“Mrs. William Astor.”
“She left her card, which is considered a great honour. If you are to immerse yourself in New York society, you will require her seal of approval.”
“I think I would rather be immersed in an ice-cold bath.”
“You have been out of society for some time now, have you not? No need to explain what sent you into hiding with Julia, though I am assuming it was a man, for it invariably is, with young women.”
“It was, but not in the way you assume.”
Marion patted her knee. “I’m not assuming anything. Let us take in the view and say no more on the subject.”
Margaret nodded gratefully, and as the hansom cab continued to make its way north, she did as Marion suggested. New York was expanding at a rate that made London’s growth seem positively sedentary. Only a few streets farther on from the Astor’s house, the elegant façade of the avenue began to alter. There were buildings in various states of construction everywhere. Materials were stacked beside the foundations of the nascent mansions: brick and marble, slate, chimney stacks, timbers and stone, window frames and doors. Despite the freezing weather, construction seemed to be continuing apace.
An ugly stone structure which, Marion informed her, frowning down at her notebook, was a water reservoir, took up two whole blocks. One imposing edifice was clearly a cathedral in the making. At a particularly large construction which her well-informed companion said would be the new Central Park Hotel, the traffic became busier again, for several of the streetcars terminated here, and a number of the special carriages which could be hired for drives through the park stood awaiting customers.
Informing their driver, through the hatch in the roof, that she most certainly did wish him to drive into the park, Marion smiled apologetically at Margaret. “I know you would much prefer to walk, but it is a very large park, bigger by far than anything London has to offer. Hard to believe it is only a few years old, isn’t it?”
“It’s lovely,” Margaret said, her eyes wide as their cab once more jolted into action. “It feels as if we have stumbled into another country.”
Though it was the depth of winter and the branches were bare, the park was still enchanting. A large pond with a pretty arched bridge gave way to vast swathes of what would be tempting green lawns in the summer. The main carriage-way ran at an elevated level, crossing a number of arched stone bridges below which smaller paths criss-crossed, and which Margaret determined to return to explore. A lake, clearly used in summer for boating, was partially frozen. They drove past woodland, and then south again, past another pond, and a large boathouse, before the carriage drew to a halt.
“Don’t want you to miss this, ladies,” their driver said, through the roof hatch. “The terrace is over there. It’s a short walk, but well worth the effort, I promise.”
They descended one of two broad flights of steps to a natural-looking amphitheatre, where an arcade or cloister had been built beneath the carriage drive. Refreshments were served inside this rather beautiful tiled interior, but Margaret and Marion were drawn to the large round basin where a fountain played, facing the pond, with a sign cautioning would-be skaters that the ice was dangerous.
“I love to ice-skate,” Margaret said, looking longingly at the partially frozen water. “There is a lochan, which freezes over most years, near Dalkeith Palace, my father’s home on the outskirts of Edinburgh.” She smiled, watching a little boy and girl chase each other round the fountain. “In London, one goes to the park to show off one’s toilette, to see and be seen. In the Season, by late afternoon there was a positive crush of carriages.”
“I expect they do something similar here.”
“I hated my London Season. I felt crushed by the weight of expectation.”
“To make a good match? It will be a very different experience here, if your only ambition is to establish yourself and not to find a husband. Assuming that you don’t wish to do so?”
“I most certainly do not.” The image of a smiling Donald flashed before her eyes. “I could have married a charming, kind, and respectable man who loved me, but I chose not to.”
“May I ask why? Didn’t you love him?”
“Not enough to build my world around his. Do you think that is selfish of me?”
“I think it very brave not to do what most women would.”
“Julia thinks it was a mistake.”
“Poor Julia. I think it more likely she envies you your confidence. Of course you are fortunate in having the means to support yourself.”
“I don’t think I would have married Donald, even if my father had not granted me an allowance.” Margaret grimaced. “At least, I’d like to think so. I miss him so much. Though we rarely met, he was always there in the background, a rock I could rely on. I miss his wise counsel and his humour and—oh dear, that sounds very much as if I regret refusing him, but I don’t.”
