I am now reliably informed that the young woman has decided to abandon her homeland altogether and will set sail for America before the end of the year, in which country she intends to settle. In a society which has no aristocratic pedigree nor any blue blood, such tarnished goods as Lady M—— will doubtless be welcomed. In the so-called Land of the Free, a young lady with a penchant for snubbing the well-established rules of good conduct and a reputation for setting a determinedly poor example will find her spiritual home. We wish Lady M—— bon voyage, and our American cousins the best of luck.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Queenstown, Ireland, Friday, 27 December 1867
There had been time for only the briefest of farewells before Margaret set off in the Powerscourt travelling coach for Kingsbridge Station in Dublin in the early hours. With the horses stamping their feet in the icy predawn and Aunt Marion consulting her omnipresent list and checking off the baggage, there was time only for Breda to press a St. Christopher medal into Margaret’s hands and for Julia to fuss over the blankets and foot warmers. No time for tears, thank goodness, nor any time to contemplate the fact that she and Julia might never see each other again. Merely one last brief, fierce hug, and then they were on their way.
The train journey from Dublin to Cork, where the station was reached through a tunnel almost a mile long, passed in a blur. Here she and Aunt Marion boarded the train to the port of Queenstown, a scenic route that hugged the banks of Lough Mahon, allowing Margaret to stare out at the view, though her thoughts were elsewhere, to those she was leaving behind, perhaps forever.
Mama’s last, precious letter had been the source of tears, sleepless nights, and much soul-searching. It was impossible not to regret the fact that they had always been at odds and to wish that they had grown closer sooner. Though if she had followed the path her parents had chosen for her, she and Mama may never have grown close at all. Their new relationship was the product of adversity, of strife and suffering, of separation and endurance; and the same could well be said for her relationship with Victoria, perhaps even Mary. Even now, as the train ate up the miles, knowing she was in her mother’s thoughts and prayers gave Margaret some comfort.
Louise was another matter entirely. Louise was truly lost to her now, perhaps forever. Her letter had deliberately set out to wound; but as ever with Lou, Margaret knew she lashed out at those she cared for most when she was feeling vulnerable. It was not the first time Louise had rewritten history to put herself in the right, or at least in a better light. The jibes and accusations she made were the weapons she used to deflect from her own shortcomings—not that she would ever admit to having any! As to what had transpired in the last eighteen months, it was impossible to be definitive from her veiled hints, though Margaret could hazard a guess, and her heart ached with sympathy. To admit to frailty or needing love and support were beyond Lou. Like Julia, she was determined to lock her feelings down and to endure. Margaret could not help her, and any offer would be rejected. Would Louise even read her brief reply, assuring her of her continuing love and friendship? She could hope, though she wasn’t convinced.
From Donald, Margaret had heard nothing, nor had she expected to. She did not regret turning down his proposal, but, oh, how deeply she regretted losing his friendship. The temptation to write, to confide in him her fears and hopes for this new phase in her life, to set out her tentative plans for his consideration, had been almost irresistible as the weeks since her birthday flew past, but doing so would have been cruel and selfish, and she loved him too much to hurt him further or to give him false hope.
Julia, once it became clear Margaret was not to be dissuaded, had generously thrown herself into making arrangements for the journey. She could neither understand nor approve of a decision which was so completely contrary to her own careful choices and her fervent desire for a family, but she had demonstrated a shrewd understanding of Margaret’s nature by suggesting Aunt Marion as her travelling companion.
As the train began its slow approach towards Queenstown harbour, Margaret smiled to herself as she studied the woman opposite her, who was frowning over her notebook, where a list of tasks was being methodically ticked off. Mrs. Marion Scrymgeour, or Aunt Marion, as she insisted upon being addressed, was in her mid-fifties and neatly but plainly garbed in a tweed jacket and skirt with a high-collared blouse. The skirt had two large, concealed pockets, and the blouse was a revolting shade of tobacco-brown, her preferred colour for travelling garb. It conceals the grime even the most fastidious of traveller must inevitably accumulate, and it repels the heat in warmer climes, she had informed Margaret, eyeing her own choice of dove grey with a disapproving frown.
