And Donald? Margaret traced a particularly large snowflake’s track from the top of the window to the bottom. Julia had informed her that he had been elected to Parliament in November as the member for Inverness-shire, making good on his intention to settle in Scotland. Would the next step be finding a wife? She wanted him to be happy, yet the notion of him marrying anyone else was painful to contemplate.
The snow was falling heavier now, and the wind was getting up, causing a flurry of flakes to coat the window in white. Margaret pulled the curtains. Look forward, she reminded herself, not back. Tomorrow was her last day with Marion, and she was determined to make it memorable. Then, when she had tearfully waved her off with her best wishes, she would consider her own plans as a new year beckoned. She would, for a start, publish her book of children’s stories as Jane had been urging her to do.
And then—who knew? The big difference from before was that she now found the uncertainty exciting rather than frightening.
Susannah Elmhirst to Lady Margaret
The Rectory, Lambeth, 15 December 1868
Dear Margaret,
A very large parcel arrived this morning all the way from New York, causing great excitement here. I have so far resisted opening the one marked with my name, though I am not sure that I will be able to do so for another ten days! As for the rest, your thoughtfulness and generosity touched all of our hearts. After consulting with my Lambeth Ladies, as you call them, we decided that we would hold a party for the children in the church on Christmas Eve when the sweetmeats—or candy, as you adopted Americans say—will be distributed. Aside from the peppermint sticks, we have never seen anything like the selection you have given us, and I am sure the boxes of Santa Claus sugar plums in particular will be treasured. I shall include a full account in this letter of the party, and will defer posting it until after the big event.
Your letter to me, which came with the parcel, I have now read several times. Your accounts of New York are so vivid, the life you are leading there so filled with excitement, I almost feel that I am there. Please do continue to send me the Demorest’s Magazine if it is not too much trouble. I read your monthly column out to the Ladies, who take such pride in being acquainted with the author—yes, even Sally, I promise you.
The door-bell is being rung most impatiently, and our housekeeper is out for the afternoon. I shall abandon this letter for now, and continue it as promised after the party.
22 December
It is with enormous sorrow and a very heavy heart that I resume this letter to impart the most dreadful news imaginable. It turns out that the door-bell was being rung by two policemen. Dear Margaret, I hardly know how to say this. Even now, a week later, I cannot believe he
I shall try to be succinct. They came to inform me that Sebastian had been murdered fatally wounded. It appears that he was stabbed when attempting to prevent a moneylender from beating a defaulting customer. The debtor fled when Sebastian stepped in, and the moneylender, fearful of being detained, wielded a knife. The only witness to this dreadful event refused to make an official statement for fear of reprisals.
I am told by the police to expect no further action. The altercation took place in a neighbouring parish. Had it been closer to home, I fervently believe someone would have gone to Sebastian’s assistance, or at least born witness. As it is, my brother’s murderer will never be brought to justice. The Bible preaches forgiveness. I confess that I am finding it almost impossible to comply. I pray that in time I will find it in my heart to do so but at this point I am too consumed with anger and grief
We laid my dear brother to rest yesterday. As you can imagine, the church was packed to the rafters, with many having to stand outside in the rain. It is some comfort to know just how valued and highly thought of Sebastian was. The funeral service was delivered by his curate, Mr. Glass, who will now take responsibility for the parish. The archbishop wished to lead the mourning, but I felt certain Sebastian would demur. I fear I have offended the archbishop, but I refuse to feel guilty about upholding Sebastian’s values to the end.
As to my own future, though Mr. Glass has assured me there is no urgent need for me to quit the rectory, my staying here without Sebastian is quite improper. My parents would welcome my return, for they are both extremely infirm, but I am loathe to leave Lambeth, and will make use of Sebastian’s modest bequest to find alternative accommodation. The one consolation for my loss is knowing that by continuing with my work here, I am honouring my brother’s memory. Sebastian would wish me to stay here. If I can do so, then I am determined that I will. I owe it to him to protect his legacy.
