“Tales of the City is what it will be called. It is to be published in September, and all the proceeds will go towards the sanctuary.”
“Are they likely to be significant?”
“Every dollar counts.”
“Then I’ll see what I can do to provide you with the rest. You’re well in, as they say, with the Astors and the like; I’m wondering why you haven’t gone to them.”
“I tried, and failed miserably. My cause isn’t considered worthy enough.”
“Maybe they don’t understand, as I do, what it’s like to have to scrabble up the greasy pole.” Mr. Gordon Bennett held out his hand, shaking hers warmly before getting to his feet. “Now here is Randolph come to rescue you. I’ll be in touch, Lady Margaret. I’m very glad to have met you.”
“Well?” Randolph said a few moments later, having seen the old man down to the pier.
“He’s agreed to help me, and it’s all thanks to you.” Margaret threw her arms around him.
Laughing, he disentangled himself. “Like I said, I opened the door, but you walked through it.”
“I can’t believe it. Oh, Randolph, thank you!”
“It’s what friends are for, isn’t it. Now why don’t we— Hey, who’s that over there?”
“Who?” Margaret looked in the direction Randolph was pointing. “The man is—”
“No, not the man, the woman. My lord, isn’t she striking?”
“It’s Geraldine Haight. Her father owns the St. Nicholas Hotel on Broadway.”
“You know her! Please tell me she’s not married.”
“No, she’s not married,” Margaret said, eyeing Randolph in astonishment for he looked quite—smitten, was the only word she could think of. “She’s a friend of Jane’s. A suffragist. I think she’s a member of the Sorosis Club. I take it you’d like me to introduce you?”
He quickly smoothed his hair back and straightened his jacket. “You bet!”
Princess Louise to Lady Margaret
Balmoral Castle, Scotland, 10 October 1870
Dear Margaret,
I am writing to solicit your congratulations, for I am engaged to be married. Six days ago, on the banks of Loch Muick where the queen’s little widow’s house sits, Lord Lorne declared himself. Such was the strength of his feelings that he did so without first obtaining Her Majesty’s consent, though we both felt certain that she would approve of the match, and we have already been proved right. Lorne’s father, the Duke of Argyll, is similarly delighted, and the formal announcement is to be made today.
And so, M., you may send me your felicitations, and tell me how delighted you are for me, for I am very satisfied to have achieved my aim of not marrying a foreigner; and though he is a commoner, I have found in Lorne a most amenable husband who will be happy for me to indulge my artistic pursuits after we are married. (Having taken up residence on the other side of the world, you will not be aware of the acclaim I have been receiving for my sculptures and I, being ever inclined to hide my light under a bushel, have chosen not to enlighten you. However, I can with all due modesty point to some very high praise indeed for my latest efforts from those qualified to comment.)
The wedding will be next year, most likely in the spring, and will be a very grand occasion, for my humble attempts to stand in for the queen in the years since you deserted us have been exceedingly well received by the Great British Public. My marriage has been much anticipated by them—some (though not I!) would call it the match of the decade—and we wish to reward them for their loyalty with a great spectacle.
I shall design my dress myself, for no-one knows better than I just what flatters my figure—not even Alix, whose taste has of late become much praised. (I, of course, have always thought her understatedly elegant.)
I am sure you have a great deal of your own news to share. As you can imagine, I will have scant time for tittle-tattle, but I would be happy to receive word from you. I was obliged to ascertain your whereabouts from the duchess, an odd state of affairs, Margaret, considering the length of our friendship. Your mother forwarded me a selection of your writing from various American periodicals. It was very strange to see them attributed to you. I must assume social mores in the New World are very different from here. Your mother seems to be very enamoured of your talent. I am afraid I do not feel qualified to comment.
I must dash; the queen requires my services! I am so much in demand, and likely to be more so every day when the announcement is made later. Such a whirlwind of activity lies ahead regarding the arrangements. Oh, M., remember how we always promised that whichever of us married first would have the other as her bridesmaid?