“I find that once a decision is made, it is best left at that and not continually questioned.”
“That is sound advice.”
Marion chuckled. “But not so easily followed, I warn you.”
“Well, I’m going to try, and I will start by making my entrance in New York society. You’re quite right: it is bound to be a very different experience from London. We shall have fun!”
“We! I am not so sure I would be as sought after as you by the Mrs. William Astors of this world.”
“They will be obliged to, if they desire my company. They can have both of us, or neither,” Margaret said firmly. “More importantly, we need to find somewhere to live. I have no idea of the costs involved. My allowance seems like an enormous amount to me, but I have never had to run my own establishment.”
“I have established any number of homes for myself and Alexander in my time. I would be delighted to help.”
“And will you stay on and share it with me?” Margaret asked impulsively. “Not forever, but for more than the few months we agreed to?”
Marion did not hesitate. “I will, for the time being, and then we shall see.”
“Excellent.” Above them the sky had darkened. The snow fell suddenly, in a soft flurry, and laughter echoed around the park as people jumped to their feet and held their faces to the sky with childish delight. Margaret gave a little skip of excitement. “I think we are going to be very happy here.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The city of New York boasted so many attractions it would be easy, Margaret quickly realised, to spend the next few months as a tourist. But since she planned to settle here, she must do more than see the sights, she must engage with the locals. The growing stack of calling cards on the table in her hotel suite offered her ample opportunity to do this, though the sheer volume of them as she laid them out like playing cards was daunting. She was tempted to close her eyes and select one at random, but as ever, Marion’s good sense prevailed.
“When in doubt, start at the top,” she advised.
So it was that three days after their arrival in the city, they set out to pay their first call. The snow had melted, but a hard frost had set in overnight, making the sidewalks glitter. They decided to walk the short distance from their hotel, and set out just before noon, dressed for the weather rather than the occasion, in thick cloaks and boots.
Mrs. William Astor occupied what Margaret now knew to call a brown-stone at number 350 Fifth Avenue. It was a square town house four stories high, separated from the sidewalk by a low balustrade and a neat flight of steps leading up to a door flanked by two pillars. This was opened by a liveried footman in an eye-catching combination of green coat, red waistcoat, white knee breeches, and black silk stockings.
“Good morning,” Margaret said, smiling and holding out her visiting card. “Is Mrs. Astor at home? Then you will tell her, if you please, that Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott is returning her call.”
After a moment’s hesitation, they were ushered into a large marble-floored reception area where the footman took their
cloaks, gloves, and hats, then bade them follow him upstairs. The plain façade of the Astor town house belied an opulent interior. Heavy tapestries hung from the walls, jostling for space with large paintings in gilded frames, most of them still lifes, doubtless Old Masters, but rather dull nonetheless. On the first floor, there were an array of busts and bronzes on plinths. There was not, Margaret noted with amusement, a single set of antlers in sight. Presumably because Julia’s husband had cornered the world market.
“Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott and Mrs. Scrymgeour,” the footman intoned, ushering them into a large drawing-room that had the gracious proportions of the Regency era. The classical elegance was lost however, as the room was so crowded with chairs and sofas, tables cluttered with Sèvres figures, flower arrangements, and curios that it was with some difficulty that Margaret managed to prevent her crinoline from knocking anything over.
“Lady Margaret, this is a most unexpected surprise. How do you do?” The woman who got to her feet was nondescript in appearance, the kind of woman who would have been called homely were it not for her intent grey eyes and her reputation as the doyenne of New York society. Mrs. William Astor was as plain in person as the façade of her home, her severe black gown augmented only by a small lace ruffle at the neck, with none of her legendary diamonds on display.
“I am so sorry,” Margaret said, eyeing the gentleman who had also got to his feet. “I didn’t realise you already had company.”