Margaret, I am deeply sorry to have to impart such dreadful news, and at a time of year which should be filled with joy. Your letters will continue to reach me through the good offices of Mr. Glass, wherever I may be. You are in my thoughts and prayers as ever.
God bless,
Susannah
Chapter Thirty-Six
New York, January 1869
It was a miserable, cold day and the snow had turned to sleet. Pulling her scarf up over her mouth, Margaret set out across Washington Square. Two weeks had passed since Susannah’s letter had reached her. She had settled down happily to read her account of the Christmas party, and could not, at first, take in the contents of that terrible addendum. It took some moments, gazing at the tear-stained paper, before the awful news sank in.
Even now, she could scarcely believe that Sebastian was gone. The initial shock had given way to a deep sadness that was not only grief for the man she had once imagined herself in love with but also a profound sense of sympathy for Susannah and all the men, women, and children of Lambeth whose lives he had touched and improved. How could Sebastian, who had been so full of life and so filled with love for his God and his flock, have been so cruelly and so casually struck down? Why had he been so foolish as to intervene? A silly question, for Sebastian would have been incapable of turning a blind eye, even though he’d be perfectly aware he was taking a risk.
Poor, dear Sebastian. Margaret’s days at Lambeth seemed so long ago. Recalling the naive young woman she had been then was like remembering someone else entirely. She had long ago ceased to believe she and Sebastian could ever have been happy as man and wife, but he held a place in her heart as one of the few people to value her. Poor Susannah, though, must have been utterly bereft.
It was her words which had led Margaret to undertake the mission she was embarking upon today. The one consolation for my loss is knowing that by continuing with my work here, I am honouring my brother’s memory.
Sebastian would not wish anyone to grieve for him, but he would be delighted to know that his life’s work was being continued. By Susannah and Mr. Glass in Lambeth. And now hopefully here in New York, too, where Margaret was determined to pay her own practical tribute. Today she had an appointment at the Ladies’ Five Points Mission. A Methodist institution, which had been established in downtown New York almost twenty years ago, it was a day school and more importantly a lifeline for a large number of the poorest children, providing the neediest with food and clothing as well as an education.
Its practical efforts being made to relieve suffering reminded Margaret so much of Sebastian, when she had heard of them from Bina and Mouse, that she had taken it for a sign and written, offering her services. The sisters were appalled when she told them what she had done. Five Points had a dreadful reputation, an area where only the completely destitute or those without hope or prospects would live, but her maids’ protests only made Margaret more determined, thinking that Five Points was precisely the sort of parish Sebastian would choose, were he in New York.
Knowing that the sisters would do everything to dissuade her, Margaret had left this morning after breakfast without telling them where she was headed. Emerging from the park onto Broadway, she swung herself on board the white-topped streetcar; paid the driver for her ticket; and took her seat, taking shallow breaths while her oversensitive nose adjusted to the ra
w odour of humanity.
Outside, New York rushed past at its usual heady pace, and Margaret felt a surge of excitement knowing that she, like everyone else, had her own destination, her own part to play in this vast, continual performance. The streetcar rumbled along on its tracks, with private carriages, hansom cabs, horses and carts, and men with barrows all jostling for space. To the rattle of horses’ hooves on the cobbles and the clang of carriage wheels was added the thump and clatter of building works. There was the usual constant bustle, an air of excitement, as if something significant was just about to happen. There were men in drab brown and black attire, labourers in leather aprons, working women in starched aprons. Crippled veterans from the Civil War sat on street corners, reminding her of Fraser Scott, which in turn reminded her to check that her purse was secure in her petticoat pocket.
