By the time the water was the required waist-deep, her suit was soaked, her hair was escaping and flying about her face, and her skin was tingling with salt. Yet she was imbued with a feeling of fierce, wild happiness, the joy of being alive and of being only just in control and not quite out of her depth.
“You did it!” Randolph swam smoothly to within a couple of yards of her and stood up. “I’m impressed. Seriously.”
His bathing suit had short sleeves. His forearms were faintly tanned and surprisingly sinewy. The neckline of the suit had stretched, exposing his throat and a smattering of dark hair on his chest. The wet fabric clung to his lean body, making her acutely aware of him not as her friend but as a man. And a very attractive one at that, with his wet hair falling over his brow.
Meeting his gaze, Margaret saw her awareness reflected in his eyes. Abruptly conscious of her own suit clinging to her, she turned away just a fraction too late. “It’s cold,” she said unconvincingly, wrapping her arms around herself.
“It is,” he agreed, though she knew she had not fooled him. “Let’s go claim our free chowder, and you can buy me a beer.”
Ever the gentleman, Randolph headed for the huts, leaving her to wade in unobserved, though he did not, Margaret noted, go into his own hut until she had safely set foot on the sand.
They caught the last, crowded steamer back to the city and shared a hansom cab to Washington Square. “My nose is burnt,” Margaret said, watching the cab head uptown. “I’m afraid my hat isn’t very practical.”
“It’s cute, though,” Randolph said.
“It’s supposed to be elegant!”
He laughed. “Whatever you say. Did you have a good day?”
They had reached her stoop. The day had cooled, and it was that quiet time after sundown but before dark had fully fallen, when the city seemed to pause for breath. The square felt deserted. “I did.” Margaret smiled up at him, and her breath caught and her heart fluttered as their eyes met; and the awareness that had flickered between them all day took a more decided hold in the pit of her stomach. “It was perfect.”
“Almost perfect,” he corrected her softly, taking a step closer.
She could have stepped back, but instead she lifted her face, and when his lips met hers, she closed her eyes. His kiss was soft, not quite chaste but the kind of kiss which could easily be passed off as belonging to a friend, if she chose. For a second, just a tiny second, she recalled the last time she had been kissed, so very differently, and then she closed her mind to it, and put her arm around Randolph’s neck.
He needed no encouraging, but he took no liberties, pressing her close but not too close, his kiss gentle but no longer soft. Though not particularly passionate either, she thought as it ended, vaguely puzzled by her own lack of response.
“I guess we need to get used to being more than friends,” Randolph said wryly, proving himself as attuned as ever to her thoughts. “Only I didn’t think you’d imagined me as anything other than a friend, until today.”
“I hadn’t. Had you?”
He shrugged. “For a while, but I didn’t want to risk wrecking our friendship. I hope I haven’t now.”
“No—oh, no.”
“I’m aware,” Randolph said, with a crooked smile, “that there was someone, once. It’s the one subject you’ve carefully avoided. I’m not asking you to tell me about it, but you’re over him, yes?”
Donald hugging her tightly. Donald saying goodbye, mounting the grey stallion, and riding off, and herself sinking to the ground, dropping her head into her hands. “Yes,” Margaret said, “it’s over.”
“Look, I don’t know where this might lead, but I hope—only you should know you’re not the only one who—I mean . . .”
She put a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “You’re thirty-one years old, Randolph. I don’t imagine you’ve lived like a monk—but, like you, I don’t need to know the details.”
“We think alike on this as everything.”
He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close again. There was nothing platonic about this kiss, yet as she stood on the stoop watching him head in the direction of Bleecker Street, her pulses had already slowed, her quickened breath returned to normal.
“The question is, M.,” she asked herself as she put her key in the door, “would you do it again?” And, though there was considerable room for improvement, the answer was undoubtedly yes.
Charlotte, Duchess of Buccleuch, to Lady Margaret
Montagu House, 10 October 1869
My dearest Margaret,
I have decided to break my silence on this, your twenty-third birthday. I enclose a small gift, a gold locket which you may recognise as one given to me by my own mother. It once contained miniature portraits of your grandparents. I have replaced these with photographs of myself and your sister Mary, and it comes with our love.
My decision to write was not lightly taken, but having made it and taken up my pen at last, I already know it is the right course of action.
Let me explain. Two months ago, I received a parcel from Lady Julia containing a number of American publications which she suggested, in her customary understated way, might be of interest to me. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered that my daughter had become a writer—and a popular one at that, judging by the volume and variety of articles Julia enclosed. I have read your work, Margaret, and am inordinately proud. Your dear and very distinct voice comes through so clearly on the page that I confess I was moved to tears, even when at times I was also moved to laughter. I have always known that you have a talent for storytelling, of course, and I cherish my copy of Tall Tales and Wagging Tails (which Lady Julia tells me has now been published in America!), but these pieces represent a real departure.
