In reply to your other, less than subtle hint about my marital prospects here, let me assure you I am of the same (single) mind as I was when I arrived. If I was inclined to play surrogate to a widower’s children or even mother to one of the absurdly young men—boys almost—who are considered eligible bachelors here (for society’s eligible bachelors marry before they are twenty), then I could perhaps acquire a husband. Though that is not a foregone conclusion because even by New York standards I am deemed unconventional, and the renowned and esteemed Buccleuch name does not compensate for my conspicuous lack of dowry. However, I am not so inclined, Victoria. I do not say I will never marry, but at this moment in time, I am relishing every moment of learning to be myself. In any case, I fear that I have already loved and lost
Please pass on a special hug to Mary and my best love to Mama. Write soon with all your (growing) family news, dearest sister.
With love as ever and another kiss for my little namesake,
Margaret
Lady Margaret to Julia, Viscountess Powerscourt
Washington Square, New York, 20 September 1868
Dear Julia,
I returned from my summer visit to Ferncliffe, Mrs. William Astor’s country retreat in Rhinebeck two weeks ago, but it already seems like months. New York is still stifling, with not a hint of autumn—or fall, I should say. The grass in the square is scorched to hay, and the leaves on the trees drooping with dust. In fact everyone seems to droop, exhausted by the summer. Even the boarders next door leave for work in the morning with a reluctant trudge rather than their usual brisk stride.
Mouse and Bina (Mary and Davina, to you!) had the house looking pristine for our return. I cannot tell you what a godsend those sisters are—tell Breda she is an angel for recommending them. They showed every sign of being pleased to welcome Marion and me back, though they assured me that they enjoyed the free time and have been regaling me with tales of Coney Island and day trips on the Hudson Bay steamer which sound like far more fun than the sedate picnics and highly uncompetitive archery that Mrs. Astor considers entertainment. Though I really have no grounds for complaint, for I was permitted to try out one of Mr. Astor’s mares, and he deemed me competent enough to grant me the use of her every day, which was a real treat.
Marion continues to enjoy the company of the exuberant Mr. Valentine. I have never before met anyone who could be described as rumbustious, but I think the word was invented just for him. You ask if he is vulgar, and the answer is that you would most certainly think so. He is never going to make Mr. McAllister’s list, that is for sure, though he once told me that if he ever did, he’d slit his own throat! I am no closer to understanding what the various endeavours are that generate his great wealth, though Marion has tried to explain it to me. She has an astonishing grasp of numbers and has even made a little money on the stock exchange here. Don’t ask me what that entails; I think it is like gambling—or as Mr. Valentine puts it, having a bit of a flutter.
You will doubtless be wondering what will become of this unlikely pair—though naturally you will refrain from asking me to speculate. I, however, being a New Yorker, have indulged my curiosity and put the question to Marion myself. She is having a fling, she tells me. Whatever that entails, it does not include marriage. I know, for I asked her that, too, and she said the most touching thing: Patrick is great company and he’s a lovely man, but no one can replace my Alexander. Where it will end, I know not, but I believe it will end sooner rather than later, for Marion has confessed to being homesick. Will you invite her to stay with you for a while, Julia, when next your husband is away? I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, it would do you both good.
I will end this overlong letter with some news of my own. My monthly “diary” in Demorest’s Magazine has proved so popular that they have commissioned me for another year at an increased rate, and have offered me very generous terms for three longer articles in what they call my “refreshing and lively” style. I enclose the September issue to keep safe under your pillow, since you tell me you enjoy it (oh, I do hope you are not simply being polite, dear Julia!). I am considering confessing my new career as a journalist to my sister, but have not yet decided, for fear it will put Mama in a tizzy about its offending my father. But if you had never heard of the magazine, then I cannot imagine how it would ever come to the duke’s attention.
And now I really must go, for I have some writing to do and time, as Mr. Valentine would say, consulting his solid gold fob watch, is money!