I look forward to receiving your well wishes on the day, since you will not be able to attend the ceremony, and will end with my own felicitations for your birthday which is today. What a coincidence! You will forgive the absence of a gift.
With best wishes,
Louise
Susannah Elmhirst to Lady Margaret
Lambeth, 15 December 1870
Dear Margaret,
I write to you on the second anniversary of Sebastian’s death knowing that you, too, will be remembering my brother on this day. How very proud he would be if he knew of the wonderful work you are doing in Five Points. Though it was his loss that inspired you to seek work in the Ladies’ Mission, it is your own kind heart that led you to battle so hard for your children’s sanctuary. I am absolutely delighted to hear that you have finally found a suitable site. The bureaucracy and the corruption you encountered did not shock me, though it should have—I fear every big city is blighted by self-interest. What a wise benefactor you have in Mr. Gordon Bennett, whose experience in both foreseeing and surmounting these obstacles has proven invaluable. You play down your own role, but I know you too well to imagine it was in any way minor. I look forward to hearing that the foundations are being laid, and this time next year perhaps you will have opened the doors of your sanctuary to the first intake of children.
Your generous parcel of candy and toys for our own Lambeth children arrived safely, and in plenty of time to be distributed at our Christmas Eve party. I could not resist taking a peek at your new book. The stories are very dark, very different from your last set of tales (or should that be tails!), but you have somehow managed to make them hopeful, too, without being mawkish.
The news of your friend Mr. Mueller’s whirlwind engagement did, I must admit, astonish me. I confess that I had nurtured hopes that you and he might make each other happy. I know you well enough, though we have not met face-to-face for far too many years now, to believe that when you say you are delighted for him, you truly are.
I will end this missive with news of another match—my own! (Oh, how I wish I could see your reaction to that news!) You may recall my mentioning the priest who came to Lambeth from a neighbouring parish to help Mr. Glass? His name is Martin Poll Wright. He was a great support to me in those dark days, and in our case friendship has blossomed into love. He proposed today, the dear man wishing to endow this saddest of dates with a much happier significance, and I was delighted to accept.
I am, I assure you, very happy. My beloved Frederick will always have a place in my heart, but I have discovered that there is room there for another. My love for Martin is very different in nature from my feelings for Frederick, but no less true. I never believed I would marry again, and if Sebastian had lived, I may never have considered it, but the loss of my brother forced me to re-evaluate my own life. I have been lonely, Margaret. An odd thing to say, perhaps, for a woman who never lacks for company or occupation, but it is true nonetheless. In Martin I have found real and much-needed companionship as well as love.
My future husband has been posted to a new parish in Cornwall, and so this will be my last letter from the little cottage in Lambeth I have called home for the last two years. We will be married in his church on the fourteenth of January and commence our new life there immediately. It could not be more different from Lambeth, which I will m
iss terribly, but is an exciting change nonetheless. Who could have imagined, only a few short years ago, me in Cornwall and you in New York. Isn’t life wonderfully unpredictable?
I will write from my new address as soon as I can, and look forward to hearing every step of your journey to build your sanctuary. Think of me on the day, dear Margaret, and send us your blessing.
With love,
Susannah
New York Herald, Wednesday, 11 October 1871
New York Herald, Wednesday, 11 October 1871
A Very Worthy Cause Opens its Doors on Worth Street
The new Worth Street Children’s Sanctuary was officially opened yesterday by Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott. The Sanctuary, as it is already known by the Five Points residents, is a new-built three-story brownstone on a site with ample room for expansion.
