Like Mrs. Croly, she laughed at the question as the three of them sat down. “I do very well, thank you.”
“Lady Margaret is worried I’ll write something scandalous about her,” Mrs. Croly said.
“In one of Jenny June’s columns? Clearly she’s not familiar with them. Jane—Jenny June to her many, many readers—writes gossip of the elevating and informative kind. You know, how to climb a ladder without showing your ankles or the polite way to blow your nose in public.”
“I do not!” Mrs. Croly said, laughing. “Honestly, Mary Louise, just because I’m not permitted to write on any serious, manly subjects doesn’t mean that what I do write is pointless.”
“You know I’m only teasing you,” Miss Booth said, tapping Mrs. Croly’s arm affectionately. “Jane here,” she said, turning to Margaret, “has written a best-selling cookery book and is a past master at writing about serious subjects under the guise of feminine trivia.”
“Thank you, but I won’t deny that my columns for New York World and Sunday Times and Noah’s Weekly Messenger are frivolous. ‘Parlour and Side-Walk Gossip,’” Mrs. Croly added, rolling her eyes. “Now never mind me, Lady Margaret. Is it true that you are taking a house south of Thirteenth?”
“This is not an interview, Jane,” Miss Booth said sharply. “Tell us how you are enjoying New York, Lady Margaret.”
“I would say it’s the most exciting city I’ve ever visited, but since I’m not very well-travelled, that is hardly saying much.”
“What appeals to you most?” Mrs. Croly asked.
“Well, this, I suppose,” Margaret replied. “Shopping alone. Sitting in a parlour in a department store talking to two women with careers. None of this would have happened in London, where one must be introduced by another acquaintance, so that one never meets anyone new—or at least, one is not supposed to.”
“Do I sense that you broke a few rules, Lady Margaret?” Mrs. Croly leaned forward. “Do tell.”
But once again, Miss Booth intervened. “So women have more freedom in New York, you think? And yet Jane and I were just talking about how sick and tired we are of being told to be happy with our lot. Don’t stretch your tiny little minds to the limit by writing about politics or science, just tell us what colour is in this season and whether the crinoline is going to give way to the bustle.”
“I wish it would,” Margaret said. “If ever there was a test of woman’s ingenuity, it is getting in and out of a carriage in a crinoline.”
“You should try riding a streetcar in one. Or perhaps you have?” Mrs. Croly said.
“Not yet, but when I do, I shall note down my thoughts and send them to you for your column,” Margaret retorted.
“Ha! She has your measure, Jane.”
“You know, that’s not such a bad idea. Have you any writing experience, Lady Margaret? Are you a great letter writer?”
“I don’t know what you mean by great. I do write home regularly. . . .”
“And describe your life here? Your thoughts? What you like about New York, how it differs from London?”
“And Dublin, for my friend Julia’s sake.”
“Excellent! Then I have a proposition for you, Lady Margaret. How do you fancy writing a piece for me?” Mrs. Croly asked. “You can simply draught it up if you like. I can finesse it for publication.”
“Actually . . .” Margaret hesitated. Would these two erudite women think her stories trivial? You are a published author! She could almost hear Donald urging her not to hide her light under a bushel! “Actually, I have already been published. I’ve written a book of children’s stories. It was published in December last year—a cheap edition, which I believe has proved very popular, intended for use as a primer in schools.”
“Well!” Mrs. Croly exclaimed. “That is very interesting.”
“It was a charitable endeavour, privately funded, I was not paid for it.”
“I wasn’t paid a single cent for any of my writing when I first started out,” Miss Booth said, “and I barely made enough from the first edition of my history of New York to feed myself. If you agree to write for me, then you will be paid a fair rate.”
“Mary Louise, I saw her first! Lady Margaret, I reckon if you wrote a little column—‘A Peeress in New York’—no, we can come up with a better title than that—then I can help you sell it. Demorest’s would love to publish it, I’m sure. And they will also pay you.”
