to contend with at all?
This is a very good question. And, as usual, I love a long-winded answer, haha.
So, from the time Orin first meets Connie after Arthur introduces them, he has made up his mind. She is the one. He'll seduce her to get his foot in the door, get that prestige, etc. She's a DoGoode - new money, but he'll take it.
Orin is Dutch, and while this fact is mostly irrelevant in the modernverse, it's extremely important 1840s New York. So, I'll break down both:
Classicverse ("Begin Again"):
Dutch immigrants had an immense sense of pride in developing New York, and real families like the Van Rensselaers, the Schuylers and the Van Cortlandts were pillars of wealth. They were patroons who passed land down for generations, some having masses of millions of acres with hundred of tenant farmers. Even President Van Buren came from Dutch stock from Kinderhook in New York (where people mostly spoke Dutch). New York was run by Dutch gentry at this point, and they had hands in the rise of figures like Hamilton, John Jay, etc. Van Buren's son, John, was even state attorney general (and was nicknamed "Prince John" because of a memorable dance with England's own Queen Victoria, but that's a whole other story). They ruled lands of tenant farms, the legislature, the courts, etc. They only really 'fell' with the rise of the Anti-Rent movement. When that crested in 1845, most land-owning patroons lost their rights to abuse the tenant workers they relied on and collected funds from.
Wealth isn't just something Orin wants - he feels like it's owed to him. It's part of his identity. His blood means he is OWED a certain level of prestige. It's not that he wants to be a patroon, necessarily, but to be Dutch in 1840s New York meant something tangible, and it was something he wanted a slice of.
Constance is a tool to assist that. If he gets his foot in the door with her new money family , the old money pillars are easier to connect with. The DoGoodes had bridges to others. That's his true paydirt.
She's also pretty, and even enrolled in college, which was impressive at the time for a woman to jump through hoops to do. These factors don't threaten Orin, like they would have other men at the time. In fact, he does see them add "added value" assets that convince him to invest his time into her. In a lot of ways, she's the best choice. She's refined, elegant, smart, and a socialite. She can keep up with discussions on the arts/opera, she's a marvelous entertainer, excellent cook, and she's multilingual. She's also been a model since she was a teen! She's the picture of what every member of gentry looks for in a wife.
That being sad, courting her does take effort.
It's not that Connie is unbearable by any means, but he still has to go out of his way to be charming and sell the fact that he is interested - and frankly - worthy.
The lies pile up. The deeper he goes, the more tangled he gets, until he's actually getting attention in meetings and making deals because, "That's gonna me Arthur's son-in-law." And by that point, Arthur's health is fading. Not quickly, yet, but enough that people notice.
The snowball starts rolling, and he can't stop it now.
Modernverse
The overall beats of the courtship are largely the same, but without his obsessive tie to his Dutch heritage and the expectations of society/gentry at the time. He's a man who sees an opportunity with this woman, and he decides to take it.
Constance is accessible - she's the daughter of a big philanthropist he finds himself working adjacent to. She's pretty, educated, and extremely charismatic. There are eyes on her, as well. Who is this model-socialite going to marry, if anyone?
Classical and Modern
It's hard WORK keeping her tethered to him. This woman has admirers pulling her left and right, so he has to stand out. The only edge he has is the advantage of being close enough to actually romance her and spend time with her.
He has to study operas to be able to talk convincingly with her about them. He pretends to be more of an expert on business than he actually is, which means he has to study and read a lot. The whole charade of being romantic and charismatic does wear on him, but he does have a trick.
To keep himself sane, he does have a little mantra:
"I always get what I want, even if I have to take it myself."
All the work? It's work that ends up benefitting him, he thinks. It's an investment in himself, and that's what keeps him going. He views taking Connie on a romantic date in the same way someone might view making a hefty down payment on a house, or shoveling a snowy driveway at night: "It's annoying now, but it's for my future self. My future self will thank me."
And THAT is how he pulls through. Not for her. For him.
"God helps those who help themselves, my friends," he says with a smirk as he swindles a family into signing their life savings away at the holidays in exchange for a loan that is impossible to pay off. "That's what our Good Book says, yes?"
The sitting room of the multi-story Spiegler townhome on 5th Avenue was drenched in firelight and smelled of cinnamon potpourri, but not an ounce of merriment or cheer could be distilled from its fragrant atmosphere. Instead, the manor’s Green Drawing-Room was engorged with a heavily pregnant silence, broken only by the sound of hissing firewood slowly burning away in the hearth.