A great deal of thought has gone into making the building both inviting and enlightening for its diminutive clientele. There is a playground fenced off at the back, with a fairy fountain and several benches which, when the newly planted trees mature, will be pleasantly shady in the summer. On the lintel of each of the arched windows the letters of the alphabet are carved in the shape of fantastical animals. Inside, the floors are hard-wearing wood, the walls plastered and brightly painted with alphabets and numerals. The rooms are spacious and bright; the chairs and sofas strewn around are comfortable though upholstered in durable fabric with mounds of cushions; and enticing little corners, too, for those in search of solitude. The bookshelves are consciously pitched at child-friendly heights, with the simplest texts on the bottom shelves. There are practical amenities, too, where the children can bathe, eat heartily, and even take a nap.
The Sanctuary is open to every and any child. No questions are asked, no judgments made. The only rule is that kindness is to be both dispensed and received. The primary aim of the Sanctuary is not to educate or improve morals, but to provide first, much needed relief and second hope. Such aims, New Yorkers may think, sound laudable, yet Lady Margaret, the champion of this excellent cause, struggled to interest any of our great Metropolis’s philanthropists in it. A true Scotswoman, she stubbornly refused to give up the fight, and her grit and determination eventually won her the sympathetic ear of an anonymous donor.
Many hundreds of people amassed yesterday in the bright morning sunshine for the opening of the facility. They were mostly children and their mothers, but there were some fathers, too. While the Herald was given privileged access to the Sanctuary before opening day, reporters from other newspapers and journals were forced to jostle for position with their cameras on the sidewalk. Two notable exceptions were made in Mrs. Jane Croly, better known as the writer Jenny June, and Miss Mary Louise Booth, editor of Harper’s Bazar. Both ladies enjoy long-standing friendship with Lady Margaret, an author of some note herself. Having seen the completed Sanctuary, these ladies of the press have sworn to laud it lavishly in their journals in the hope of engaging their hitherto uninterested readers.
The ceremony itself was brief, with Lady Margaret doing little more than warmly thanking her benefactor and declaring the facility open. There was a great deal of cheering and applause when she cut the ribbon, and a spontaneous chorus of “Happy birthday, Lady Margaret,” it being, serendipitously, twenty-five years since the day of her birth. Then without any more ado, the double doors were thrown wide and the children stampeded through, some laughing and shouting, others glancing over their shoulders to their parents for permission, still others hanging back until Lady Margaret coaxed them in with her generous smile and the offer of cake.
Yesterday was a real turning point for the neglected and ignored children of Five Points. It took a titled immigrant to force us native New Yorkers to look and see what was going on in our own city and to remind us that here in this land, all men, women, and children should be considered equal. We thank the day this charming, self-effacing, and determined young woman chose to make her home in our great Metropolis. There is no need for us to wish her Sanctuary every success, for it was assured the moment the doors were opened. We can only hope it acts as an example, that more places where kindness and hope are distributed without judgment may now spring up for those in need of it most.
Bravo, Lady Margaret!
Chapter Forty-Two
New York, Wednesday, Christmas Day, 1872
Margaret gazed down in awe at the tiny bundle sleeping in her arms. Little Margherita Mueller, known affectionately as Petite Rita, was only three weeks old, and already she had her parents and her honorary aunt wrapped around her tiny dimpled fingers. She smelled of milk, and when Margaret buried her nose in the silky-soft mass of her hair, that particular baby scent that made her so fiercely protective and at the same time filled with a wondrous love. Though she was accustomed to children, she knew little about infants and had, the first time she had held Rita, been terrified of breaking her.
“She’s so perfect,” she said now to Randolph, who was leaning over her shoulder with the stunned expression he had worn ever since his daughter was born.
“You won’t get any argument from me on that front. I still can’t believe she’s here.”
“Happy first Christmas,” Margaret said, kissing the baby’s impossibly soft cheek before handing her back reluctantly to Geraldine. “And thank you for inviting me to share it with you. I know that both sets of grandparents were vying for the honour of having you to stay.”
Geraldine snuggled her daughter close, kissing the top of her head. “The very idea of having to get dressed up and endure one of my parents’ gargantuan formal dinners is exhausting.”