With great affection,
Margaret
P.S. You will be receiving a parcel from Macy’s at some point, containing a selection of towels which are cornflower blue to match your eyes!
Harper’s Bazar, Monday, 2 November 1868
Harper’s Bazar, Monday, 2 November 1868
New Horizons by Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott
I first arrived in New York at the beginning of this year. As a young lady from an aristocratic British family, I was raised to marry well, to settle into comfortable domesticity in some venerable rural pile, and produce a brood of children to carry on the line. As such, I was not expected to have an adventurous mind, let alone a restless spirit. So why am I here? Because I possess both, and New York is the perfect place in which to nurture them. A place where I can grow and develop, much as Gotham is doing!
It was autumn, just over a year ago when I came of age and decided to start my life afresh in America. The warmth of the welcome extended to me, the friends I have made are testament to this great Metropolis and its inhabitants. Every day offers fresh possibilities, new opportunities and experiences, and I have tried to sample them all.
But a letter from home has reminded me of the loved ones I am missing, and the distance between us feels impossibly, unbearably vast. It is the fall, a year on from my momentous decision and a time for reflection and reassessment. I look out of my window at Washington Square. The dusty, lifeless, endless days and oppressive heat of summer have finally come to an end. The air is fresh now, the leaves, which provided a palette of burnished colour as they turned, have fallen dramatically after the first sharp frost. I see the people rushing purposefully once more, and my spirits lift. I have that sense, which comes so rarely to one in life, of knowing that I am in the right place at the right time.
I came here at the urging of my heart, but that is not to say the decision was easy. Social convention and the desire to please all too often quell one’s inner voice. Haven’t we all made the mistake of doing what is expected, or what others wish us to do, when we know, deep down, that it is wrong? I know I have, and deeply regretted it. To act in the face of fierce opposition, particularly from those we love or whose opinions we value, can amount to nothing less than a leap of faith. Having the courage of your convictions takes just that, a great deal of bravery.
One of the aims of this brand-new periodical is to advise readers how to live well in the modern world. I would not claim to be an authority on the subject; to do so would be to imply that I have ceased learning myself, and one prediction I can confidently make is that I will continue to make mistakes. But I always endeavour to learn from them, and am happy to humbly offer readers the benefit of my experience in the form of a few tenets that I use to guide my actions. I call them (rather grandiosely) my Golden Rules:
1. Be kind, even when others are not.
2. Look forward and not back. Don’t let the past dictate the future.
3. When a decision is made, there is no point in regretting it.
4. Your opinion is as valid as anyone’s. Don’t be afraid to speak your mind.
5. Don’t bemoan your fate. Take advantage of what life has to offer.
But first and foremost, above all these Golden Rules, I will continue to let my heart be my compass and let it chart my path as my New York adventure continues. Onwards!
Chapter Thirty-Five
New York, Friday, Christmas Day, 1868
As a treat, Margaret and Mar
ion cooked Christmas dinner for Mouse and Bina, serving it early to allow the two sisters to join their own family, taking with them a hamper crammed full of food and candy.
“I feel terrible abandoning you on Christmas Day. It’s not too late to attend one of the parties you’ve been invited to, you know,” Marion said, when they had finished clearing up and returned to the parlour. “Caroline Astor would probably be insulted after you’d declined her invitation, but there are any number of other hostesses who won’t mind your turning up unexpectedly.”
“I’m sure there are, but I’m not in the mood for socialising. Honestly, Marion, I will be perfectly happy here alone, so please enjoy your last evening with Patrick. I have you all to myself tomorrow before you leave for Ireland.”
“I shall miss you terribly, my dear. I can’t help feeling as if I am abandoning you.”
“Don’t be silly. I have had a whole year of your company, and enjoyed every moment of it, but you never intended to remain here long-term. In fact, if you had not met Patrick, you would have gone home before now, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s true—Patrick has been an unexpected but delightful diversion,” Marion said with a wicked smile. “As I have been for him, it seems, since he has important business in California that he has been putting off for some time.” Her smile faded. “And as you know, my dear, I have been fretting about Julia, and was seriously considering renting a little cottage near her rather than returning to the rather tedious life I had in Twickenham, which you so kindly rescued me from.”
