The gilded walls are glossier than ever, but the cracks beneath them run deeper. The Gilded Age Season 3 begins its premiere episode, aptly titled “Who Is in Charge Here?”, with a shimmering question mark hanging over everyone’s heads. Whether it’s over society balls or silverware, love or land, there’s one universal truth in 1880s New York: the real war isn’t waged in blood—it’s waged in lace, ledgers, and loaded glances.
Bertha Russell Turns Society’s Stage Into Her Court
Bertha Russell (Carrie Coon) is riding the high of her Season 2 triumph—the successful debut of the Metropolitan Opera House—a cultural coup that firmly planted her among New York’s elite. But Bertha is not someone who simply holds a title; she reinvents the rulebook entirely. She’s now eyeing her next conquest with unrelenting precision: ensuring that her daughter, Gladys, marries not just well, but exceptionally. In her mind, this means nothing short of a British duke. The target? Hector, Duke of Buckingham, a man whose title Bertha believes will forever erase any lingering doubts about the Russell name being new money.
The problem? Gladys has her heart set on someone else—Billy Carlton, a young man with no title, but plenty of integrity; his affection is sincere, his intentions clear, and their love genuine. Unfortunately, those virtues mean nothing to Bertha, who views society as a marketplace and her daughter as valuable stock. Her strategy extends to the press, where rumors of an impending engagement to Hector conveniently find their way into the columns. Subtlety is not Bertha’s forte; influence is.
To gild her plan in culture and class, Bertha commissions a portrait of Gladys by John Singer Sargent. Bertha isn't commissioning a painting—she’s crafting a narrative. The portrait, she believes, will present Gladys as the perfect embodiment of grace and status, the exact kind of face that deserves a title beside it. She even references Lady with the Rose—a painting that, to her, signifies transformation and maturity. Bertha doesn’t just want her daughter married—she wants her immortalized.
But despite Bertha’s maneuvering, Gladys is not playing along. Instead, she begins to quietly defy the destiny her mother has scripted for her. While Bertha envisions titles, ballrooms, and a seat among royalty, Gladys dreams of love and agency. And this time, it looks like she might just run off and take it for herself—literally.
Ada Finds Her Backbone
In the grand Van Rhijn home, another quiet revolution is unfolding—not in the pages of society news, but in the drawing rooms where legacy and inheritance silently battle. After the tragic death of Luke Forte, Ada (Cynthia Nixon) inherits his wealth—and with it, her long-overdue authority. Gone is the meek spinster content to fade into the background. This new Ada is assertive, morally driven, and not afraid to ruffle her formidable sister’s feathers.
Agnes Van Rhijn (Christine Baranski), ever the empress of etiquette and icy disdain, is unprepared for this shift. To her, Ada hosting a temperance meeting is not just a nuisance—it’s a challenge to her long-established dominion. Agnes is quick with her sharp tongue, belittling the event with biting sarcasm: “Let the sober circus begin.” But Ada holds her ground, her eyes steady with purpose. She isn’t doing this for appearances—she’s honoring Luke’s memory, and perhaps, stepping into the space she never dared occupy before.
It has triggered a ripple effect in the household dynamics, Ada insists on using the fine silverware for her gathering, a decision Agnes opposes with aristocratic finality. Their butler, Bannister, finds himself caught in a bizarre tug-of-war over spoons and serving trays—a humorous yet telling metaphor for the power vacuum forming in this once strictly run household.
More importantly, Ada begins pushing back—not with rebellion, but with quiet resolve. She doesn't ask for permission anymore; she informs, decides, and acts. The once-doormat sister now draws her own boundaries, challenging the pecking order that has governed their lives. Agnes may still believe she runs the house, but the tides are shifting—and they are silver-plated.
The Russell Children’s Secret Loves
While their mother maps out dynastic blueprints over tea, both Russell children are busy sabotaging them with secrets. Gladys and Billy, desperate for some semblance of autonomy, orchestrate secret rendezvous with the help of Larry. It’s a daring rebellion dressed in opera gloves and whispered promises. Billy even speaks of asking George Russell for permission to propose, hopeful that the patriarch might be more sympathetic than his iron-willed wife. But George is miles away, deep in the Arizona desert, and Gladys knows time is not on their side.
