Her Heart for a Compass

by Sarah Ferguson

  The cost of the evening must have made even the rich Mrs. William Astor’s eyes water. Five hundred bottles of champagne were consumed. That is more than one per guest, assuming the hard-worked staff refrained from imbibing, at over four dollars a pop! The famed Midnight Supper consisted of hot and cold service. The menu included cold quail, tongue, and a variety of force-meats, all of which sound much more appetizing in French.

  So far, nothing new from last year or the year before, you may be thinking, but you would be mistaken. Standing out from Mr. Ward McAllister’s carefully vetted guest list were two Scotch women who are fast becoming the toast of the Metropolis. Mrs. Marion Scrymgeour, a widow of ample years and girth, partook of the cold and the hot supper with some gusto but entirely forsook the dancing. Foreign travel with her deceased spouse, a minor diplomat, has given this widow a wealth of irreverent anecdotes which she tells with a great deal of self-deprecating humor and none of the tedious boastfulness which, alas, certain more noted diplomatic wives adopt.

  Mrs. Scrymgeour arrived in the city with Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott, who, unlike her traveling companion, wears her twenty-one years exceedingly well. Her noble birth and her close friendship with two of the Royal Princesses have brought her a deluge of invitations, but it is her most charming personality, her forthright manner, and her ready wit which will ensure she receives a good many more.

  Lady Margaret, a woman of independent means and intentions, plans to set up her own establishment with the doughty Mrs. Scrymgeour. Widowers with thoughts of paying their compliments be warned, however. We have it from a very reliable source that neither of these ladies intend to abandon their current solitary status.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  New York, March 1868

  Since their arrival in New York, Margaret and Marion had accepted invitations to countless balls and soirées, afternoon teas and dinners. They had attended an Offenbach operetta at the magnificent, newly opened Pike’s Opera House, a piano recital at Steinway Hall, and had the honour of sharing Mrs. William Astor’s box at the Academy of Music for a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor. For two women both starved, for very different reasons, of a social life, the warmth of their reception, the generosity of their various hosts, and the sheer variety of entertainments on offer made their first few weeks in this new country a giddy delight. New York society was governed by as many unwritten rules and conventions as its London equivalent, but to Mr. McAllister’s barely disguised chagrin, New Yorkers seemed inclined to be indulgent of Margaret’s inadvertent breaches of the strict rules of etiquette for which he took personal responsibility.

  The social whirl had left little time for the business of house-hunting, so when the manager of the Fifth Avenue Hotel had discreetly offered the ladies a discounted rate for an annual lease of the suite they occupied, Margaret thought it worth considering. That was, until he revealed the so-called bargain rate, which was considerably more than her entire annual allowance.

  “And to think I believed myself wealthy,” she had said to Marion, still in a state of shock.

  “Seven hundred and fifty pounds a year is hardly penury,” Marion had pointed out. “You could comfortably keep a family, servants, and even a small carriage for that in England.”

  “When you convert it into dollars, it is over five thousand, yet compared to almost everyone we have been socialising with, I am a relative pauper. I have never before had to bear the expense of my own home. It is shocking how ignorant I am of such things. As indeed Mr. McAllister is of my financial status. ‘One may live fashionably and entertain in modest style for a mere fifteen to twenty thousand a year,’” Margaret mimicked.

  “What I’d like to know is how much commission he earns from his various recommendations,” Marion said disdainfully. “He has a friend with a conveniently empty town house, or he can put in a word at the Stevens House and obtain one of the better apartments for us. Ha! I’m sure he can, and line his pockets into the bargain.”

  “I could just about afford an apartment in the Stevens House, though.”

  “If all you wanted to do was stay in and treat a ride on the steam elevator as entertainment. No, we must look farther downtown. I am sure the rental will decrease in tandem with the street numbers.”

  Marion had been proved correct, but they had viewed several properties and were beginning to lose heart when the house on Washington Square became available, on a crisp, cold Monday in the middle of March.

  “According to our guide-book,” Margaret said, “this park was once a burial ground known as potter’s field.”

  “Presumably the bodies have been relocated. Although they certainly would make for quiet neighbours,” Marion said, as they strolled through the pleasant green space bounded with low iron railings, with a fountain and some fine trees just coming into bud.

  They were to view the middle of a row of town houses bordering the northern side. Built of red brick, the elegant façades were fronted by white marble stairs leading up to an entrance with Ionic columns. “This reminds me of Merrion Square in Dublin,” Margaret said as they approached it. “I think it might be the one.”

  “If you don’t mind being surrounded by boarding-houses. This square is certainly not a fashionable address.”

  “Not yet. Wait until we move in, we’ll set a new fashion,” Margaret retorted, smiling at the real estate agent, who was waiting for them on the stoop.

  “Two bedrooms, two parlours, and a bathroom for eighteen hundred dollars per annum,” Marion said an hour later, having persuaded the agent that he had waxed lyrical enough and should leave them alone to discuss the matter. “We will need help to run the household.”