Aunt Marion’s arrival at Powerscourt just under two weeks ago had been preceded by a barrage of letters containing detailed instructions which Julia and Margaret had diligently and most gratefully followed, covering everything from the most robust and commodious style of travelling trunk; the essential contents of a medical case, a dressing case, and a carpet-bag; to the itinerary for the journey and the travel papers which would be required. Though Julia was minded to question Aunt Marion’s assertion that the department stores in New York were reputed to be the best in the world and could supply all their needs when they arrived, Margaret was relieved to be spared the necessity of purchasing a new wardrobe. For herself, she could not imagine why a small flask of brandy, strong smelling-salts, a bottle of eau de toilette, and full set of clean undergarments and stockings must take up valuable room in her carpet-bag, leaving no room for her writing case or her book, but she decided to bow to Aunt Marion’s vast experience.
In fact, Aunt Marion was so thorough that Margaret had begun to anticipate a rather austere schoolmistress type who regimented her day by following a strict timetable, rising at five and going to bed at eight, who drank only water and thought that cream on her gruel was an frightful extravagance. She could not have been more wrong. There had been an instant rapport between them. Aunt Marion was one of those women whose appetite for life matched her appetite for food. Originally hailing from the Scottish Borders town of Peebles, she had travelled extensively with her diplomat husband, primarily in the Far East. She had a stock of tales, the constitution of an ox, a very dry wit, a pleasing tolerance for foibles, and an abhorrence of hypocrisy. Her notebook, her embroidery frame, and a glass of champagne were her permanent companions. Eccentric and irreverent, Aunt Marion was a maverick who took everything in her stride.
“What is it that is making you smile?” she asked now, closing her notebook and tucking the little silver propelling pencil into its holder.
“If I had been asked to describe the perfect travelling companion,” Margaret said, “it would have been you.”
“Thank you, my dear, but we have barely set foot out of Powerscourt. You should reserve judgement until we have travelled a few more miles together.”
“No, I don’t need to. If I didn’t owe Julia an enormous debt already for taking me in, I would be hugely obliged to her for introducing us.”
“It seems to me that you have more than repaid Julia with your companionship,” Aunt Marion said. “She’s quite come out of her shell, what with getting embroiled in the school and what not. Of course she’ll never be happy until she has a baby of her own to hold in her arms, but knowing that husband of hers—ach, I have no patience with a man who shirks his duty as he does. He should not have married her if he’d doubts about—” She broke off, pursing her lips.
“What on earth do you mean? I didn’t realise you were particularly well acquainted with Lord Powerscourt.”
“I have encountered him several times on his travels abroad. He embroiled Alexander, my husband, in the tracking down of a statue once. In Persia it was, in the early days of my husband’s posting there. Alexander was most put-out to be asked to wield influence he did not truly possess, for he never did rise above the lower ranks in the service. His lack of blue blood was against him, and he was far too reticent to cultivat
e the right people, you see, but Powerscourt was most insistent. An arrogant man, I have always thought, and a very selfish one—I may say that now that poor Julia is out of earshot. I much prefer the younger brother, Lewis.”
“I have met him, and like him very much,” Margaret said.
“Yes, I can imagine that the two of you would have hit it off. At least with Lewis, you know where you are. He makes no pretence. Wingfield, on the other hand—he is the sort of man who should have remained a bachelor, and that is all I am prepared to say on the subject. Now, we must gather our things, Margaret, for we are about to arrive in Queenstown and the terminus is actually on the quay itself, I believe. Stand close by me, and allow me to deal with officialdom. Keep your hand on your purse and your wits about you and we will be fine.”