“Oh, Lina and I are such close friends, I don’t count as company. Samuel Ward McAllister at your service, Lady Margaret.”
The gentleman looked to be in his forties and like Mrs. Astor’s, his dress was plain to the point of funereal. Perhaps, Margaret thought as he bowed over her hand, to compensate for his hair which, despite the Macassar oil which he had applied so copiously that she could smell it, had failed to tame the grizzled curls which looked as if they were beating a hasty retreat from his high domed forehead. His goatee and absurdly long moustaches looked as if they had been badly knitted from thin wire; and she could see, as he made a decidedly shallow bow, that Marion was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Please do sit,” Mrs. Astor said. “And you, too, Samuel.”
“Strictly speaking, I should leave,” Mr. Ward said, resuming his seat. “But since you have, albeit inadvertently, broken the rules, Lady Margaret, I am sure you will not object to my bending them just a little further. It is the custom here,” he continued in response to her blank look, “to leave a card before paying a call, but I assure you we take no offence.”
“Oh, none at all,” Mrs. Astor said.
“Well,” Marion said rather dryly, “that is a relief.”
“Mrs. Scrymgeour, isn’t it? I am afraid I am not familiar with the name.”
“Mrs. Scrymgeour’s late husband was one of Her Majesty’s diplomats,” Margaret explained.
“Were you ever attached to the embassy in Paris? No? What a shame. It is a marvellous city,” Mrs. Astor said. “I myself go to Paris every spring, to buy my new season’s gowns. There is nowhere like it.”
“I am looking forward to shopping here in New York. I have never been to a department store. I am told that in A. T. Stewart’s one can buy anything from a mousetrap to a—a . . .”
“A throne,” Marion quipped, as Margaret floundered, making her giggle.
Mrs. Astor’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, the famed British sense of irony. I will be more than happy to supply you with a list of the best shops if you are thinking of refreshing your wardrobe. You may mention my name.”
“No-one could give you better advice than Lina in matters of lady’s fashion,” Mr. McAllister chimed in, “though in all other matters, you may turn to me with confidence.”
“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Astor said, bestowing a warm smile upon the man who, Margaret had decided, reminded her of a supercilious newt. “Samuel is the arbiter of taste here in New York. In fact, I would go so far as to say that there is no-one, save myself, of course, who understands the intricacies and nuances of society more. He was just helping me finalise the supper menus for my ball. You will receive an invitation in due course, Lady Margaret. And Mrs. Scrymgeour, too.”
“Lina’s ball is the most exclusive event of the season. You have no idea the lengths some people will go to, to obtain an invite. A woman who shall remain nameless recently accosted me at a soirée, determined to persuade me there existed a tenuous connection between her family and a cousin of a cousin of Lina’s.” Mr. McAllister tittered. “Needless to say no invitation will be forthcoming. You, however, are a different matter entirely, Lady Margaret. No-one could question your lineage. All doors will be open to the daughter of the Duke of Buckley? Buckluck? Is that how it is pronounced?”
“Buccleuch,” Marion corrected him. “It rhymes with clue, as in ‘haven’t a clue.’”
“I believe you were one of the bridesmaids at Princess Helena’s wedding, Lady Margaret,” Mr. McAllister continued, blandly ignoring this intervention.
“An honour earned through my mother.”
“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Astor said. “I had heard that the duchess is great friends with the queen. Is it true that Her Majesty wore black to her daughter’s wedding?”
“The queen never wears anything other than black.”
“Such a difficult colour for some to carry off as well as I can. Especially when they are lacking in inches. I do feel Her Majesty would be better advised to try softer tones. Grey, for example.”
“Yes?” Margaret said, nonplussed. Was Mrs. Astor imagining that she would pass her suggestion on to the queen? Louise would have been tickled by this. If only Lou were here—but, no, of all things, Louise loathed pretentiousness and toadying. She would have made mincemeat of Mrs. Astor’s chief courtier, for there was no doubt that was the role Mr. McAllister had allotted to himself.
