“What? Oh, Cluckalot! I shall write that one especially for you.”
“Wow! You really are serious!”
“I am indeed.” Margaret smiled suddenly. “I’m going do it, because if I don’t, then no-one else will.”
“It could take years.”
“So be it.”
“Don’t let it become all-consuming. Leave room for other things.”
“I will continue with my writing and work at the mission.”
“I was referring to more personal commitments.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then the penny dropped. Appalled, Margaret sat abruptly down at her desk. The very last thing she wanted was for Randolph to propose. She had already rejected three proposals, and the memory of the last one still made her heart ache. The love Donald had declared so passionately had died, and now Miss Helen Blair held Margaret’s place in his heart. Reading the news back in January, her first reaction had been very far from the delight Julia had predicted. On the contrary, she distinctly recalled crying out no! It was wrong, impossible, for Donald to marry someone else, for Donald to love someone else. When her shock had subsided, she had set about rationally persuading herself that she was happy for him, but it had taken her much more time than it should have to accustom herself to the fact, and longer still for her to truly and honestly believe what she told herself she ought to feel.
Donald would probably be married now. Miss Helen Blair would be Mrs. Donald Cameron, a position Margaret had rejected and probably would again. Probably? Almost certainly. But it wasn’t Donald who was on the brink of proposing, it was Randolph.
Perhaps she had mistaken him? “Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to give yourself at least until you were thirty-five before you made any changes to your life? I distinctly remember you saying that there weren’t enough hours in the day as it is without—without any other distractions.”
He didn’t answer her for a moment, staring down at his hands and then out the window at Washington Square. Then he shrugged. “It’s a nice day out there. Maybe even the first proper day of spring. Shall we take the streetcar up to Central Park, join the other Sunday strollers?”
In other words, Margaret thought, I know you don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t push it. She was so relieved she almost agreed, but another horrible realisation prevented her. Whether they talked now or in a month’s time or in six months, she wouldn’t feel any different. “No, wait.”
Randolph had half got to his feet, but now he sank back down onto the window seat, not saying anything but watching her. What was wrong with her! They were best friends. They respected each other; they had an instinctive understanding of each other that meant their occasional differences never turned into arguments. She was unlikely to meet another man who seemed such a perfect match, and now that Donald was married—but, no, she would not compare Randolph to Donald: that would be quite unfair to both of them.
Though wasn’t that the root of the problem? Randolph wasn’t Donald. Sadly, Margaret recalled Marion saying something similar about Patrick not being Alexander. If Donald was her ideal, then Randolph was doomed to come up short in comparison. The kisses they shared were delightful, but they had never stirred her to the passionate heights of Donald’s kisses. Randolph made her laugh, she thoroughly enjoyed his company, he made her feel comfortable.
Oh no! Oh, M.! She did love him, but as a friend, and far too much to hurt him. Rejoining him on the window seat, she angled herself to face him. “I have to be painfully honest with you—it’s the least you deserve. You are my best friend, Randolph. I don’t want that to change.”
“Yeah! That’s the problem, isn’t it? We haven’t really been able to move beyond being friends.”
“Oh!”
“You thought it was only you?” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, there have been times when I could happily persuade myself—because logically we’re perfect for each other.”
“We are!” Margaret said fervently. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
“I guess love isn’t logical.”
“Perhaps that’s a good thing.” Giddy with relief, Margaret took his hand. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I haven’t allowed myself to think about it until just a moment ago, and when I did—” She broke off, for there was a lump in her throat. “I should have spoken up earlier. It was wrong of me to kiss you when I knew—though I didn’t know, or I wasn’t sure. Oh, Randolph . . .”
He hugged her briefly. “Don’t blame yourself. I wanted this to work, I kept hoping it would, but I’m glad we’ve sorted it out now. That was brave of you, to force the issue. I wouldn’t have pushed you.”
Margaret sat up. “No, but then it would have been there all the time between us, wouldn’t it?”
He sighed. “You’re right, but all the same, it was brave of you.”