Two hours later, Margaret stood on the deck of the Cunard line’s most prestigious paddle steamer, watching the tenders bring the final passengers on board. The decks of the RMS Scotia were crowded with people vying for a space at the ship’s rails to wave farewell, though their loved ones assembled on the quay were no more than a sea of indistinguishable faces. Smoke billowed from the two funnels at the centre of the ship, and the massive sails on the two masts were being unfurled in preparation for departure. The steamer, which had won the much-coveted Blue Riband for the fastest westbound transatlantic crossing four years before, was a luxury liner, with no steerage class, the vast majority of the passengers travelling in first class with only a few in second. All the same, as Margaret leaned on the guard-rail clutching her thick woollen cloak around her, she couldn’t help thinking of the thousands of Irish poor fleeing the Great Famine in years gone by, taking their chances in the New World. Breda’s uncle had been one who, with his wife and three children, had embarked at this very quay fifteen years before. Though there could be no comparison between those brave, desperate souls and herself, save the determination to make a new life for themselves, the enormity of what she was doing struck her forcibly as the last tenders emptied and the ship’s engines developed a more determined rumble. She was committed now. There was no going back.
Several blasts of the ship’s horn made the crowds push further towards the rails. Aunt Marion appeared by her side, miraculously bearing two glasses of champagne, handing Margaret one of them. On the quay, handkerchiefs were waved, hats were raised, tears began to fall, and the decks shuddered beneath their feet.
“I thought a bon voyage toast was in order. I expect you are feeling trepidation. It is my experience that one always feels that way at the point of departure. A natural enough emotion, when one is leaving friends and loved ones. If one did not feel it, it would mean that one had nothing and no-one to regret leaving behind.”
“That is a very positive way of looking at it.”
“I’ve no time for those who are constantly bemoaning their fate. One makes the best of the hand one is dealt.”
“Julia said that to me when I first arrived in Powerscourt.”
“A sensible gal, is Julia, though I am of the opinion she has a smidgen of the martyr in her. I would also have loved to have children of my own, but the Lord did not bless us. Mind you, I cannot fault Alexander for endeavour. In that department, unlike Wingfield, he was ever eager, right until the end,” Aunt Marion said with a broad wink. “I see I’ve shocked you. The young imagine passion to be solely their province, but it’s not at all. I’m fifty-five years old and far from decrepit. You should find that reassuring.”
“I am sure I shall, one day,” Margaret replied, blushing and laughing.
“True, true, time enough to concern yourself with that kind of thing—you’ve your whole life ahead of you.” The ship’s anchors were creaking up, and the RMS Scotia was rocking into motion. “There’s no going back now.”
“I know, and when I am not excited about that, I’m terrified.”
“I won’t say have no regrets, for that would be plain silly. You’ll have regrets by the score, but the trick, my dear Margaret, is to continue onwards and upwards.” Aunt Marion raised her glass. “A toast, my dear. Here is to pastures new.”
The Scotia’s horn gave one final blast. “Pastures new,” Margaret said, as the ship began to pick up speed at an alarming rate, and they set sail for New York. “And here is to making the most of second chances,” she added quietly to herself.
Chapter Thirty
New York, January 1868
RMS Scotia sailed to New York under the command of Captain Judkins. One of Cunard’s finest officers and a staunch upholder of ship’s discipline, he ruled with a rod of iron. The captain had once legendarily threatened to clap a number of passengers from the American Deep South in irons when they not only refused to listen to a lecture given by Frederick Douglass but threatened to throw the abolitionist overboard. Captain Judkins, a taciturn man with the appearance of a distinguished politician, made no attempt to endear himself to his passengers, most of whom lived in fear of his acerbic tongue. However, he and Aunt Marion had struck up an unlikely friendship in the ten days spent at sea, as a result of which she and Margaret were invited to dine at his table almost every night and given a pride of place at the grand gala ball thrown to celebrate the New Year. It was a dubious honour, for the captain enjoyed the sound of his own voice rather too much, and his officers held him in a combination of reverence and fear, but when Aunt Marion pointed out that it ensured they had champagne on tap, Margaret could hardly demur.
