Her Heart for a Compass

by Sarah Ferguson

  “Because I don’t charge for that kind of work.”

  “Oh. No, of course you don’t. I really did get you all wrong, didn’t I?” Margaret frowned down at her empty glass, embarrassed. “I don’t understand, though. The Mission Board have children adopted into good homes, where they will have a far better life than they would have done if they’d remained in Five Points.”

  “It’s a bit awkward talking about it, since you work there, but I guess if I maintain client anonymity it would be allowable. I don’t doubt they mean well at the mission, but sometimes there’s another side to the story.”

  “So tell me the other.” Realising how defensive she sounded, Margaret uncrossed her arms. “Please.”

  “Okay. So there is a woman, let’s call her Jane . . .”

  She listened in growing horror as the tale unfolded. Jane had arrived in New York with her parents and two brothers five years ago. They were a hard-working family, and all quickly found respectable jobs. Jane was a seamstress at A. T. Stewart when she met a man Randolph called John, unable to hide the contempt in his voice when he said the name. John was a carpenter. Within a year they were married, and a year after that, John was out of work and had taken to drinking heavily in taverns. Meanwhile, Jane had a baby boy.

  “Things were bad,” Randolph continued, staring down at his empty coffee cup, “but they got worse. Turned out that John was already married, and his wife wanted him back.”

  “So he left Jane in the lurch?”

  “He sure did. Jane’s family were appalled when they found out she wasn’t really married and the child was illegitimate. They wanted her to give the child up, but she refused. She had no money though, so she needed to work, and so. . . .”

  “She put the little one into the school.”

  “From the mission’s perspective, she was in no position to look after him properly, and the kid would have better prospects with a new family, without the stain of being born on the wrong side of the blanket, as they say in polite circles. So they had him adopted.”

  “No! Regardless of the fact that it wasn’t the mother’s fault and she was doing her level best by the child!” Margaret exclaimed, horrified. “That is so wrong.”

  “It’s not so straightforward. Really, no one is to blame other than that cur of a bigamist,” Randolph said. “Everyone else is doing their best in difficult circumstances. Jane is hoping that her mother—the child’s grandmother—will take them both in. Apparently she would happily do so, but she’s having a problem persuading her husband—the child’s grandfather—to be reconciled with his daughter.”

  Margaret refrained from commenting, but she couldn’t help thinking of her own situation. “If she does move back with her parents, will she get her baby back?”

  “I’ll certainly have a much better chance of persuading the mission to reverse their decision. The adoption isn’t finalised yet.” Randolph checked his watch and groaned. “I had no idea it was so late. I’m afraid I need to go. I’ve a meeting uptown. A client that pays,” he added with a wry smile, signalling for the check.

  “Do you do a lot of work downtown, for free?”

  “As much as I can. I want to give something back, you know? I was one of the lucky ones—I’ve made something of myself, but I’m no blind crusader, Margaret. I’ve only got so much to give, so I put my weight behind those cases I can win.” Randolph paid the check and stood up. “Are you headed back home? I need to catch a cab, but I can drop you off.”

  “Thank you.” Looking around her with some surprise Margaret saw that they were the only people left in the room. “And for lunch, too, I really enjoyed it.”

  “They are good people—at the mission, I mean. It was clear from my meeting this morning: they truly do believe that they were acting for the best. The work they do—that you help with—it’s vital.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  But bidding the waiter goodbye, following Randolph back out onto Bowery, Margaret was unsettled and pensive as they made their way uptown. “I think I need to broaden my horizons,” she said, when the hansom cab drew up at Washington Square. “I don’t mean give up my work in the mission, but I’d like to see what it is we are saving people from. The other side of the story,” she added, with a sad smile.

  “You’re welcome to come with me to see Emily—that’s Jane’s real name,” Randolph said.

  “Thank you.” She touched his arm lightly before descending from the hansom cab. “For trusting me, I mean.”