“But now Patrick has ridden to the rescue with his ingenious proposition.” Margaret reached across to pat her hand. “Just think, thanks to him you’re about to embark on a whole new chapter in your life.”
“I still can’t believe it, to be honest,” Marion said, a slow smile dawning. “Dear Patrick, he is aware how constraining my meagre funds are and would happily supplement them if I would let him, but he knows I would not accept charity.”
“There is still no question of marriage, I take it? I know he could never replace Alexander, but . . .”
“Oh, it is not only that. We rub along very well, Patrick and I, but we also value our independence. It is because he understands how important that is to me that he has come up with this plan of his, which will allow me to earn a decent living and enable him to do some real good in his homeland without having to be there in person,” Marion said, chuckling. “The perfect solution. Though when I think of the responsibility he has entrusted in me, I am rather daunted, to put it mildly.”
“Patrick is a hard-headed businessman. He would not trust you with this venture if he didn’t believe you capable.”
“Oh, I know that, Margaret, but all the same, it’s quite a challenge. I know nothing at all about breeding and training racehorses.”
“Which is why you will be hiring experts in the field—and goodness knows, in Ireland they are all horse mad, so there will be no shortage of candidates. Anyway, Patrick is putting you in charge of this stud farm venture because, first and foremost, he trusts you. He knows you won’t try to—what’s his phrase, diddle the books?”
“Fiddle. Yes, he does think I have a good head for figures,” Marion admitted.
“And you are an excellent judge of character, so you’re not going to be taken in by any flim-flam merchants,” Margaret said, in a poor imitation of Patrick’s thick brogue. “And of course, there is the ace up your sleeve, to use another of his phrases: the stud farm in Egypt you visited.”
“Alexander and I did get along very well with the owner, that’s true, but it was a few years ago, and it’s a bit of a long shot, thinking that I can persuade him to sell me any of his precious Arabian thoroughbreds. Patrick would love to be able to boast that his new stables in County Kildare were the first in Ireland to have such prized bloodstock, though of course it’s essentially a charitable venture. His aim is to provide employment for young men from humble backgrounds, just like him.”
“To give something back to the Old Country,” Margaret said, once again failing appallingly to capture Patrick’s brogue. “It’s a wonderful idea. Breda’s brother Brendan is horse mad. You could probably fill every position, from stable-lads to trainee jockeys, from her extended family and the Enniskerry school alone.”
“I’m certainly hoping that I can persuade Julia to help in some way. She needs something to occupy her, and Kildare is not too far from Powerscourt.” Marion pursed her lips. “She’s invited me to stay for a few weeks since Wingfield has gone on yet another of his interminable expeditions. Lady Londonderry will be there, too. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“And you’ll make sure to ask her how Mama is, won’t you?”
“Of course I shall, and will give her your gifts to pass on.”
“I got rather carried away with my Christmas shopping spree, I’m afraid. You don’t mind having to take a second trunk?”
“As long as I’m not expected to carry it. Margaret, are you absolutely sure you’ll be happy here on your own?”
“I have Mouse and Bina to look after me here, and Jane and Mary Louise will keep me busy on the work front.”
“You do understand there will be some who will be shocked by your living alone with only servants for company?”
“Please don’t suggest that I employ a companion in your stead, because you are irreplaceable. Those who know me and like me for myself will remain my friends. Those who drop me because I’ve broken another of their rules—well then, that is their decision. I will happily weather the storm of Mr. McAllister’s disapproval. Dear Marion, you really mustn’t worry about me. Besides,” Margaret teased, “you’ve made your decision—there’s no point in questioning it now. You have to look forward, not back.”