The room had earned its affectionate yet telling moniker from its décor and choice of wallpaper – a green paper of an emerald sheen with a vertical pattern of coiling ivy vines. The furniture was also smocked in thick velvet, which was set primly along the sets and backs of all the room’s carved oak chairs. The drapes were a matching shade of lush green, as vibrant as the full leaves of an oleander. Even the hooked rug that was spread across the buttery walnut floor stole inspiration from the color. The pattern highlighted two adult swans afloat on a sea of white, both angelic creatures wreathed in pink roses and intertwined laurels.
One chair, which was completely upholstered and adorned with gold tassels for added comfort, was occupied. Its resident for the evening was Orin Spiegler, the master of the manor, who reclined back in the fabric’s rich confines. In one hand, his held open a folded edition of the evening paper. In the other, he lightly swirled a short glass of honey-brown scotch. With his dressing gown synched tightly about his waist and his white ruffled collar fluffing outward from between the lapels, he looked more like a peacock than the esteemed, Dutch-American investor and businessman the local newspapers now described. The man had made a name for himself with his Wall Street trading strategies, and his smart investments in cheap buildings on the outskirts of the New York city limits, mostly along the waning avenues beyond Albany. As the city grew, the properties quadrupled in value annually, or sometimes even monthly. He was a certified millionaire, and his coffers were expanding daily.
It was a good start, he thought, but not yet enough for comfort. Not for him.
Most recently, Mr. Spiegler had commanded his financial agents to also bring his investment opportunities for the multitude of bigger and better steamboats being developed for traveling the Hudson. Much had changed with designer Robert Fulton had said the inaugural vessel in 1807, and as New York continued its sprawl up and down the river, he intended to make sure he was one of the many investors that would reap a benefit from the new technology. Besides, not just New Yorkers benefited from the technology. Every traveler from Philadelphia, Greenwich or Vermont would be in his metaphorical debt. Hell, even Londoners and Danes were utilizing the vessels for visits to the quickly growing city.
On a settee just opposite the fireplace was another lonely individual. This woman, donned in a striking green dress with lace the color of American buttercream, was the lovely and copper-headed Mrs. Spiegler.
Unlike her husband, her focus was trained reading and rereading her own written words. Quill in hand, she carefully penned invitations on solid white paper, the corners of the expensive parchment adorned with a flourishing ‘OS’ in evergreen ink.
Orin glanced over to observe his wife at work, noting her upright rectitude with a satisfied arch of his brown. “And what, pray tell, has captured your focus so keenly?”
Starting slightly at his interruption, Constance turned to meet his gaze, then quickly recovered and smiled. “Oh. I was penning the invitations for that party we were discussing earlier. The one to showcase our new music room. You still wanted to host a gathering, didn’t you, dear?”
“Ah, yes,” he said, satisfied with her answer. “Who are you planning on inviting? I don’t believe we finalized any guest list.”
“We did not,” she admitted, moistening her lips, “But I believe you’ll be satisfied. I’m sending summons to the Van Rensselaers up river, as well as the Livingstons and the Schuylers, of course.”
“Very good.” The Van Rensselaers, Schuylers, and Livingstons were all prominent families of Dutch ancestry, and longstanding patroons with sprawling tenant farms along the Hudson River. The last Orin has heard, Rensselaerwyck had reached a million acres in size, and was home to at least 200 farmer families. Some farmers were German, others were Irish, and some were ‘Yankees’ of no other known pedigree. While there was slight variance between the farmers, they shared the collective burden of toiling the land of their master, paying monthly rent as a share of crops to the Lord of the Manor.
“I suspect we’ll have no trouble getting them to come to the city, Constance said. “The last time we hosted, they adored our home.”
“They were excited to escape their tenants for a night or two, I presume.”
The tenant farmers were becoming rambunctious, and there were murmurings of a rebellion on the horizon. Slavery has been officially abolished in New York in 1827, and now, eyes were turned to the patroons and their tenant farmers.
What had these patroons expected, he wondered? To carry on forever with locking families into generation of servitude while Yankees and abolitionists just conveniently ignored them? Orin had seen the writing on the wall for years, and as the Anti-Rent movement began to grow, he only felt vindication.
The old money has-beens would be out the door in a few decades of new marriages. Perhaps some would even move out West, to a land of burgeoning opportunity.
In the meantime, he reasoned, it certainly didn’t hurt to rub elbows with his fellow countrymen. The task was made all the easier by how charming Constance was when it came to hosting and party-planning.
“Shall I … invite the Patersons, Orin?” Constance inquired with a tilt of the head.
He hummed in though, sipping his drink elegantly.