“Lady Margaret, I can top that. I could have you published in the first-anniversary edition of Harper’s Bazar which will be out in November this year. Your name will appear on the list of contributors along with Charles Dickens—”
“You haven’t signed Dickens yet.”
“I will, if I can get invited to that blasted dinner at Delmonico’s.”
“You know they won’t let us in. No women allowed.”
“Even though it is for the Press Club, and you and I are both members.”
“Even though my own husband is on the board,” Mrs. Croly said grimly.
“I am determined to find a way. However, I am equally determined,” Miss Booth said, “to recruit Lady Margaret. What do you say? You could write me a sample column on a subject of your choosing. . . .”
“I’ve already offered her the opportunity to do that.”
“How about she does both and then everybody wins?”
The two women smiled at her expectantly. “I’m very flattered but I’ve never written for the press,” Margaret demurred.
“As I said earlier, we would be able to pay a fee.” Mrs. Croly quoted a figure that took Margaret aback. “It is high for a new writer, but your name will sell.”
“And I can pay the same rate. That is per article,” Miss Booth said.
“My name? Do you mean my real name would be printed?”
“Is that a problem?”
Her father would be furious. But her father was on the other side of the Atlantic. “Are your magazines published in England?” Two decisive shakes of the head were her answer. “Are these serious offers?”
“Very.” Miss Booth took a card from her purse and handed it to her. “We’ve ambushed you somewhat. Why don’t you think about it? Draught something and then we can talk more. There’s no rush.”
“And the same goes for me, though the sooner—ah no, you must take your time.” Mrs. Croly also gave her a card. “We will say no more on the subject for now; you must make your own mind up.”
I have already decided, Margaret wanted to say. But exciting and tempting as it was, she was determined not to rush into anything, and so she tucked the cards away in her purse, handing over two of her own before getting to her feet. “Thank you. I will be in touch.”
“I do hope so.” Miss Booth extended her hand again. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“A real pleasure,” Mrs. Croly said. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
“You will, one way or another. But for now,” Margaret said mischievously, “Jenny June may tell her readers that Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott and Mrs. Scrymgeour have signed the lease on a small town house on Washington Square. And that, I promise you, is what you call an exclusive.”
“So what do you think?” Margaret said. “Should I accept their offers?”
Marion, who had never seen her so animated, resisted the urge to tell her to grab the unexpected opportunity with both hands. Margaret had pounced on Marion the moment she returned from the auction. Margaret’s eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed, barely giving Marion a chance to ease her aching feet from her boots. “I can see you’re all fired up. I take it that you want to write for them—both of them?”
“Yes, though I still can’t quite believe they asked me. Do you think that people will be interested in reading what I have to say? Both ladies wish to publish me under my real name. Perhaps they fear if I write anonymously, no-one will read it.”
“It’s certainly true that fewer people will read it.”
Margaret’s face fell.
“So it’s only my name that interests them—is that what you mean?”
“Your name will gain you readers, but it is your writing that will keep them wanting more.”
“There was talk only of one article for each.”
“Miss Booth and Mrs. Croly are businesswomen. They want to taste and try before they buy, as everyone does here. If you come up with the goods, they’ll bite your hand off for more.”
Margaret laughed. “What an extraordinary way to put it.”
“I heard someone use that phrase today,” Marion said, smiling to herself at the memory.
“If my father ever found out, if he saw the family name in print, he’d be appalled and would very likely stop my allowance.”
Every time Margaret mentioned that bully of a father, Marion’s fists curled. He should admire his daughter, not denigrate her. If Margaret was her daughter, she’d be the proudest mother in the world. But there. “If your writing is successful, you may not need your allowance,” she pointed out. “Besides, it’s your name, too.”
“That’s true, and my father was happy enough to use it when he was trying to marry me off.”
Bravo! And about time, too, Marion thought. “Precisely,” she said.