I will be frank and admit that I was alarmed to see your name attached to them. I feared that if the duke saw your work, he would treat it as a breach of his terms and cease your allowance, thus threatening your hard-won independence. I was in a quandary, more desperate than ever to write to you, more afraid than ever of the consequences. I owe it to Mrs. Scrymgeour for deciding me. She paid me a visit. Margaret—what loyal and true friends you have, and how ashamed I am that I have not been one of them. Mrs. Scrymgeour was much franker than Lady Julia. Through her I came to understand your life in New York more clearly. Your desire to earn your own living, to be free from any requirement to placate the duke or indeed anyone else (what she told me you refer to as your “golden handcuffs”) and your sensitive understanding of my own situation—Margaret, when Mrs. Scrymgeour left, I felt very small but quite determined to take action.
I spoke to your father the very next day. It was one of the most difficult conversations I have ever had with him, but the outcome of it is that I am free to write and your allowance is not under threat. I cannot lie and tell you that he is as proud as he ought to be of his daughter, but he did not condemn you. Mary, too, is free to write to you now and I believe has done so. She shows a great deal of independent spirit, and no more inclination than you did to marry young. The duke, I am relieved to say, has learned his lesson in that regard, and as yet has made no moves in that direction.
It would seem that Princess Louise is another young lady determined to avoid matrimony. The speculation that she was to marry Princess Alexandra’s brother has proved false, and while Her Majesty’s preference for a German who would be happy to live in England is well-established, your friend has made it clear that she will only marry a British subject. Very patriotic, some would say, but the dearth of suitably titled candidates leads me to believe that it is simply a tactic to avoid nuptials. Princess Louise is much more interested in her sculpting, and has been taking private lessons most recently from a Mr. Boehm. He is working on a statue of John Brown for Her Majesty which has caused some controversy within the Family.
I will update you on my own news separately. Though I do not deserve it, I know that you will be pleased to hear from me and trust that we can recover
lost ground in our re-established correspondence.
With the greatest of love,
Mama
Julia, Viscountess Powerscourt, to Lady Margaret
Powerscourt, County Wicklow, 1 January 1870
Dearest Margaret,
It is the beginning of a new year, and I find myself in a reflective mood. It is two years now since you boldly set sail for New York in search of pastures new, a prospect I would have found terrifying. Yet I have come to admire and envy your courage. You must know from the frequency of my letters how much I value you as a friend, yet I have never said so candidly. I will never forget the day you arrived at Powerscourt, broken but unbowed by your cruel exile. Even in those dark early days, the flame of your courageous heart flickered defiantly. You brought hope into my drab life, and to the lives of the many friends you made here.
Your letters and your wonderful writing have been a balm to me in some of my darkest days, but I am resolved to stop living vicariously. I have had enough of enduring and making do. I am going to follow your example, listen to my heart, and trust my instincts. I have no idea what that means yet, and, reading it over, I can imagine your surprise, for the words sound so very unlike me! I may do nothing more than escape Powerscourt for a while. It is as much a prison for me as it was for you.
What has become clear to me is that I cannot waste my years waiting for an event which may never happen. In April I will have been married seven years. I am twenty-seven years old, and must accept that the chances of my having a child now are receding. My sister Gertrude is expecting her first child in the spring after five years of marriage, but she is three years younger than me. Your dear mother has invited me to join her at Drumlanrig for the summer, or Montagu House for the Season. I may do one or even both!
And that is quite enough about me! On a much more positive note, I will turn to dear Marion, who has made a great success of the stud farm and provided work for so many disadvantaged young people. It truly is a wonderful venture, and much talked about from County Kildare to Wicklow, Dublin, and beyond. Imagine the excitement then, when Patrick Valentine himself turned up just before Christmas. I have never seen Marion so animated, and so very coy when I teased her about her beau. Mr. Valentine is just as you described, larger than life. Wingfield thought him frightfully vulgar, but I liked him very much. He and Marion seem to me a very well-suited couple, though they both insist that they do not intend to formalise their arrangements. Absence, Marion told me when I asked her (for I did ask—wasn’t that bold of me!) will most decidedly continue to make the heart grow fonder.
I have written far more than I intended and will end now with one piece of news which I hope, knowing your generous heart, you will be pleased to hear. Cameron of Lochiel is to be married, Margaret. The betrothal has not been announced yet, but according to Wingfield, who met Lochiel in London, it is imminent. The young lady is a Miss Helen Blair and, from what little I know of her, is a very kind and good-natured young woman and a fellow Scot. Lochiel will now have a chatelaine for his Achnacarry estate and, God willing, the heir which I am sure he desires.
Now I really must finish. Please write soon.
With much love,
Julia
P.S. How remiss of me not to thank you for my Christmas present. The scarf is exactly the shade of cornflower blue which matches my eyes—and the towels which you sent last year are so lovely I can hardly bring myself to use them!