  “Two maids, provided one could double up to cook, the agent suggested would be more than sufficient. He said that would add another four hundred a year.” Margaret giggled. “Listen to me! If Mama could hear me, she would be horrified.”

  “Nonsense. Every woman should have a solid grasp of her accounts. There is nothing like being in debt for keeping you awake at night. Alexander left me as poor as a church mouse. Foolish man, he had allowed himself to be cajoled into investing in copper mines that never produced an ounce of copper. When I found out after he died that I was pretty much penniless, I was furious—not that he’d lost all his money but that he’d kept it a secret from me. However,” Marion continued, shaking her head, “there was nothing to be done about it. I could bemoan my fate and be miserable, or I could cut my cloth accordingly, and get on with the business of enjoying life.”

  “It’s an admirable philosophy.” Margaret looked out of the parlour window onto the square beyond. “Is it horribly ungrateful of me to say that I am a little bored with this constant round of parties, especially when everyone has been so kind and generous.”

  Marion perched on the window seat beside her. “Are you beginning to regret coming here?”

  “No, I had to get away.” Margaret sighed. “I want my life here to be different, and at the moment it’s in danger of becoming horribly familiar. Don’t get me wrong—I know how fortunate I am, and I know that most women would be thrilled to be in my position. Oh dear, I sound like a malcontent.”

  “You’re a restless spirit, and that’s a very different thing. By that I mean you are not so much interested in the destination, it’s the journey you enjoy. Rather like myself.”

  “Is that more of your homespun philosophy?”

  “If you like.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Stop fretting so much about the future. What’s for you, as my old mother used to say, won’t go by you.”

  Margaret smiled. “Like this house? Do you think it’s meant for us? It feels right. I know that’s not a very practical reason for taking it on, but . . .”

  “Oh, don’t underestimate it. And as it happens I agree with you, though it will cost a pretty penny to furnish. We should take a look at the New York Times. There are any number of household auctions advertised in it—there are bou
nd to be some good practical furnishings and carpets amongst the plethora of oil paintings, statuary, and mirrors.”

  “House clearances following a death, you mean?”

  “More usually a financial demise. One can get rich quickly in this city, and lose everything even more rapidly. I’m sure we could pick up a few bargains, particularly if you crave a seven-octave pianoforte with ebony inlay. There seems to be at least one in every sale.”

  Margaret giggled. “Musical soirées were the bane of Mama’s life. She had a theory. ‘The less talent a young lady possesses,’ she used to say, ‘the more protracted her performance.’” An unexpected lump rose in her throat. “I miss her.”

  “And you know from your sister Victoria that the feeling is mutual,” Marion said, patting Margaret’s arm.

  “Yes, but I wish that she could write to me herself.”

  “Keep out of trouble, and perhaps your father will relent.”

  “He won’t, ever; and as long as I am beholden to him, Mama will not risk going against his wishes for fear he will withdraw my allowance.”

  “Then perhaps you should find a way not to be beholden to him.”

  Margaret stared at her in astonishment. “How will I do that?”

  Marion spread her hands. “This is the Land of Opportunity, remember? You are a resourceful and charming young woman. I am sure you can find a way if you put your mind to it. In fact, perhaps we should both put our minds to it.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” Margaret said, giving Marion a hug. “And in the meantime, we shall take a lease on this house and make my father’s hush-money work for me, not him. You see, I am starting to think like an American already!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Margaret had visited the shopping district known as the Ladies’ Mile several times with Marion, but this was the first time she had ever ventured there on her own. It was still a novel experience for her to be out and about without an escort, and she couldn’t help but feel that she was doing something scandalous. However, the throngs of shoppers she joined, disgorged from private carriages, hansom cabs, and streetcars in front of their emporium of choice, were almost all women. Some were accompanied by their maids; some were with friends; but others, like her, were alone.

  The array of stores seemed to change, like the city of New York itself, at a bewildering rate. As people moved uptown, so department stores followed, with both the ladies’ outfitter Lord & Taylor and the jeweller Tiffany’s, known as the palace of jewels, in the process of building new premises. The pace at which New York and New Yorkers moved filled Margaret with a mixture of excitement and awe. New buildings seemed to appear overnight, every one of them more imposing than its neighbour. Her neck hurt from craning it to look upwards at the stores built of iron and glass, Crystal Palaces on a towering scale, flaunting their wares in a manner that the staid London shops would consider vulgar. The welcome they extended was very different, too. Every customer was treated identically, greeted with an enthusiasm that would appal a London shopkeeper eager to disdainfully look down his nose at those he deemed unworthy of his emporium.

  At Fourteenth Street Margaret left Broadway to head over to Sixth, and Macy’s with its distinctive red star beside the name. She dallied in front of the window display, marvelling that such mundane items as sheets and towels and blankets could be made to look so attractive. One window, set out like a child’s nursery complete with a large cradle and a doll’s house, made her think of Julia, who had been alone at Powerscourt since Margaret left. Her last letter had been full of her plans for the gardens, which, she had written, she could at least be reasonably sure would bloom. Julia, whose linen cupboards were a hymn to domesticity, would thoroughly enjoy a shopping trip in New York. Resolving to recount it for her in detail, and mindful of how much she had to acquire on the budget she had worked out with Marion’s help, Margaret entered the store.