It would be the most natural thing in the world for their lips to meet, but what passion they had nurtured between them had dissipated. Margaret moved away, blushing. “Can we remain friends, do you think? I would hate this to come between us.”
Randolph got up. “I don’t want to lose you either. I think I’ll take that walk in Central Park by myself, though, if you don’t mind. I need a little time to adjust.”
“We’ll find a way, won’t we?”
“You bet.”
She heard him call goodbye to Johanna, the newest recruit from Five Points. Standing by the window to watch him descend the steps, Margaret was relieved when he looked up to wave as usual before he headed for Broadway. Turning away, tears stung her eyes and doubts crowded her mind. Would love eventually have blossomed between them, given time? Was she misremembering her feelings for Donald, creating a false ideal that no man could live up to?
It didn’t matter. The point was that she still wasn’t ready to marry. She would have to accept that she might never be ready to marry; and until she was, there could be no more romances. She’d had a narrow escape with Randolph, provided their friendship was not a casualty. She would not risk misleading another man.
“And in the meantime,” Margaret said, scrubbing at her eyes and giving herself a mental shake, “there is the small matter of raising funds to build a Five Points children’s sanctuary.” Had she finally bitten off more than she could chew? Sitting down at her desk, she selected a fresh notebook bound in her favourite turquoise leather. Pulling the inkstand towards her, she dipped a newly sharpened pen and began to write.
Cluckaluck Cluckalot was a very noisy hen. The noisiest hen in the henhouse in fact, and that was saying something. . . .
Chapter Forty-One
New York, 8 August 1870
Margaret knew next to nothing about sailing. In her first disastrous London Season she had been invited to Cowes, but by August, when the regatta took place, she had already been exiled to Dalkeith. When Randolph informed her that he had an invitation to the New York Yacht Club on the morning of the Queen’s Cup challenge, she had been ambivalent about accompanying him. He had laughed when she queried his sudden interest in a pastime he had never before mentioned, telling her that it was likely to prove quite a spectacle and, besides, he hoped to seal an important bit of business which she might be able to assist him with.
And so this morning Margaret had donned one of her most elegant gowns in emerald silk trimmed with cream lace, and prepared to enjoy the experience. It was a beautiful summer’s day, bright and sunny, the heat tempered by a gentle breeze. To her astonishment, the harbour was alive with people competing to board the ferries and steamers from where they would watch the race.
“It looks like every single person in New York is trying to get out onto the water,” she said to Randolph. “My goodness, there are even people in rowing boats.”
“Luckily we have a reserved place on a steamer to take us to Staten Island, courtesy of our host. It’s this one, I think,” he answered, putting a protective arm aroun
d her. “We’ll get a view of the competitors if we’re lucky. They’ve been in the Narrows overnight, and won’t head up to the starting point at the yacht club until just before the race gets underway.”
The steamer on which they were settled was significantly less crowded. “Who is our host?” Margaret asked, looking around her at the well-dressed guests, some of whom she recognised as Randolph’s richer clients.
“James Gordon Bennett Junior.”
“You mean the editor of the Herald?”
“And a mad keen yachtsman. He won the first transatlantic race back in sixty-six on the Henrietta, and he’s commodore of the New York Yacht Club.”
“He’s not your usual type of client.”
“It’s his father I’ve been doing a bit of business with. Trust funds, the usual stuff. It’s him I want you to meet. No, don’t ask me any more questions; you’ll find out why in due course. For now, let’s just enjoy the spectacle.”
Spectacle was certainly the right word. Their steamer began to ease away from the dock and out into the bay, where it joined the flotilla, all crowded with people, women and children as well as men, dressed to the nines. Horns blared, sails flapped, and steam billowed into the clear blue sky. In the Narrows, the strait between Brooklyn and Staten Island, Margaret and Randolph stood at the rail to view the schooners that would take part in the race later that morning.