Larry, ever the loyal brother and increasingly more layered than society gives him credit for, plays the middleman. But he too is nursing his own secret: a growing romance with Marian. It’s new, fragile, and deeply complicated by Marian’s recent breakup, but it’s also real. However, she’s not ready to go public—not in a society that judges quickly and forgives slowly. Marian wants time, something neither of them seems to have.
The romantic entanglements reach a boiling point when Bertha confronts Larry for his role in facilitating Gladys’s opera escape. She brings up Mamie Fish’s involvement, branding her a gossip and warning Larry of his foolishness. But Larry is unyielding. He tells her plainly—his sister deserves choice. His words carry weight, but Bertha doesn’t bend easily. What she can’t control, she crushes. Or tries to.
A Portrait, a Promise, a Plan
Bertha’s obsession with societal validation reaches its peak with the commissioning of Gladys’s portrait by Sargent. But this isn’t about capturing likeness—it’s about branding. In Bertha’s mind, a Sargent portrait is the ultimate weapon in her arsenal, a visual symbol that says, “We belong.”
Gladys, though, is less impressed; she finds the entire process performative, tiresome. Bertha sees the portrait as Gladys’s entry ticket to the duke’s world. But her daughter sees it for what it is—a gilded cage. Even when Gladys tries reasoning with her, pointing out that Billy comes from a respectable family Bertha would have once been thrilled about, Bertha cuts her off: “We’ve surpassed them now.” It’s a chilling moment that underlines Bertha’s transformation from aspirant to gatekeeper.
What Bertha fails to recognize is that Gladys is no longer the pliable debutante she once paraded around ballrooms. She’s making her own decisions now—possibly bold ones. When the episode closes, it becomes clear: Gladys isn’t just waiting for George to come home. She may be preparing to disappear from Bertha’s script altogether.
Trains, Trouble, and Ticking Clocks
While the women wage domestic and social wars back home, George Russell is busy building empires in the West; his dream is a seamless rail line connecting New York to Chicago and stretching all the way to Los Angeles. But dreamers in the Gilded Age must also be gamblers. George’s deal hinges on persuading local mine owners to sell—and early negotiations don’t go smoothly.
As if that wasn’t enough, a financial tremor back in New York threatens to become a full-blown earthquake. A run on one of the banks means investors are panicking. If things continue, George could lose not only his wealth but the credibility that built it. He’s summoned back urgently—leaving behind uncertain negotiations and heading straight into a firestorm.
His absence is already destabilizing Bertha’s plans; with the dowry and wedding funds hanging in limbo, and no husband present to counter her authority, Bertha’s world may soon find itself shaken from more than one side.
Aurora Fane’s Fall
Not all marriages in The Gilded Age begin with chandeliers and end with waltzes. Some simply implode. Aurora Fane’s world collapses when her husband, Charles, returns home only to casually confess he's leaving her—for another woman. Worse yet, he intends to marry his mistress.
Aurora, elegant and gracious to a fault, is devastated. In this world, being the innocent party means nothing. To pursue divorce, she must relocate to Newport to avoid public scandal—something she refuses to do. And though her friends rally around her in support, Aurora knows better. “Society is not known for its logic,” she states—and tragically, she’s right. Her dignity may remain intact, but her place in society hangs by a thread.
Peggy’s Rising Star—and Health Crisis
Peggy Scott finally receives the recognition she deserves. The Christian Recorder wants to publish an excerpt from her novel—a huge step for any writer, let alone a Black woman in 1880s New York. But before she can celebrate, a persistent cough worsens. She brushes it off as a chill from the snow, but it becomes increasingly clear she’s unwell.
When Agnes sends for the family physician, he refuses to come—simply because Peggy is Black. It’s a sobering, infuriating moment. The very people who claim moral superiority are the ones perpetuating injustice. Ultimately, Jack is sent to fetch her father, a pharmacist. The moment reminds us that while corsets and chandeliers may dazzle, the world beneath them remains unjust.
Jack and the Clock Conundrum
Jack, the footman with an inventor’s mind, continues working on his innovative clock with Larry. But ambition comes at a cost. Some staff members, like Adelheid, accuse him of getting too comfortable among the elite. Jack is made to feel out of place in a world he’s intellectually outgrowing.
But encouragement comes from surprising corners. His fellow servants—those who know his character—cheer him on. And finally, Jack finds his voice. He tells Larry he must attend meetings with investors. After all, it’s his invention, and with that quiet assertion, Jack steps a little closer to becoming the man he’s meant to be.
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