“Ha! Hoisted by my own petard.” Marion heaved herself to her feet. “Very well. Patrick will be expecting to pop a cork or two to celebrate our last evening together. I’d better go and primp myself up a bit.”
An hour later, having waved Marion, decked out in one of her finest gowns, off in a hansom cab, Margaret returned to her parlour and lit the candles on the little Christmas tree. It was decorated with baubles from Macy’s that Bina and Mouse had helped her pick. The huge Christmas tree that stood in the entrance hall at Dalkeith would be hung with the wooden stars she and her sisters had made over the years. Victoria’s were always gold and Mary’s were silver, but Margaret had chosen to paint hers a different colour each year. Would Mama have thought of her as she hung them up, those stars in emerald and scarlet and purple? There would be new additions now, made by nieces that Margaret had never seen. She retrieved the photograph which Victoria had sent her, smiling at her sister’s serious expression as she gazed down at baby Margaret in her arms. Little Cecil, who was almost three years old, was standing beside a footstool on which Walter, aged eighteen months, perched. Staring intently at the camera, he was already the image of his stern father hovering in the background.
Margaret pressed a kiss to the baby’s brow, wiping a tear hurriedly from her cheek before it could damage the print. She had sent Walter a jack-in-the-box, and for Cecil and Margaret, she had chosen music boxes. In the trunk, which would accompany Marion across the Atlantic, there was a music box for Mama, too, and a copy of Little Women for Mary. It was signed by the author, whom Margaret had met at one of Mary Louise’s salons. She had picked up the new edition of Mary Louise’s own book, A History of the City of New York, in Appleton’s, thinking that her father might enjoy it, forgetting just long enough for it to hurt when she remembered that he would not welcome any gift from her. Replacing the book on the shelf, telling herself he didn’t deserve it anyway, had proven much more difficult that it ought to have. She didn’t love him, but neither could she completely cease to care, no matter how badly he treated her.
With a wistful sigh, Margaret carefully set down the photograph of Victoria’s family and began to pack the last of her gifts into the trunk. There was a spangled silk scarf for Julia
in her favourite cornflower blue and a pair of rather risqué black silk stockings. Another copy of Little Women was destined for Breda, and there were gifts for all her brothers and sisters and her mother, too. Jacob’s ladders; jack-in-the-boxes; and a small mountain of candy including peppermint sticks, liquorice whips, Whitman’s sugar plums, Necco Wafers, and peanut candy were earmarked for the Enniskerry schoolchildren. The trunk was so full she had to sit on the lid to force it shut.
It was snowing outside, a fresh, soft fall on top of the crisp frozen blanket already covering Washington Square. Margaret traced the path of the snowflakes as they landed gently on the windowpane before they melted. Was it only three years ago when she had stood in the orangery at Dalkeith doing the same thing? Three years, since she tried so desperately hard to stifle her feelings and do what was expected of her. Her first exile, and her first Christmas apart from her family. Would she ever share another Christmas with them? It seemed unlikely.
Louise would be at Osborne for Christmas, as usual. She was, according to Mr. McAllister, who took a great interest in the latest London society gossip, fast becoming the darling of the British public, a very glamorous alternative to the queen. Louise, like Margaret, loved to give presents at Christmas, priding herself on her idiosyncratic choices. Margaret had sent her an album of lithographs which she had cut from magazines, depicting some of New York’s most famous scenes, annotating each. Battery and Castle Garden where Marion and I first set foot on American soil; the view from the upper terrace in Central Park towards the boating pond where I skate in winter; the traffic on Broadway, which you cross at your peril; the Fifth Avenue Hotel where we stayed on our arrival, following in your brother Bertie’s footsteps. She doubted the gift would be acknowledged. Louise had not written to her for a year. When she saw Margaret’s writing on the parcel, would she open it? Would she look through the pages and imagine Margaret walking on the streets, strolling in Central Park? Would Louise pick up her pen on a whim and break her silence? Again, unlikely.
Her Heart for a Compass Page 33