As they headed farther south, the sidewalks became busier still, the roads more clogged, the noise deafening. At a wide intersection very far downtown, the impressive building of white marble which was City Hall loomed into view and Margaret, realising she had missed her stop, hurried to join the other passengers in disembarking. Looking around her, she could see few signs of poverty, but her experience in London and Dublin had taught her it took but a few steps from the wealthiest sections of a city to find the poorest. Her excitement faded a little, giving way to unease. In Dublin, she’d had Breda by her side. In Lambeth, she’d had Donald. Ought she to have brought Mouse or Bina with her after all?
Undoubtedly, but it was too late now, and it wasn’t that she was unfamiliar with such environments. It was broad daylight. A combination of confidence and wariness were all that were required, Margaret told herself. A man hawking newspapers looked like a good candidate for providing her with directions, but he was on the opposite side of street. Spotting a fleeting gap in the traffic, she picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could across the road, feeling the hot breath of a cart-horse on her neck, hearing the angry yell of its driver. Heart pounding, she reached the other side. “Pardon me,” she said to the newspaper seller, “I’m looking for the Mission at Five Points.”
The man frowned. “There’s two of them, you know which one you’re after? The Ladies’ Mission is on Park Street, and the House of Industry is on Worth. You need to go back up Broadway four blocks and then onto Worth. You can’t miss them, one is diagonally opposite the other.”
“Thank you.”
“You watch your step now, miss.”
“I will.”
Margaret walked quickly away in the direction the man indicated, trying to maintain the confident expression of a woman who knew perfectly well where she was going. Turning onto Worth Street, the thoroughfare narrowed and very quickly became down at heel, the brick buildings interspersed with wooden shacks. She could still hear the roar of the traffic on Broadway, but it was clear she was entering another world entirely. The cobbles gave way to mud from which horse manure was the prevalent but far from the only smell. Water dripped from stand-pipes into the gutter. The traffic consisted largely of carts and rusty wagons. The shops were dingy: a grocer’s, a second-hand clothing shop, a shop that sold single boots and shoes. The houses had sagging roofs and cracked walls, brown paper holding broken windowpanes together. Rickety stairs led up the outside of some of the tenements, and washing hung limply in the cold, sooty, stagnant air, reminding her of the very poorest parts of Sebastian’s parish.
Irish brogue, Italian, and German voices mingled with the New York twang and the heavily accented drawl of the American South. Black-skinned men and women were very far from being a noticeable minority, as they were farther up-town. It was she who stood out here, despite her shop-bought woollen gown and plain winter cloak. It wasn’t the colour of her skin, or even her red hair, but the lack of darns and patches on her clothes, the lack of holes in her boots. She was sure that even the pristine fur lining of her mittens was visible.
In Lambeth and in Dublin, people had eyed her covertly as an obvious stranger. Here, they stared openly at her as she passed. Finally seeing her destination, Margaret gave a huge sigh of relief. The substantial angular edifice loomed high into the grey sky, its identity proclaimed in block capitals fixed under the roof and painted on the side of the building. Diagonally opposite were two large brick buildings which must be the House of Industry. The sidewalk in front of the mission was paved; the front door, offset on the left, was imposing. Margaret stood before it, beset with nerves. They might reject her. They might think her a fraud, coming here with no testimonials, for it had not occurred to her until now to try to obtain any. She had never applied for work before, had never had to justify her experience or her credentials.
From behind the high fence came a squeal, then a peal of laughter. “Race you to the wall,” a small child cried out.
These were the children she hoped to help teach. She had conquered the formidable Lambeth Ladies. She had won over the Enniskerry infants and their schoolmaster. She was here to honour Sebastian, and she was determined to do him proud. And Donald, too, though he would never know it. His continual bolstering of her confidence had given her belief in herself.
Ignoring the familiar pang the thought of him evoked, Margaret squared her shoulders. “First things first, M.,” she said to herself. “You’ve still to persuade them to take you on.” Stepping up to the door, she rapped the knocker.