  Two hours later, she headed for A. T. Stewart’s on Broadway between Ninth and Tenth Streets, just five minutes from Washington Square, to complete her shopping. Known as the Iron Palace, each of the floors and galleries of this magnificent dry goods store were filled with light from the huge windows and the glass dome which soared above the central atrium. After another extensive bout of purchasing, during which Margaret reckoned she must have walked several miles between the various departments, her feet were beginning to protest.

  Pausing on the landing of the fourth floor, she looked about her and was struck by one of those strange sensations that assailed her every now and then: that she wasn’t really here at all but merely dreaming. The vista before her, of the tiers of galleries, the vast ground-floor atrium, and the glass roof high above through which the grey winter sky could be seen put her in mind of an enormous theatre. The cast of thousands, almost all women, promenaded below and around her, circling the counters, viewing the goods, consulting their lists and their friends. On each gallery there were more people, a chorus of women that never stilled. And above her, in the workrooms behind the scenes, there would be more women sewing and altering clothes; there would be clerks making up accounts and delivery men packing items. The range of goods on offer was dazzling, from clothes to carpets, china and toys from all over the world. And the women themselves were from every walk of life—New Yorkers, immigrants, and tourists—each customer treated in the same way whether she was buying a box of pins or furnishing a mansion.

  What would Mama think if she could see Margaret now, standing quite alone and unobserved in the midst of all this activity, this world within a world? It was liberating, to blend into the crowd, but at the same time it made her acutely aware that she was not yet one of them. Her days were filled, yet she still felt purposeless. And her feet were aching. Deciding to take a rest in the Ladies’ Parlour which she had heard of but never visited, she made her way to the second floor.

  The parlour was set out like a drawing-room, with clusters of chairs and sofas in groups. Most of them were occupied, and when Margaret stood uncertainly in the doorway, she found herself the unwelcome object of attention. New Yorkers did not disguise their interest when it was aroused, and though she knew they were not being rude, the women’s scrutiny scraped away her thin veneer of newly acquired confidence. Fortunately an attendant came to her rescue, ushering her to a free chair with a friendly smile and informing her discreetly that the facilities were in the next room, should she need to use them.

  Imagining Mama’s horror at the mention of this very practical amenity made Margaret smile to herself. Across from her, a petite woman in a grey gown smiled back at her, clearly thinking the smile had been intended for her. Embarrassed, Margaret sat down and pretended to consult her shopping list, but the woman was not to be put off, and came over to join her.

  “Excuse me. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting, but are you by any chance Lady Margaret Scott?”

  She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties and had brown hair and blue eyes the colour of Margaret’s own, an open smile, and an unexpected accent. “You’re English,” Margaret replied in surprise.

  “Originally, though I came here as a child almost thirty years ago. I am Mrs. Jane Cunningham Croly,” she said, holding out her card. “And now that I’ve heard you speak, I know you must be Lady Margaret. I do love a Scotch accent.”

  “How do you do?” Margaret said, getting to her feet.

  “I do very well, thank you. You’re thinking I’ve taken a real liberty accosting you like this, I can see. I should explain that I am a journalist, better known to my readers as Jenny June. Oh no,” she added, as Margaret instinctively shrank back, “I’m not a hack in search of scandal; and, though I will confess that I do write two gossip columns, they are both of them perfectly harmless, I promise.”

  “Is there such a thing as a harmless gossip column?”

  “Oh, dear, that is the reaction of one who has been badly burned, if I’m not mistaken, but I assure you mine are really very tame. I swear I couldn’t publi
sh a fraction of the things I hear right here in this room.”

  “Really?”

  “The Ladies’ Parlour is notorious for tittle-tattle. Trust me, that little coterie over there aren’t comparing the price of table linen,” Mrs. Croly said. “A long day’s shopping, weary feet, and a soft seat loosen the tongue. Now, please feel free to say no, but if you’d like to join my friend and me, then we’d be very pleased to have your company. That’s Mary Louise Booth, who has written a history of New York and who is the editor of a magazine called Harper’s Bazar which launched last year,” she added, nodding over at the other woman.

  Two female journalists, and both of them looked entirely respectable, yet Margaret hesitated. Mama would politely decline the invitation. Louise would tell her that no journalist was to be trusted. But Marion—hadn’t Marion exhorted her to enjoy all that New York had to offer? And here were two women who actually made their living from writing. “Thank you,” Margaret said, “I would be delighted to join you.”

  Mrs. Croly beamed. “Come along, then. Mary Louise,” she said, as the other woman got to her feet, “this is Lady Margaret Scott. Lady Margaret, this is Miss Mary Louise Booth.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Margaret.”

  The woman who extended her hand was strong-featured, with a generous mouth and a rather prepossessing nose, but there was an air of quiet self-possession about her, of a woman confident in herself, that drew Margaret to her instantly. “Miss Booth, how do you do?”