The Revolution, Wednesday, 20 April 1870
The Revolution, Wednesday, 20 April 1870
The Quality of Kindness Is Not Strained by Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott
The district of Five Points lies just a stone’s throw from City Hall. Busy shoppers on Broadway can glimpse it if they care to look beyond the marble and glass retail palaces towards the East River. They’ll see a place where the currency is misery, not dollars, where commerce quickly gives way to wretchedness. The very air here is thick with want and suffering. Even in the height of summer, the sun struggles to break through the grey cloud of hopelessness. No-one chooses to live in Five Points. Those lucky few who scrabble and clamber their way out never look back, never mind return. But for the unlucky majority of its residents, it is a life sentence.
Children who are born here all too often die here. The missions work tirelessly to provide succour, feeding, clothing, and schooling them, but for every child they take in, an untold number start the day on an empty stomach picking rags and go to bed even hungrier. The street urchins of Five Points are not an edifying sight. They are clad in rags, barefoot, caked in mud, and crawling with lice, their eyes huge in their heads, their bodies stick-thin. They are not attractive candidates for wealthy benefactors in search of a charitable cause. Confined to their slums, they are the undeserving poor, and easy to ignore.
They are unfairly maligned and often vilified, these Five Points children. They are not born criminals, though their life often forces them down that path. They are innocent, though they do not remain so for long. They are not stupid, but without schooling they will grow up ignorant. They are children who deserve a chance, every one of them, legitimate or fatherless, regardless of their religion, the country of their birth, their parents’ occupation or disposition.
The children of Five Points have nothing, but their needs are simple and few: food, clothing, warmth, a roof over their heads. Though first and foremost what these children deserve is to be treated as children; to be given a place to play, a place where they can be safe, free from judgement, treated as equals. A place where they can learn what happiness is.
We cannot continue to ignore what is going on under our very noses. We cannot continue to pretend these children don’t exist. In London, the children of the Rookeries are reviled and condemned; but this is the New World, the Land of Opportunity, where all men, women, and children have equal status.
Kindness benefits both the giver and the recipient. The children of Five Points deserve to be shown kindness. Who will offer it? Will it be you?
Chapter Forty
Washington Square, New York, May 1870
“It’s an excellent article, Margaret, very powerful and clearly spoken from the heart,” Randolph said, setting the copy of the Revolution newspaper down on her desk, “but how many people read this publication? A thousand?”
“Three thousand.”
“And I guess from your expression that there’s not been much of a response?”
“A few letters of support and that’s it. I don’t know what else to do,” Margaret said despondently. “I’ve tried to interest the wealthy people I know, to the point where I’m in danger of being ostracized from society, but to no avail. I tried to have that article published in a magazine with a significant readership, also to no avail. Demorest’s wouldn’t touch it, nor Harper’s. It was Mary Louise who introduced me to Mrs. Cady Stanton, who is one of the founders and editors of the Revolution and a member of the Sorosis Club. Even with Jane’s help, I couldn’t persuade any of the other dailies to take it.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re holding up a mirror to a part of the city their readership prefer to ignore.”
“Those who could do something about it aren’t sympathetic; those who are sympathetic don’t have the means to help.”
“The real problem is that we tend to accuse people who fail to make something of themselves of being lazy or no good.” Randolph joined her on the window seat and put his arm around her. “Don’t look so down. You already do more than enough, helping at the mission. I know you use your own money to buy things for those kids, not to mention finding their mothers work when you can, including positions in your own home. There’s a limit to what one person can do.”
“But there’s no limit to what needs to be done, and my contribution is a drop in the ocean. These children need somewhere they feel safe, Randolph, a sanctuary they can go to anytime.”
“Somewhere they won’t be judged.” He smiled sadly. “I’m flattered you’ve taken that
idea so much to heart but, like I said, maybe it’s time to stop berating yourself for what you’ve not achieved and pat yourself on the back for what you have.”
“It’s not enough. I need to find a way to reach more people. New Yorkers need to know what is going in their back garden.”
“And then what? Even if you persuaded the New York Times to publish that piece, what difference would it make? A few more people shaking their heads and muttering about how dreadful it all is before they forget about it and get on with their lives.”
“You’re right,” Margaret said grimly after a moment. “Words are not enough. What we need is action. I need to raise the funds myself, but how? I have signally failed to interest a single one of my philanthropically minded acquaintances that this is a worthy cause.”
“You’re really set on this? No, that’s a stupid question. You want my advice?”
“Always.”
“Start small, with what you know. That’s how I tackle my cases, the complicated ones, I mean, a step at a time.”
“Or a brick at a time, in my case. Start with what I know? But the only thing I know is that I need money, and the only way I know to earn money is by writing, and—oh! Randolph, I think you might be a genius.”
“You only think!” he said indignantly.
“I could write a book of stories for children set in Five Points, with all profits being ploughed back in. I would have to paint a slightly sanitized picture, but actually children like gruesome tales. It won’t raise very much, but it will be a start, and the publicity can only help make more people aware of the true situation.”
“Will you include the noisy hen story?”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 37