“That’s Cambria, the British challenger,” Randolph said, pointing at a yacht that looked almost exactly like the others. “She’s from the Royal Thames Yacht Club. You might even spot a few familiar faces in her entourage.”
“I doubt it very much. Is there only one challenger? Isn’t that rather unfair? It makes it very unlikely that they will win, doesn’t it?”
“Dear lord, Margaret, don’t go saying that—you’ll have us ejected from the club.”
She giggled. “I can’t tell one of these boats—I mean schooners—from the other, so you’ll need to tell me when to cheer.”
“Which side are you on?”
“Oh, if the challenger was from Leith—that’s Edinburgh’s port—then I might have a dilemma, but they’re English, so there’s no question but that I’ll be cheering for our team.”
“That’s my girl! Come over to the other side and take a look at the crowds. Fort Richmond over there is the most popular viewpoint, because you can see both the start and the finish of the race.”
“There must be tens of thousands here!”
“Some of them will have been here since dawn. Maybe earlier.”
Randolph leaned on the rail, his elbows brushing hers. Back in April, she had worried that their friendship would falter, but after an initial awkwardness they had established a new, easy camaraderie, leaving neither with doubts or regrets. He was formally dressed today, in an expensive black suit, though he was holding his hat, for the breeze had got up, ruffling his hair over his forehead. When she reached out to push it back, he grinned. “I guess I need a haircut. We’ll be docking in five minutes. The race is due to start at eleven thirty, so we’ll join Gordon Bennett and his party when we arrive.”
She listened with half an ear as he ran through a list of people she may or may not bump into, surprised to hear that it included both the Astors and the Vanderbilts. “You still haven’t told me how I am to help you.”
“Have a little patience. Come on, let’s see if we can get you a cup of tea before the race starts.”
They disembarked and walked up the short hill to Rosebank. The club-house was built in the Swiss-Italian style with a broad front porch and situated just above the shore with a commanding view of the harbour.
“Gordon Bennett Junior acquired this place for the club about two years ago,” Randolph said as they joined the line of people waiting to be received. “That’s our host there.”
Mr. Gordon Bennett looked to be about the same age as Randolph. His sparse hair was cropped very short in the military style, and this combined with the vigorous moustache and hawk-like nose made him look rather forbidding.
“Mueller,” he said, thumping Randolph on the back, “glad you could make it.”
“Allow me to introduce you to Lady Margaret Scott. Margaret, Mr. James Gordon Bennett Junior.”
“Well! How do you do?” Mr. Gordon Bennett took her gloved hand, surprising her by bowing over and kissing it. “A Scott from Scotland. Now that’s a good joke! Do you like sailing? Of course you do, coming from an island and all, eh? My father will be delighted to meet you. Not sure where he is at the moment, but I’m sure—anyway, you’ll need to excuse me. I have to go and make sure we’re set for the off. Good to meet you, Lady Margaret. There’s champagne—or maybe you prefer a wee dram? Ha! Enjoy the day.”
Nodding absently at the line of guests waiting behind them, Mr. Gordon Bennett picked up a cap from the table behind him and made his way out.
“I can’t see the old man,” Randolph said. “We’ll go and watch the start, then I’ll track him down.”
“I still don’t understand—” She broke off, shaking her head ruefully. “Patience is not one of my virtues, is it?”
Despite her scant interest in sailing, Margaret couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement as she stood among the crowd on the veranda, watching the tugs pull the schooners, in full sail, into position. Flags were being unfurled on the shore and on the yachts. Then just before eleven thirty, a gunshot cracked, making her jump; the cheering and whooping became a crescendo; and the race was on. The schooners very quickly picked up the breeze and headed out into the bay.
“What happens now?” Margaret asked.
“The course is about forty miles, I’m told. We should know the winner in four hours, maybe a bit longer, but before that, you and I have work to do.”
“At last!” She followed him back into the now empty clubhouse. “What do I have to do?”
“Make a pitch,” Randolph said. “Sell your idea for Five Points Children’s Sanctuary. James Gordon Bennett is not your typical philanthropist, but he’s agreed to hear you out. I’ve opened the door for you; it’s up to you now to persuade him.”