Stephen Van Rensselaer III was the current Lord of the Manor at Renssalaerwyck. He had previously married Margarita "Peggy" Schuyler, who had passed early in 1801. After the customary one year of morning for a gentleman, he married Cornelia Bell Paterson, child of statesman William Paterson. Orin knew little of the man and his legacy, other than he was a jurist and one of the men who had signed the United States Constitution.
He was also an Irishman turned American who mostly fancied New Jersey, so Orin mostly wrote him off.
“Invite Mr. and Mrs. Van Renssalaer, of course,” he said, “That’s all. Our manor isn’t so large that we can invite every admirer we have. Yet.”
“Yes.” She scrawled a note down.
The horrible complexity of the family trees was another reason he was glad to only know these sprawling families by association. He so loathed the idea of being tethered to large, overbearing legacies. Too much family was a curs eon one’s patience and time, he thought. Too many mouths to feed.
“I’m also extending an invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Van Cortlandt.”
Among the Van Cortlandt family tree were also members of the Van Rensselaer family, Schuyler family, and Livingston family. They also had ties to Philipse family, the De Peyster family, and the Irish-born and -bred Gage family.
Also spotted along their impressive family tree were relations to the Jay family. One of its many heirs, John Jay, had gone on to become the first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and one of the country’s ‘Founding Fathers.’
When holding a soiree, it was necessary to invite all the influential families, for to insult one was to insult all of them.
“Very good,” Orin said, pleased with his wife’s attention to detail. “You were correct, my dear. I am more than satisfied with your diligence.”
It was no surprise that Constance was so aware of New York’s finest political families. After all, she was a DoGoode. While only one generation deep, the family had set the bar for new money intrigue in New York. Arthur DoGoode, Constance’s father, had started life as a mute bookkeeper but had quickly risen through the ranks as a sensible businessman. His body was frail, but his intelligence was so keen that he didn’t need spoken words to seal deals. Like Orin, he was a property investor, but Orin would never admit that it was Arthur’s business strategies that inspired his own investment patterns. Theresea, Constance’s mother, had moved to New York from Marrakech.
In 1777, Morocco had been one of the first states to recognize the sovereignty of a newly independent United States. That independence from European pressures was something Theresea admired. She had seen France, Spain and Germany all encroach on her country, eyeing the land with salivating mouths and greedy eyes. So, with a heavy heart, she left the city of Marrakech for New York.
She and Arthur had met at a business convention in Albany, where the doorman had barred her from entering. Woman were not allowed in the hall, they’d said, unless accompanied by a proper chaperone. Theresea had debated the man into a state of near emotional breakdown when Arthur had spotted her.
He asked her to be his voice at the meetings – his ‘interpreter’, so to speak. Arthur penned the business strategies, and Theresea gave the pitches to rooms of investors, bankers, financial agents, and more.
The two were married a year later. It had been a union of love, not political gambit, for they were two nobodies in a sea of millions. That, however, changed quickly. New York was growing, and Arthur invested in fringe properties to develop safehouses for women and orphanages for children.
Later that same year, they even adopted a two-year-old child that has been left at the Albany orphanage the two were on the Board of Directors for. A little red-headed girl too taciturn and terrified to speak.
Now, that girl was a woman, and also his wife.
Constance penned a few more notes while they spoke. “Darling, but also had a mind to invite Martin, if you think he could spare the time. It’s been so long.”
“Ah, Martin!” Orin cried, laughing at the mention of the man’s name. “Why, that is a capital idea!” He snapped and pointed a commanding finger at her. “Write him at once. Set the party’s date for December 22 as well. That will give our guests time to travel, but with ample courtesy for any Christmastime plans.”
Martin Van Buren, another New Yorker of fine Dutch stock, was someone Orin knew by association. They’d attended a small myriad of soirees together in the past year as Orin’s infamy had earned him. There were rumblings that Andrew Jackson was planning to support him for the next presidential election.
If elected, the Dutch colonies of New York would surely endorse him and throw any and all support his way to guarantee victory. He imagined the gaiety that such an election result would cause, and wondered how the anti-renters would take such a victory.
Only time could tell, he supposed.
He polished the glass of scotch with a final swig, wiping his mouth and setting the glass aside on a marbled end table.
“I’m going to my study,” he said, gesturing to the hallway beyond the door.
“Oh. More work?” Constance asked, brows furrowing. Here eyes drifted from his face to the empty drinking glass.
“Not precisely.”
Orin’s study was located at the top of a turret that adorned the front of their townhome. The addition made their luxurious home stand out even more amidst the other rowhouses that lined the stylish thoroughfare through the city. It’s large windows also faced the street, providing him a clean visual of the street’s traffic, potential callers, etcetera.