New York Herald, Thursday, 18 March 1869
New York Herald, Thursday, 18 March 1869
A Redoubtable Irishman Bids a Fond Farewell to the Metropolis
Yesterday evening, Mr. Patrick Valentine bid a grandiose farewell to New York by hosting—rather appropriately—a party on St. Patrick’s Day. Warm of heart and hard of head, Mr. Valentine is not everyone’s cup of tea, nor does he aspire to be. His guests were an eclectic mix, representative of their host’s most egalitarian outlook on life, and needless to say did not include many from Mr. McAllister’s infamous list. While Irish porter and soda bread were served, all tastes were catered for spanning the gourmand (lobster in aspic) to the common man (a hearty concoction of barley and mutton called Irish stew), and so the appetites of all guests were thus sated. The celebrations continued well into the night, with several Irish reels being danced and a rendition of traditional songs bringing a tear to every eye.
Mr. Valentine, who left Ireland during the years of the Great Famine, has embraced every opportunity offered to him by our Great Country, making his extremely large fortune in many and diverse ways, from iron to copper, timber to the railroads. Mr. Valentine likes to say that he enjoys a flutter, though the weight of his fortune indicates, we venture, that his fluttering takes place on the stock market rather than the track.
However, it is to the Sport of Kings back in the Old Country that his thoughts have of late turned. At the celebrations last night, Mr. Valentine announced that he had recently acquired a large tract of land in County Kildare, where he was establishing a thoroughbred stud farm and training stables. This is to be a charitable endeavour, providing much-needed employment in a rural area blighted by poverty. Readers might be surprised to learn that he has entrusted Mrs. Marion Scrymgeour, Lady Margaret Scott’s eccentric companion, to oversee the endeavour. Though perhaps we should not be too surprised, given the growing speculation amongst their acquaintances of a closer alliance forming between Mrs. Scrymgeour and Mr. Valentine.
That speculation is now at an end—for the present, at least. Though Mr. Valentine assures us that a regular excursion across the Atlantic will be very much on his future agenda, for now he is headed to the other side of our country to explore new opportunities in California. Bidding him a very fond farewell last night was Lady Margaret Scott, whose charming presence in society has been much rationed this season. Lady Margaret, whose regular diary in Demorest’s delights thousands of readers, is proving herself an authoress of varied talents. To her journalistic endeavours, she is about to add the release of a book of children’s stories entitled Tall Tales and Wagging
Tails.
It seems, however, that writing and socializing are not sufficient to keep the irrepressible peeress occupied, for she has taken on yet another occupation, that of assisting the teaching of ragamuffin children in a mission in the somewhat insalubrious surroundings of Five Points. It is of course expected that every young society miss take an interest in charitable works—knitting socks, prettily stitching children’s caps, selling jelly and preserves to raise funds for charity—but few of these hothouse flowers mingle directly with those they aim to aid.
Will the Scottish peeress, or novice New Yorker as she has come to be known, set a new trend? We can but hope she doesn’t follow Mrs. Scrymgeour’s example and return from whence she came. She would be sorely missed here, for all sorts of reasons!
Chapter Thirty-Seven
New York, April 1869
Returning from her afternoon stint at the mission, Margaret bathed and changed. The fashion for a bustle with skirts drawn back and pinned like a pair of drapes continued to reign in New York society, forcing the wearer in the most extreme cases to lean forward in order to prevent herself toppling backwards on her heels. The posture, known as the Grecian bend, was subject to much ridicule in the press for giving rise to physical discomfort. Margaret eschewed this particular trend, having no intention of replacing her hated crinoline with another instrument of torture unless it was absolutely necessary. Gone were the days of requiring a maid to help her to dress or of having her corset laced to a specified circumference. For her occasional forays into polite society, heeding Marion’s advice to keep every door open, she wore a small bustle and perched fashionably sideways when she sat down, but on all other occasions she kept her undergarments to a minimum of petticoats and sat squarely and comfortably on her chair to write. She would never be willow-like, but she had grown accustomed to her natural curves and much preferred them to anything enhanced by bustles, crinolines, or corsets.
Her Heart for a Compass Page 34