“Randolph! This is the bit of business you wanted my help with? You might have warned me.”
“If I had, you’d have prepared a speech. Much better to speak from the heart, Margaret—it’s what you do best. There he is. Mr. Gordon Bennett, sir,” Randolph said, hailing an elderly man who was seated partially obscured in an alcove, “allow me to introduce Lady Margaret Scott to you. Go on,” he whispered as he pushed her forward, “work your magic on him.”
Mr. James Gordon Bennett Senior got to his feet. He was dressed in an old-fashioned coat with a high cravat, was very tall, and had a thick head of white hair and a beard trimmed in a Newgate frill. His features were large. He was distinctly cross-eyed under a pair of fierce, shaggy brows, giving him the look of a battle-hardened general rather than a partially retired newspaperman.
“Lady Margaret,” he said, his voice belying his appearance for he had the soft accent of the north-east of Scotland, “a pleasure to meet you. Won’t you take a seat?”
She did so, her heart beating wildly, vaguely aware of Randolph disappearing into the background. She had, as he would say, one chance at this. “I understand you might be interested in helping set up the sanctuary I want to build in Five Points.”
“I’m interested to hear what you have to say, Lady Margaret, especially in that accent which reminds me of the old country. You’ve made an unusual choice, in the people you wish to help.”
“Someone has to help them, Mr. Gordon Bennett. They deserve a chance, the same as every other child in this city.”
He smiled, gently shaking his head. “When Randolph was trying to persuade me to meet you, he gave me that piece you wrote for the Revolution, so there’s no need to cover old ground. Don’t tell me what I should be feeling; tell me what difference you want to make.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Margaret said, regrouping her thoughts, �
�because as far as I’m aware nothing like it exists, but I want to build a safe space where children can escape the drudgery and the misery of their lives.”
“The missions—”
“Do a wonderful job,” Margaret said, interrupting him. “I have been a volunteer at the Ladies’ Mission for the last eighteen months, but they have limited resources and must therefore spend them on the causes which they deem worthiest. It is the same with the House of Industry, and the Howard Mission, too—they judge the children by their parents—or their lack of parents. I want to help the ones who fall through the cracks, so to speak. It is not a child’s fault, Mr. Gordon Bennett, if their father is a drunkard or their mother a streetwalker. I hope I have not shocked you.”
He laughed gruffly. “I’m an old hack, Lady Margaret. I don’t shock easily. What I find interesting is that you don’t shock easily.”
“Oh, I never fail to be shocked by what I see in Five Points, but it doesn’t make me want to close my eyes and pretend I haven’t seen it,” Margaret said earnestly. “Besides, Five Points is sadly not unique. In London . . .”
“I think I’ve heard enough,” Mr. Gordon Bennett said sometime later.
“I’m so sorry. Randolph warned me not to make a speech, but I fear I have let my enthusiasm get the better of me.”
“It’s certainly not like any appeal for funds I’ve ever heard.” Mr. Gordon Bennett pulled out his gold watch, frowning. “I have to get back to Fifth Avenue. My wife is expecting me.”
Her heart sank. “You’re not staying to see the end of the race?”
“I don’t share my son’s passion for sailing. Now, to practicalities. Have you a location in mind? Have you estimated the building cost, the upkeep? How many places—”
“Wait!” Margaret involuntarily clutched his hand, then immediately let him go. “I beg your pardon. You mean you’re going to help me?”
“I like the cut of your jib, to use an apposite nautical phrase. I’ll tell you something, Lady Margaret. When I first dreamed of launching my own newspaper, I made all sorts of rookie mistakes. I lost a lot of money, even after I launched the Herald. I nearly went out of business, but I kept my dream alive, and I fought for it, doing everything save actually turning the presses, and eventually I made it. Listening to you, I don’t doubt your enthusiasm or your commitment. Randolph told me you’re writing a book. . . .”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 38