The huge paddles of the Scotia had temporarily stopped turning in the early hours of this morning, some miles off the American coast, to allow US government officials to board. Wrapped in her thick travelling cloak, her hands in fur mittens, Margaret stood at the rails of the first-class deck as the engines started up again to complete the short final leg of their transatlantic journey up the East River to their berth in New York Harbour. The docking process was terrifyingly complex, for the river was teeming with ships, tugs, barges, and rowing boats, all jostling for position. As the engines were cut for a final time, a cacophony of voices rang out, shouting instructions from the dockside, from the barges, and from the bridge of the Scotia. Horns blasted, rigging creaked, gulls screeched plaintively, and the tang of salt gave way to the acrid scent of smoke that filled the leaden skies. On the decks of the other ships Margaret could see hordes of people crowded together, all straining, as she was, for their first glimpse of New York City.
Her stomach was churning like the vast ocean they had just crossed as the barges on which they would be disembarked came alongside. She couldn’t believe they had actually arrived in the New World. Her mind had been in constant turmoil as they steamed at alarming speed across the Atlantic, every creak and roll of the ship, the foaming wake it left in its trail, a reminder of the distance they were travelling, of the world and the loved ones she was leaving far behind. It was easy during daytime to put her fears aside and enjoy the Scotia’s lavish hospitality, but at night in her cabin she had lain awake, questions and worries swarming like bees in her head. In those long, dark hours, she felt completely alone. Gazing out the porthole at the pincushion of stars in the ink-black sky, she had veered between exhilaration and the sensation of being trapped on this hulking, roiling iron vessel. Forced to forge relentlessly onwards, secretly relieved that the choice to turn back had been taken out of her hands.
Now, looking out at the emerging New York skyline, Margaret’s optimism reasserted itself. She had taken a huge leap into the dark, but despite all her doubts and fears, she was still convinced it was the right move. The article in the Illustrated Times, which Lord Powerscourt had so kindly shown her before she left, simply confirmed her in her views. No matter what she did, no matter what her motives, at home she would always be the scandalous Lady Margaret.
As she watched the first nets containing luggage being winched down onto the barges, Aunt Marion joined her. “Good morning, my dear. Isn’t this exciting?” Her eyes twinkling, she produced two glasses of champagne. “The sun must be over the yard-arm some
where. This will be our last opportunity to sample the contents of Captain Judkins’s most excellent cellar and our first chance to toast the New World.”
“Good morning, America,” Margaret said, smiling as she raised her glass.
“We are quite delighted to make your acquaintance,” Aunt Marion added, taking a deep draught. “Now drink up, for we will be disembarking on one of those barges directly. I fear I will resemble a prize heifer being unloaded from a cattle boat.”
The barge deposited them at Castle Garden pier, on the southern tip of the island of Manhattan, with Governors Island nearby. In the distance lay the green hills of Staten Island. The Scotia was one of many ships disembarking this morning, and the jetty was a seething mass of humanity hailing from every corner of the world, or so it seemed to Margaret. Her legs wobbled so much as she set foot on dry land that she was momentarily frozen to the spot. Her nose twitched at the smells; her ears rang with the noise. Officials were shouting instructions, waving their arms, and she panicked as the crowds surged forward.
“Stay close, my dear,” Aunt Marion said with reassuring calm, grabbing her arm, casting a disapproving gaze around her at the milling throng. “It seems that Americans are true to their principle that everyone is equal from the very outset. I can see no separate process for first class. Ah well, leave this to me. Dealing with bureaucracy is one of my many talents.” She frowned disapprovingly at a fellow passenger ranting at an official. “Patience and courtesy are what will see us through, so pin that enchanting smile of yours to your face, and let us have at ’em.”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 28