True to her word, Aunt Marion steered them quickly through a cursory medical examination and into the main rotunda building, a vast circular space where the noise of so many people talking in so many different languages was deafening and the stench from so many passengers who had been cooped up in steerage was overpowering.
“Take deep breaths, and you will quickly become accustomed to the smell,” Aunt Marion commanded as she pushed Margaret in front of her towards the registering department.
By the time their papers and baggage had been checked, and arrangements had been made to send their luggage on to the hotel which would be their temporary home, it was late morning. Emerging on the other side of the rotunda, they found themselves in a large courtyard, where passengers, children, and baggage stood in groups, looking as dazed as Margaret now felt. Exiting through another door, they were officially disembarked and on American soil.
The Battery, as it was known, was a vast space with a few sparse trees and a great deal of traffic. Conveyances of every size and description blocked the way—carriages, carts, and pedlars’ barrows. Touts proclaimed the name of the hotel or boarding-house they represented. It was here that the reunions took place. Families embraced, lovers kissed, and people laughed and cried at the same time. Babies were held up to be inspected, dogs barked, and children bounced on their toes, clinging to their mothers’ skirts. Margaret smiled at one little girl who was holding an exuberant puppy on a lead, and was rewarded with a gap-toothed grin.
Aunt Marion, meanwhile, was carefully noting down the licence number of the hansom cab. “One can never be too careful,” she said, ushering Margaret ahead of her. “Drivers,” she added with a meaningful glance at the man who had descended from the box to assist her, “are the same the world over in my experience, always eager to charge one double the going rate if they can get away with it. We are off to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, my good man, which should be no more than a fare of seventy-five cents, if I am not mistaken.”
“Spot on, unless you care to add a generous tip, lady,” the man replied, winking at Margaret as he closed the folding wooden doors over their legs, before leaping up onto the box behind them and urging his horse into action.
The wind bit at their faces, for the hansom cab was only partially enclosed, but Margaret leaned forward, eager to catch her first glimpse of what she knew enough to call downtown New York. “I can’t believe we’re actually here. I know you are a seasoned traveller, but until we set sail, Ireland was the furthest afield I’ve ever been.”
“There is nothing like travel for broadening one’s mind.” Aunt Marion grimaced. “A dreadful platitude, but true nonetheless, provided one is happy to embrace the experience, of course. You would not believe the number of people I came across in the diplomatic service who put all their efforts into recreating a little patch of England. You must know the type, for your father mingles with ambassadors and high-ranking officials. They are the ones least likely to learn the local lingo or customs. Don’t get me wrong now; there were plenty others like my dear Alexander, who made every effort to adapt, but some—” She broke off, shaking her head. “Such people, I fear, gain little from their foreign travels save continual bouts of homesickness and occasional bouts of the scours.”
“Well, I intend to throw myself into life here with gusto.”
“I am sure you will,” Aunt Marion said, patting her hand. “You will be homesick, there’s no avoiding it, but the trick is not to wallow in it. And remember that you are not alone, for I am by your side.”
“Thank you, Aunt Marion.” Margaret leaned over, surprising her with a kiss on the cheek. “For everything. I am so glad you are here with me.”
“Please, I beg you, let’s dispense with the aunt. We are to be friends and accomplices, not guardian and ward. I am very glad to have been given the opportunity to accompany you, my dear. Since I lost Alexander, my life has been rather dull, I must confess. I, too, am eagerly anticipating pastures new, you know, even if only for a limited period, and I freely admit that I am also looking forward to enjoying a bit of luxury. I am reliably informed that our accommodation incorporates something called a vertical railroad to convey us to our rooms. I hope it is of sturdy construction. I am rather looking forward to trying it out.”