“And though my parents promised they’d only invite a few of the neighbours and just our closest family to dinner—well,” Randolph said ruefully, “you can imagine.”
“Then I’m even more honoured to have been your guest, but it’s getting late, so I’ll let you put little Rita to bed,” Margaret said, getting to her feet.
“It’s only just after seven, but I must confess I’m exhausted,” Geraldine said. “Thank you for coming, and for Rita’s beautiful christening gown. We’ll see you at the ceremony next Sunday. Randolph will walk you home.”
“Good idea,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I could use the fresh air; otherwise I’ll fall asleep in front of the fire.”
Outside, it had stopped snowing and the sky had cleared. Randolph had moved only a couple of doors down to a larger town house on Bleecker when he married, and now he and Margaret walked the well-trodden path to Thompson in companionable silence. It was bitterly cold. The sidewalks crunched under their feet; the air was painfully sharp to breathe; but as they reached the entrance to Washington Square and the street lights dimmed, the stars brightened in the clear sky. The park had a magical quality, carpeted with snow, icicles dangling from the trees like Christmas decorations, the noises of the city muffled. Pausing to lift her face to the sky, Margaret was transported back to Dalkeith, as she always was during the festive season when there was snow, but this time when she opened her eyes, the longing that engulfed her refused to dissipate.
“What is it?” Randolph asked. “Are you worried that Rita is going to come between us?” he joked, though his smile faded when he saw she was close to tears. “Just because I’m a father now doesn’t change our friendship, Margaret, anymore than my becoming a husband did.”
“Don’t be daft! I couldn’t be happier for you and Geraldine. My goodness, I remember that first time you saw her, on the day of the Queen’s Cup. You looked as if you’d been struck by a thunderbolt.”
“An arrow straight to the heart.” He grinned sheepishly. “One look and I simply knew, though if you’d told me that could happen, I’d have laughed in your face.”
“I saw it with my own eyes, remember?” Margaret squeezed his arm. “You’re my best friend, Randolph. I want you to be happy, and you very obviously are.”
“So what’s bothering you all of a sudden? And don’t try and deny it—you can’t fool me.”
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“Seeing you with your new family makes me think of mine, I guess.” She started walking towards the lights of the town houses on Washington Square, forcing him to follow. “It’s five years in January since I landed at Castle Garden, but it’s always more difficult to be so far away from home at this time of year. More so, since Mama started writing to me again. I feel I’m missing out on so much. My niece Margaret, my first little namesake was four in the summer, and now my sister, little Margaret’s mama, is expecting her sixth child this month—can you believe that!—and I’ve not set eyes on any of them save in the photographs she sends. In fact I have a brood of nieces and nephews I’ve never met and—oh, ignore me, Randolph, it’s like I said, I’m a little homesick, that’s all. Now here we are, back at my little town house. I won’t invite you in—Geraldine will be expecting you.”
“You sure you’re all right on your own? I know you’ve given your help the day off.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had a lovely day, but now I’d rather be alone.” Margaret stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “See you at the christening, if not before.”
Randolph waited until she had let herself in, then bounded off down the steps, understandably anxious to be home. She locked the door behind her, turning up the lamp which had been left low, shedding her outer clothing before climbing the stairs to her study, where she set a taper to the logs in the fireplace.
Curling up on the hearthrug, she picked up her bundle of Christmas letters, shuffling through the well-read pages. Susannah was happily established in Cornwall, and as busy as ever with her mothers’ groups. Victoria looked decidedly matronly with her ever-growing brood in her annual photograph, and Kerr, now the Marquess of Lothian, with his grizzled beard, looked much older than his years. Marion had written in eager expectation of what had become Patrick’s annual pilgrimage to County Kildare, and Julia was spending her Christmas with her sister’s family while Wingfield remained at Powerscourt.
Her Heart for a Compass Page 39