As he rose and walked past her, he laid a large hand on her shoulder. The contact froze her thoughts, her quill stilling mod-word against the parchment.
“You’ve pleased me tonight,” he noted in a caramel-sweet tone. “I’ll leave you be for the rest of the evening.”
He then walked to the door, glimpsing at the grandfather clock as he did so. A quarter past ten, the hands read.
“I’ll slumber on my day bed in my study,” he said, voice returning to the cool formality she’d come to expect. “I depart for the Catskills at dawn. There is a new steamboat making its maiden voyage. The SS Juno. As one of the primary investors, it is expected that I be there. I wouldn’t wish to disturb you by stirring so early. Heaven knows you’re clumsy enough in the mornings when we have nowhere to go, and I wouldn’t wish to be late because of you prattling about.”
Still enthused by the fact that they wouldn’t be sharing a bed that night, his insults went unnoticed. Instead, she disguised her relief with a thankful smile. “I’ll see that coffee is ready for you.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Otherwise, you’re dismissed. Spend the rest of your night as you’d like. Just make sure those invitations are written and postmarked tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Good woman.”
Just as he was about to pass through the door, he paused again. “A moment. Come here, please. And bring me one of the candles.”
Smoothing her skirts, she rose and drifted across the room to meet him.
She grabbed a chinoiserie candle holder containing one green, swirled tapered candle and lofted it to her eyes. She crossed the room and extended the holder carefully to him, being mindful of the flame. Orin accepted the offering, and before she could move away, reached out with his other hand to grab her wrist. He jerked her into a sudden kiss, smirking as he felt her heart roar to life beneath her heavy bosom.
Just as he felt her lean into him, seeking warmth or perhaps a passionate embrace, he nudged her back and away. As always, she obeyed.
“You’re relieved to not share a bed with me, but you still turn into a simpering little maiden with just one kiss? How amusing.”
He left her with a smirk, his dark eyes flashing with the swish of his head as he turned on his heel. “I’ll return in three days. Have the house ready in anticipation of my return. I’ll want to supper immediately.”
The heavy oak door shut before she had time to formulate a reply. She stood frozen, her lips still warmed from his kiss, her rouge slightly smeared from the sudden brush. Trembling fingers caressed the flesh before she sighed, hands falling heavy at her sides.
Even after years of marriage, she didn’t understand her husband at all. He’d never acted so unpredictable during their courtship. Why in the world did he conduct himself in such a way around her? Had she done something wrong?
Alone in the drawing room, she took it upon herself to close the curtains and set the shutters as best she could. It was work mostly suited for a strong footman, but she tried her best to make any work a little easier. Besides, the light work kept her hands and mind busy, and helped siphon out the anxious little ball of energy that had started buzzing in her chest at Orin’s words.
Had she … really been so apparent with her distaste? No wonder he was cross with her, the woman concluded. She’d offended him – her own husband. What a sorry excuse for a wife she was.
In her frustration, she grabbed the poker and stabbed it into the hearth. The fire-laden log crumbled with a hiss, and cinders as large as red flies flew into the air. She jumped back in surprise, dropping the poker and shrinking away from the flames. Her skirts knocked over a chair as she did so. The large piece of furniture lay on its side and cast a menacing shadow across the expanse of the room. It’s sharp angles and points flickered menacingly against the wallpaper with every dance of the flames.
Embarrassed at her incompetence, Constance rushed to the bellpull and gave it a brisk tug. Minutes later, she was greeted at the door by a young butler and young maid, both employed by the couple. The two were siblings – Mary and Micah. Two intelligent, quick-witted souls fresh off the boat from the Fenlands.
“We heard a crash!” the young maid said, breathless from how quickly she’d come running.
Micah looked the frazzled redhead up and down. His knowing eyes peered from beneath a shag of sandy hair. “Are you well, Mrs. Spiegler?”
His tone was practically conspiratorial.
“Please extinguish the fire,” Constance said, disregarding Mary’s question with a flustered wave of the hand. She then allowed her eyes to fall against her trembling calm as she gathered her wits. “A-And if you could check my work on fastening the windows, Micah, I would be most thankful. You are much stronger, and less clumsy, than I.”
The maid curtseyed and obeyed the lady’s commands, while the butler made a beeline for the windows. “Yes, your ladyship.”
Just as he went to straighten the toppled chair and retrieved the empty drinking glass, Constance left the room and made her way quickly up the stairs and to the main bedroom. She took the stairs quickly, her kid slippers soundless as they fell frantically against the plush rugs of the hall.
Mary hastily finished her work at the fireplace and trailed after her mistress, making sure to grab the abandoned letters on her way out.
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