  “That’s what friends are for.” Smiling warmly, he pulled the cab doors closed. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  New York, August 1869

  Margaret had returned early to the city from upstate, where she had been staying with the Astors once again. Finding herself surrounded by fellow guests with well-established philanthropic credentials, she had been unable to resist trying to interest them in the plight of the Five Points children. She had abjectly failed. Frustrated, against her better judgement, she had made a final, fatal attempt at the dinner table two nights ago, demanding to know if there was anyone present interested in her views on the scandal going on downtown in their own city, rather than her inside knowledge of the relationship between a widowed queen and her Scottish ghillie. The result had been a startled, embarrassed silence, followed by a hum of conversation in which she was pointedly ignored. Though her ostracization was temporary, by the end of the evening Margaret had made her excuses and left first thing the next morning.

  Randolph, who had remained in town on business, was sympathetic but pragmatic when she poured her heart out to him over dinner on her return. “These socialites pride themselves on their charitable largesse, but they prefer projects where they can see their name above the door, like the library William Astor built. You should have known better, Margaret. They’re never going to be interested in something hidden away in a part of town they barely acknowledge exists.”

  He had suggested that they take a day out, forget all about the world for once, and simply enjoy themselves; and when she woke this morning, Margaret already felt considerably better. It was a beautiful summer’s day and the sun was blazing down from a cloudless sky as they arrived at Peck Slip, paid their fifty-cent fare, and boarded the little side-wheeled steamer headed for Coney Island.

  “It’s not too late to take a cruise on the Day Line instead,” Randolph said, as they jostled for space on the crowded deck.

  “A sedate cruise in comfort and elegance, with views of the Hudson Highlands,” Margaret quipped.

  He grinned. “Yeah, boring. I know.”

  “But lovely, I did it last year. They’re nothing like the real Highlands, though.”

  “You feeling homesick?”

  “Not really, a little emotionally battered and bruised after the debacle at the Astors’. For some reason,” she added sardonically, “failure always makes me think of home.”

  Randolph, who knew most of her history by now, smiled sympathetically as he edged them both towards a seat on the port side of the deck. “Is this okay, or do you want me to check and see if there’s space in the saloon?”

  “On a day like this! Don’t be daft!”

  “Don’t be daft,” he repeated, laughing. “I love your accent. Come on then—let’s grab this space before someone else does. It’s been a few years since I did this trip. I’d forgotten how busy it gets.”

  She sat as comfortably as she could in her new polonaise-style gown of turquoise-and-cream-striped cotton trimmed with a deep ruffle of plain turquoise, for it had to be worn with a bustle. With a frivolous hat of lace and ribbons and cotton gloves, she had thought herself suitably dressed for a holiday outing, but her toilette was almost plain compared to some of the other women in their elaborate gowns with demi-trains and outsize bustles, festooned with layers of ruffles, flounces, frills, and sashes.

  Randolph, looking cool and elegant in a cream linen sack coat and trousers, sat down beside her. “We’
ll be glad of the breeze during the sail. The city’s been unbearable this last couple of weeks. I was beginning to wish I’d joined my parents on vacation in the Catskills after all. It’s a shame you had to come back early—though a bonus for me.”

  “Did you win your lawsuit against the landlord of the Bed House on Mott Street? Though to credit him with the title of landlord is being overly generous. Exploiter of the poor more like,” Margaret said grimly. “Charging those desperate people twenty dollars a month for a hovel because they have no choice, when so-called respectable people can rent a room in a decent tenement just a few blocks north for half that sum.”

  “Calm down,” Randolph said, putting his hand on her arm, “I won.”

  “Oh, excellent. Though I wonder what will happen to the poor wretches who were the man’s tenants now. Do you think—”

  “I think that we should stop talking shop.”

  “Sorry. Only I was wondering, Randolph, given that Bina is getting married next month, whether one of the women from the Bed House could replace her.”

  “What will Mouse make of that?”