New York Times, Tuesday, 7 January 1868
New York Times, Tuesday, 7 January 1868
New York Welcomes an Aristocratic Arrival
The Cunard liner RMS Scotia docked this morning in New York Harbor, having sailed from Liverpool and Queenstown. Among several illustrious passengers on board was the Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott, second daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry. One of Great Britain’s most eminent peers and Gold Stick for Scotland, His Grace previously served Her Majesty Queen Victoria as Lord Privy Seal and was a close friend of Prince Albert. Lady Margaret’s mother, the Duchess of Buccleuch, is the daughter of the Second Marquess of Bath, and former Mistress of the queen’s Robes. The family’s several homes and estates include Montagu House in London; Drumlanrig Castle, Bowhill, and Dalkeith Palace in Scotland; and Boughton House in Northamptonshire, England.
Lady Margaret made her debut before Her Majesty Queen Victoria in April 1865, and was one of the London Season’s most fêted debutantes. She is a close friend of the most beautiful of the royal princesses, Louise, and served as a bridesmaid at the marriage of Princess Helena to Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg in July 1866. Ill health forced Lady Margaret to retire from society and take refuge at Powerscourt near Dublin, where she has been the guest of the Seventh Viscount and his wife.
Lady Margaret travels with a companion, Mrs. Marion Scrymgeour, and is expected to make her home in the United States. She will be a most welcome addition to our homegrown aristocracy here in New York.
New York Herald, Wednesday, 8 January 1868
New York Herald, Wednesday, 8 January 1868
New York, New Start for a Duke’s Daughter?
We are delighted and intrigued to note that one of the passengers who disembarked yesterday from the RMS Scotia was Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott, the second daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch. Lady Margaret was accompanied by Mrs. Marion Scrymgeour, about whom we can glean nothing at all, save that she is the relic of a minor British diplomat and no relation to her ladyship.
Readers who are imagining a faded, aged spinster peeress and her down-at-heel paid companion should prepare to have their expectations quite confounded. Lady Margaret is twenty-one years of age, flame haired, and perfectly proportioned, according to our source on board the Scotia, with a charming and unaffected manner. Not the average English Rose that the British aristocracy export, not by any stretch!
Why has this matrimonial prize been permitted to escape the Old Country? What does she hope to find here in the New World? The New York Herald has no time for scurrilous rumors and ancient scandal. America is the Land of Second Chances as well as the Land of Opportunity. Whatever her past misdemeanors, Lady Margaret will be welcomed with open arms into the heart of society in the Metropolis and will, we have no doubt, fast become the most sought-after guest at any and all of the current season’s events.
Though the most eligible of our bachelors may balk at wooing a lady who is already their senior (and in Gotham terms on the shelf), in the event that she wishes to ally herself more closely with her adopted home, her noble birth must ensure that she has her pick of any number of wealthy widowers. The Herald bids Lady Margaret a wholehearted welcome, and will closely monitor her progress.
Lady Margaret is currently residing at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where she has been allocated one of that luxurious establishment’s premium suites.
Chapter Thirty-One
Wednesday, 8 January 1868
The Fifth Avenue Hotel was a huge white marble edifice six stories high, made fashionable by the Prince of Wales, who had occupied the most lavish suite during his visit eight years previously. The main saloons were
sumptuously decorated; every bedroom equipped with its own fireplace; and many, Margaret and Marion’s suite included, even had their own bathrooms.
After the excitement of their arrival in the city, Margaret’s mind was preoccupied with practical matters. How did one summon a maid? Was she to unpack her belongings herself? Dress herself? How did one order meals? Did one eat in private or in the public dining room? If a female guest sat in one of the saloons alone, did she risk being accosted? All the conventions she took for granted might not apply now she was on the other side of the Atlantic. The gulf between her old life and this new one seemed too vast to digest.
But even as she sank wearily onto the gilded sofa in their shared sitting room, Marion was at hand. “Tea is the order of the day,” she said, ringing the bell by the fireplace, “and then bed for you, I think. Leave everything else to me for now—it’s why I’m here. Trust me, my dear, a good night’s rest, and tomorrow you will be ready for anything New York can throw at you.”