“It hadn’t occurred to me that I could earn my living as Mrs. Croly and Miss Booth do. Now I have started to think about it, I have all sorts of ideas. My children’s stories, for example—but I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“There is nothing wrong with being ambitious, my dear. I take it you’ve decided to wield your pen, then?”
“I think I have. I would be foolish to let this opportunity pass, don’t you think? Dear Marion.” Margaret kissed her cheek. “I have wittered on enough about my day and I haven’t even asked you about yours. Did you enjoy the auction?”
“Actually, I don’t think that sort of auction is the place for us to acquire our household goods. We don’t need gilded chairs and marble-topped side tables, and we certainly don’t need a seven-octave pianoforte. Yes, there was one on offer, but there was a distinct lack of good practical furniture.”
“Oh dear. So it was a waste of time, then?”
“Not quite.” Marion bit back a smile. “I met someone there who has promised to help us.”
“Excellent. Who is she?”
“His name is Patrick Valentine. He’s an Irishman. A charming and very rich Irishman, actually, though I’m not quite sure how he made his money, for all he would tell me was that he has a finger in many pies. He came over here from Cork during the Great Famine.”
“Marion, are you blushing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We fell into conversation, that is all.”
“Clearly that is not all. Is he handsome?”
Marion chuckled. “In a bluff sort of way. He must be shrewd, ruthless even, to have come over on the boat with nothing but a pocketful of potatoes, as he put it, and make his fortune. He has what they call a touch of the Blarney. It’s his eyes, I think; they are the kind that twinkle when he laughs. He has a shock of white hair and a moustache that is waxed at the ends. He has an infectious smile too, and such a raucous laugh it made everyone stare. Oh dear, I’m not drawing a very attractive picture, am I?”
“A very intriguing one, though. Go on. Is he tall?”
“He’s certainly imposing. A big bear of a man, Not fat, but solid. The kind of man that makes even a woman of my proportions seem frail.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that. You are not fat, you are Rubensesque. No,” Margaret said, frowning at her, “don’t make a joke about it as you always do. As you are forever telling me not to do.”
“I stand corrected, my dear.”
“And another thing,” Margaret said, clearly warming to her task, “you talk as if you are in your dotage, which you are not. Mr. Patrick Valentine clearly doesn’t think so.”
“Actually, he has offered to take me shopping for bargains tomorrow. Do you mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind. As a wise woman once told me, you must embrace all that New York has to offer.”
“I hope you are not suggesting that might include Mr. Valentine.”
“Marion!”
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. I am only going shopping with the gentleman.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” Margaret said, looking entirely—and rightly—unconvinced, “will you please add a writing-desk to your list?”
Demorest’s Monthly Magazine, April 1868
Demorest’s Monthly Magazine, April 1868
Journal of a Novice New Yorker, Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott
Dear Diary,
Today I awoke for the first time in my newly rented town house on Washington Square. From my bedroom window I can see trees coming into bud, and just for a moment I thought myself back home in rural Scotland. But only for a moment, before the noise of the city assailed me and I knew I could be nowhere else on earth but in New York. I’m not a country bumpkin (or in local parlance, a hick), as I have experience of life in Edinburgh, London, and Dublin, but there is something unique about this city. This humble journal will attempt to capture the character of the Metropolis through the eyes of a newcomer.
Take this morning. New York doesn’t so much awake as burst into life. I watch the residents of the neighbouring boarding-houses set out for work in their brown suits, cutting across the square to Broadway. I can hear the rumble of the streetcars they will catch and the cries of the newspaper hawkers on the corner. Even this early, the city hums and crackles with energy.
Breakfast in my new abode, however, is an oasis of calm Englishness—pots of tea and bread and butter. Do not assume from this that I am one of those people intent on diluting the experience of living here by recreating my homeland. I intend to become, as far as I can, a true New Yorker, but there are limits. I cannot take to coffee first thing, though my well-travelled and very dear companion prefers it. She misses the banquet that was the breakfast offered by the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where we have until recently been residing, too. During our stay, she dedicatedly worked her way through the entire menu. Everything but hominy met with her approval, and I confess that I feel the same. We were assured that it was like porridge, and both being Scotswomen were predisposed to enjoy it, but it was nothing like our traditional oats. I take my porridge with cream and salt. My companion puts sugar on hers—sacrilege! I have heard tell of others who have it with stewed fruit, with honey, or even strawberries. Abomination! Does the serving of hominy arouse as much controversy? I must investigate.