  “She’ll be happy to train someone up. I may even take two on, have them both trained, and then they can find work uptown, when they don’t smell of Five Points anymore,” Margaret said sardonically. “Do you know, that was what one of the Astors’ guests actually said to me after my little outburst at dinner.”

  Randolph sighed. “I can imagine, sadly.”

  “You think that I should have saved my breath to cool my porridge.”

  “One of Molly’s sayings?” He patted her arm again. “You know what that crowd are like. I told you last night: they like to support good causes, to donate their bucks and their names to any number of worthy initiatives, but they don’t want to know about Five Points, especially not when they’re on vacation.”

  “I know, I know,” Margaret said despondently, “but there are so many little ones in such desperate need of food and clothing. Sebastian used to say you can’t improve your mind if your stomach is empty. He also said there was no such thing as the undeserving poor, and he was right about that, too. Why can’t more people understand that?”

  “But some people do. Like you.”

  “And you.”

  “Yeah, but I know when to give up on a lost cause,” Randolph said, his expression momentarily darkening as he recalled—Margaret had no doubt—his failure to return poor Emily’s little boy to her.

  “There are always other causes to pick up, though,” she said.

  “And always will be. Now, let’s enjoy our day out, shall we?”

  A blast of the horn signalled the ship’s beginning to make her ponderous way onto the Hudson, and a cheer went up from the crowd of people on board.

  “I’m really glad you came back early,” Randolph said. “I missed you.”

  He had taken off his hat. The wind ruffled his hair, which he had allowed to grow longer on top than usual. There were shadows under his eyes, testament to the hours he put in to keep up with his work, not to mention the humid summer nights which made it impossible to sleep in the city. He had proved himself the kindred spirit she had hoped for, the friend she had needed and come to rely on more and more. As their eyes met, there was for the first time the prospect of something more than friendship flourishing between them. “I missed you, too,” Margaret said.

  “I hoped you would.” And then before she could even begin to feel awkward, he quickly looked away.

  Just over an hour later, the steamer berthed at Norton’s Point and the passengers surged ashore, armed with parasols and picnic baskets, small children holding on to their mother’s hands, older children running and shouting ahead.

  “Headed for the beach,” Randolph said. “It’s just five minutes from here, though there’s actually three beaches. West Brighton is the nearest; then there’s Brighton, where the railway terminus is, and I guess it’s the most respectable; and then Manhattan is the farthest away. We can catch one of the conveyances if you want to do the full tour, but I reckon you’d rather walk?”

  “Correct,” Margaret said, tucking her arm into his. “What are all these people sitting at tables dotted around the pavilion doing?”

  “Sharking, mostly. Skin games—you know, taking money from greenhorns. Thimblerig, where they hide a pea under one of three cups—you must have seen that on Broadway? Three-card monte, which you might know as find the lady. Chuck-a-luck, which is a dice game.”

  Margaret giggled. “It sounds like a character in a children’s story. Cluckaluck, the noisy hen.”

  “Maybe you should write that one.”

  “Maybe I shall.”

  “During college vacation, I’d meet up with my old gang in the Lower East and we’d come down on the steamer and make a day of it. I was never dumb enough to bet on any of those games, though. We drank beer. Watched the girls. Went sea-bathing.”

  “Sea-bathing! I would love to try that. I almost did once in Ireland, at Bray which is a little seaside resort near Dublin, but it was October and Lewis was appalled.”

  “Lewis?”

  “Julia’s brother-in-law. An actor and an artist, too, amongst other things. Haven’t I mentioned him before? Julia told me in her last letter that he was talking of going to Paris to help tend to the wounded from the war with Prussia. I haven’t heard if he did, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Lewis,” Margaret said, “is a butterfly. Once he masters something, he moves on. It was actually he who first planted the idea of coming to America in my head.”

  “Then I’m grateful to him. Here we are. What do you think of the beach?”

  “It goes on forever!” she exclaimed, delightedly eyeing the long, narrow stretch of sand which shelved steeply below the path, the waves rolling gently in. “And it smells so fresh here, so very different from the city. I am so glad we came.”