And Marion had, once again, been right. Despite the fact that the pounding of Scotia’s paddles was replaced by the endless rattling and clopping of carriages and horses outside her window, Margaret had her first sound night’s sleep in a very long time.
In their sitting room the next morning, she found Marion seated resplendent in her husband’s red-and-gold Oriental dressing gown, while a waiter set out a bewildering array of covered dishes.
“I was just about to call you. I took the liberty of ordering us a light breakfast. We could eat in the dining room, of course, but apparently one cannot reserve a table for that particular repast, and I do not wish to risk having to share. I am not at my best until I’ve had at least one pot of coffee.”
“A light breakfast?” Margaret said, eyeing the groaning table incredulously, noting that Marion slipped a coin into the waiter’s hand before he left. Tipping, it seemed, was yet another custom she would need to embrace.
“I may have ordered a smidgen too much,” Marion agreed, pouring her coffee, “though it’s a fraction of what’s available on the breakfast menu. The tea is English Breakfast. Does that suit you?”
“Very much,” Margaret said, relieved to see that this one, in her view essential commodity, was served just as she liked.
“Now, let’s see.” Marion began to lift the lids. “Fried oysters. And this must be the codfish with cream. Kidneys—a mixture of veal and mutton, according to the menu, though they smell just like lamb to me. Fried potatoes, a plain omelette. These pancakes must be the buckwheat cakes, which means that is the corn-bread, and these two last items—well, one of them must be the fried Indian pudding and the other the hominy. How disappointing—they look like custard and porridge. Ah well, one lives and learns.”
She began to help herself to a substantial selection, while Margaret took a tentative taste of the hominy before spooning out a small plateful of it. “Thank you very much for looking after me yesterday. I’m sorry I was poor company.”
“Stuff and nonsense. I’m not surprised you were somewhat overwhelmed. I must say, though, you look much refreshed this morning.”
“I feel much better, thank you.” Margaret cut a slice of the omelette, which was light and fluffy and flavoured with parsley.
“A number of calling cards have been left for you already,” Marion said, “and I am informed by the hotel concierge, a contact well worth cultivating, to expect a great deal more. It seems to be the practice here for the passenger lists of the liners to be published and for hotels to place lists of their more eminent guests in the newspapers.”
“Good heavens, we are not going to be besieged by callers on our first day, are we?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so, and in any case, I thought we could spend the day finding our feet, so to speak. A task that in my case is rather more of a voyage of discovery than yours,” Marion said, patting her tummy. “I think I must have gained at least a stone at sea, between the ten-course luncheons and banquet dinners, to say nothing of the champagne—not that champagne counts, of course. I will be banned from using the elevator, at this rate. I am afraid I have never had your commendable restraint when it comes to food. Mind you, I’ve never in my life had such a svelte figure as yours. Even in my younger days, my curves were what was known as generous.”
“It’s strange,” Margaret said, succumbing to the deliciously warm, doughy corn-bread, “but when Mama was forever wielding her measuring tape and fussing over the size of my waist, I craved cake. Yet in Ireland, where I was free to eat as much cake as I wanted, I found that I didn’t want to. Perhaps that is simply my contrary nature.”
“It is certainly human nature, to want what one is told one cannot have,” Marion said dryly. “I’m afraid I have little patience with this fashion for tight-lacing. No wonder so many women are forever fainting away—they can’t blooming well breathe. I abandoned my corset when Alexander was posted to Syria. It wasn’t only the heat but the sand—I assure you, my dear, you have no notion of the havoc even a few grains of the stuff trapped between your corset and your chemise can wreak. I adopted native dress, lovely loose tunics that let the breeze circulate about one’s person, and made it a dashed sight easier to let one’s husband circulate about a person, too. There was something about the heat that made both Alexander and me—” She broke off with a hearty sigh. “Ah, but there’s no point in dwelling on that now. What was it I was saying, about wanting what one can’t have?”