“How long do you intend to grace us with your presence, Lady Margaret?” he now asked her.
“I plan to make New York my home, and Mrs. Scrymgeour’s, too, for the foreseeable future.”
“Really? Will you take a town house? I would be more than happy to advise you—”
“I am sure you would,” Marion intervened, “but Margaret and I are looking forward to combining a little sight-seeing with house-hunting, aren’t we, my dear?”
“We have acquired a guide-book. Lloyd’s Pocket Companion and Guide through New York City. It contains a number of walks we intend to explore.”
“Walks! Are you not intending to purchase your own carriage?”
“Hansom cabs are more than sufficient for our needs, and I am looking forward to riding on the streetcars,” Margaret said.
“Ha, very good joke.” Mr. McAllister’s laugh was unconvincing. “If your guide-book was written before yesterday, it will be obsolete already, you know. When you’re ready for some up-to-date advice, then I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Thank you. Now, I am unsure of local conventions, but in England a morning call should not last more than half an hour, so you will excuse us.”
“Very proper,” Mr. McAllister agreed. “I shall tell everyone that I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and Lina will, too, no doubt. I predict that you will be in danger of drowning in invitations before the week is out.”
“Toad,” Marion said under her breath when they had said their goodbyes and were reclaiming their cloaks.
“I rather thought newt,” Margaret replied with a grim smile. “I have crossed the Atlantic to escape being dictated to. I am seriously tempted to seek out the most unfashionable address in the city, just to ensure that I am never accused of having paid heed to him.”
“I know exactly how you feel, but you will not take a word of advice from me amiss, my dear, will you? Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. It requires little effort to keep a man like Mr. McAllister sweet. Snubbing him might give you fleeting satisfaction, but why make an unnecessary enemy of him? Let him have his say; that is all his vanity r
equires. Then you may smile and do precisely what you please.”
“Dear Marion, you are so wise. And I promise, I will not ask you to live in a hovel, not even to spite Mr. McAllister.”
New York Herald, Tuesday, 21 January 1868
New York Herald, Tuesday, 21 January 1868
No Barbarians at the Gate—Mrs. William Astor’s Annual Extravaganza
The third Monday in January is the date Mrs. William Astor has appropriated for her annual ball, which is fast becoming the high point of the season. An invitation to this society event signals that a person has been decreed by the hostess and her so-called gatekeeper, Mr. Samuel Ward McAllister, to have a satisfactory pedigree and to be untainted by the stain of newly minted money. Those of humble origin, whose wealth is attributable to commerce, will never enter that hallowed portal. This year, a number of those omitted from the guest list left the Metropolis in advance of the great day in search of fresh country air, having been advised to do so by their physicians, who had been advised to advise them to do so! We know of at least one prominent family who, having failed to persuade Mrs. Astor’s gatekeeper of their right to an invitation, took the extreme measure of crossing the Atlantic to avoid the accusation of having been snubbed.
As ever, this year’s glittering occasion was attended by the cream of New York society, with the hoi polloi being kept at bay by the policemen drafted in to conduct the traffic which clogged the avenue from nine in the evening. Owing to the ladies’ continuing allegiance to the crinoline, the gentlemen perforce arrived on foot at the red-carpeted sidewalk, while the so-called weaker sex traveled with their maids and their metal cages in carriages.
Mr. William Astor was once again absent, apparently enjoying the solitude of his yacht—unlike his spouse, a self-professed poor sailor, Mr. Astor prefers the high seas to High Society! All the mundane details of the great event—the various toilettes, descriptions of the glittering jewelry adorning the ladies, the order of the dance and who partnered who with what level of skill and dexterity (or lack of it!)—can be found in other newspapers. Suffice for us to say that the ladies were beautiful, the gentlemen distinguished, and the notoriously baffling (for the uninitiated) German dance was performed.
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