  “Will we stroll on a bit?”

  “Yes, please. Are those bathing huts?” Margaret pointed to a row of little whitewashed cabins perched on the sands. “Do you think they would provide us with suits?”

  Randolph burst out laughing. “Dear lord, you’re serious?”

  “Aren’t ladies permitted in the water?”

  “There’s no rule against it, so far as I know, though whether it’s something respectable ladies do . . .”

  “Is that a gauntlet being thrown down?”

  “Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott, sea-bathing.” Randolph shook his head mock-disapprovingly.

  “Come on, Randolph, surely you’re not feart, as Molly would say?”

  “Certainly not, but I think we’ll head farther along. As I said, Brighton Beach is a bit more respectable. We can hire a couple of huts from the Tilyou’s Surf House, which I have frequented many times because he sells proper German lager.”

  “Excellent, something refreshing to look forward to after our swim.”

  The Surf House was a large wooden shack with a rickety veranda built on the sand. The boarding advertised Bavarian lager at five cents a glass on one side, and fancy flannel bathing suits on the other. For a modest sum of twenty-five cents apiece, Margaret and Randolph rented a hut, each complete with a suit and a towel, and were informed that they would qualify for a bowl of homemade chowder after their swim.

  “‘Bathing without full suits is positively prohibited by law,’” Margaret read, as she clutched her suit and towel outside the hut allotted to her. “There don’t seem to be very many people in the water.”

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “Yes,” she said frankly, gazing at the sea. It had seemed so blue and benign and inviting a few moments ago. Now it looked much colder and somehow wetter.

  “We could just go and have lunch in a hotel instead.”

  “Certainly not. Last in the water buys the beer,” Margaret declared, darting inside her hut.

  It was small and very basic, with a few pegs on the wall and a chamber pot, but no other furnishings. With every passing moment as she struggled o
ut of her clothes, bumping against the walls as she wriggled and hopped, her courage seeped away. The hut smelled of sand and sea and wet wool. The boards beneath her feet were gritty. The maroon bathing suit was so large, with cumbersome buttons, that she had to roll up the sleeves and the legs. It was clean enough, but she was acutely conscious of the fact that it had been worn against someone else’s skin, and wondered if she should have kept her own undergarments on beneath it. But then they’d be wet, and she’d have to either abandon them in the hut or roll them into a bundle and carry them, and either prospect was embarrassing.

  Cautiously peering out of the door of the hut, Margaret saw that Randolph, in his blue suit, had preceded her, and was already standing waist-deep in the water. So the beer would be on her! Feeling decidedly indecent, her instinct was the close the door and get dressed again; but as if he read her mind, he turned his back on her, dove into the water, and began to swim parallel to the shore. It was obvious that he was no novice.

  “At least if I get into difficulty, Randolph will save me,” Margaret muttered to herself, “which would be marginally less embarrassing than drowning.” Stepping onto the damp sand she began tentatively to make her way towards the water’s edge. It was so very strange, being outside with her ankles and shins exposed, wearing only this huge, flapping woollen garment. It was this thought which spurred her on, gasping as her bare skin met water which wasn’t as cold as she had expected. It was nothing like the icy shock of a loch, for example, which instantly turned one’s feet into blocks of ice. The salty water made her skin tingle, and the contrast of the hot sun blazing down on her head and the sea lapping at her bare skin was rather delicious.

  In the bathing hut there had been instructions for men to “enter the water briskly until it reaches the waist,” which Randolph had obviously followed. Women were exhorted to proceed with caution lest they be overcome with hysteria. Intent on immersing herself, Margaret waded out as steadily as she could. Forgetting to be embarrassed, she concentrated on keeping her balance, for the sand underfoot was soft; the waves not quite so gentle as they looked; and more importantly the flannel swimsuit was like a huge sponge, soaking up the water and dragging her down.