“You must miss him a great deal.”
“Oh, you have no idea. However, Alexander made me promise not to mourn him and to enjoy life to the full, and I try my best to do just that. It’s an odd way of mourning, some might say, but it’s my way.”
“I think it’s rather wonderful.”
“Thank you, my dear. Now then,” Marion said, inhaling the dregs of her coffee, “I have been busy while you have been catching up on your sleep. In my experience, the best way to get to know a city is to get the lie of the land, as they say. The charming concierge informs me that for the sum of five dollars one may hire a hansom cab and driver for the day. So if you are finished your repast, we will make hay while the sun shines which,” she said, casting an eye at the window, “it seems to be trying very hard to do.”
Their hotel was situated near the busy juncture with Broadway on Twenty-Third Street, with the charming small park of Madison Square nearby, no doubt a welcome oasis of green in spring. This was, according the information Marion had gleaned, at the limit of fashionable uptown when it was built about ten years previously. “Though that has all changed since,” she said as their cab jolted into action. “Mrs. William Astor, who is the arbiter of New York society and whose card, I noticed, was one of those left for you, has her mansion on Thirty-Fourth Street. I must say, this way of numbering the avenues and streets is eminently practical. It will make it quite difficult to get lost, though I am told that downtown, as it is referred to, is a different matter entirely. Not a place one ventures into, apparently.”
“You should not have said so, for now it is the one place in all New York I yearn to visit,” Margaret quipped.
“Ha! We shall content ourselves with uptown today, and the new Central Park. Though it seems to be acceptable for a young woman to go about unescorted, there are certain areas which would be foolhardy to venture into, never mind unescorted. I know you are teasing, but you will remember, Margaret, that it will undoubtedly be as easy here as it is in London to accidentally find yourself in an unsavoury district.”
“I am aware, and I was teasing. A little, anyway. Goodness, but isn’t it busy, and so very different from London. The pavements look as if they have been swept clean.”
“Sidewalks,” Marion corrected. “And this is Fifth Avenue, where the great and the good reside.”
Margaret looked about her, slightly awed by the city unfurling before her. There were two sets of tracks for the horse-drawn trams which she must remember to call streetcars, one of the many obstacles their driver faced, for
despite the width of the street—avenue!—there were vast amounts of traffic. And throngs of people, too, all of them, it seemed to her, walking very quickly and purposefully. As the cab made its slow way north, the sidewalks gradually became less crowded, the buildings more widely spaced, interspersed with trees and several extremely well-kept churches. There was an air of permanence here that belied Marion’s assertion that this part of the city had, as recently as fifteen years ago, been little more than mud, hovels, and farmland. The mansions were tall, square, and similar in proportions, the brown-stone of the façades presenting a pleasing uniform appearance.
“One of these must be Mrs. William Astor’s house,” Marion mused. “I would have thought it would be grander. Caroline Astor is a formidable woman, I am told, who is the gatekeeper to New York society. The husband is not fond of socialising and prefers country pursuits.” She rolled her eyes. “A phrase that I have no doubt means exactly the same on this side of the Atlantic, if you take my meaning—or rather Shakespeare’s. Was it Shakespeare? No, it was Donne, of course. ‘The Good-Morrow.’ One of Alexander’s favourites of his poems.
“‘If ever any beauty I did see,
“‘Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.’
“Do you know it?”
“I don’t,” Margaret said, hurriedly reassessing her image of the mysterious Alexander. “Your husband sounds as if he was quite the romantic.”
Marion chuckled. “Oh, how he would laugh to hear himself so described. He wasn’t given to grand gestures, but what use are a bunch of roses or a diamond necklace when what one requires is a foot rub.”
“I wish I could have met him.”
“Ah, my dear, I am sure the pair of you would have got on swimmingly. However, if he were still with me, I would not be with you.” Marion blew her nose vigorously. “Now, that is more than enough about me. What were we talking about?”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 29