I spent the morning, Diary Dear, arranging my furniture and my linens; but in the afternoon, having had a surfeit of domestic bliss, I decided to take a trip uptown in a streetcar. A first! The place I have chosen to live is positioned quite literally at a crossroads in the city. In one direction live those who can choose to work or not, and in the other direction are those who have no option. In Dublin and London the rich and the poor live cheek by jowl. I have not yet encountered this in New York, but perhaps I’ve not strayed far enough yet? In my experience one learns most about a place by accident. Happily I am very prone to accidents!
There is nothing like a streetcar in London, and I cannot imagine there ever will be, for the tracks would have to be laid on the roads, which are much narrower than New York’s avenues, and that would cause complete chaos. Climbing aboard while wearing the full complement of fashionable skirts was a feat so difficult I almost gave up. Imagine trying to get astride a horse without the use of a mounting block, and you will be half-way there. I am sure my technique, a combination of heaving and clambering, can be bettered with practice, but it will never achieve any vestige of elegance. However once on board and perched upon one of the well-worn seats, the journey was swift and smooth. My fellow passengers were an eclectic mix, and I discovered that being seated opposite one another on a streetcar is the one situation in New York where it is deemed ill-mannered to stare. Everyone contemplates their feet.
For my nex
t outing I am resolved to head downtown on the stage horse car, though I have been warned that these vehicles are considerably more difficult to ascend than the streetcar. Even more exciting, I believe that the West Side Elevated Patented Railway will open in the summer. I am not precisely sure what this might be or where it may take you, but it sounds like far too alluring an experience to miss, and I shall try my best to be among one of the earliest passengers.
Travelling alone on public transport is a mundane experience for many New Yorkers, but it is a great novelty to me, and a very liberating experience. I hope that I never become blasé about it, but I resolved, while making the return journey downtown to my home—for already this house feels like home—to try to capture my impressions while they were fresh. So I sat at my new desk and opened a fresh notebook and began this little journal.
I have barely scratched the surface of New York and am curious to know more. I have a list the length of my arm of new adventures crying out to be experienced. Rest assured, I will record all my impressions, good, bad, and indifferent.
Lady Margaret to Lady Victoria Kerr
Washington Square, New York, 25 July 1868
Dear Victoria,
Your letter reached me on Thursday, less than three weeks after it was posted—the wonders of modern communication methods! Please accept my elated and heart-felt felicitations on the safe delivery of little Margaret. I am honoured and absolutely thrilled to have a namesake, and hope that she proves less troublesome growing up than I was. I am enclosing a little gift for her from Tiffany’s. It is only a trinket but a very pretty one, I think you will agree. One day I hope to be able to hug her myself, but for now I will entrust you with the task of giving my new niece a special kiss and cuddle from her American aunt.
You ask me to tell you honestly how I am. Though you do not say so, my instincts tell me that it is because our dearest mama is worried about me. Please reassure her. I am well. No, that is an understatement. I am more than well. I am happy here. I have been welcomed into society and never lack for invitations. In fact, I am to spend August at Mrs. William Astor’s retreat in Ferncliff, which is “upstate” in a place called Rhinebeck. This invitation, I assure you, is considered a great honour and I shall be on my very best behaviour. The elusive Mr. Astor breeds horses and his stables are reputed to be second to none, so I hope to be granted the privileged of putting that boast to the test. I am also looking forward to enjoying the country air. Imagine London in the summer and then some (as we say here). Already the heat is stifling, the smells of the drains overpowering, and the plagues of flies—beyond description.
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