He made no effort to dissuade me and appears perfectly content to spend Christmas without me, Julia wrote, and I find I, too, am perfectly content without him. Which for Julia, Margaret thought, folding the letter back up, was akin to a declaration of independence.
Louise’s brief note informed Margaret that she would be spending Christmas with the Argylls at Inveraray Castle. As usual, she gave no indication of her state of mind and made no mention of the possibility of motherhood. The photograph she enclosed was not of her husband’s family home but of the pretty fishing village by the same name on the banks of Loch Fyne, which I thought you would like, for I know how much you enjoy the Highland scenery, Louise had written. It was a very beautiful scene, with heather-clad hills in the background beyond the still waters of the loch, but the image Margaret saw as she looked at it was of another castle on the eastern side of the country, set in more familiar gently rolling countryside.
A tear tracked down Margaret’s cheek as she picked up Mama’s letter, knowing in her current mood that it would be a mistake to read it again, yet unable to resist. July 1866 was the last time they had been together, at Princess Helena’s wedding. Lenchen had four children now and, according to Mama, was very happy with her unprepossessing prince.
You always assure me that you want to know who will be spending Christmas with us, Mama wrote, but I always worry, even as I accede to your request, that I am causing you pain. I hang your stars on the tree each year, those bright jewel colours so distinct even after all these years, and I say a little prayer that you are happy, Margaret. You seem so. You have achieved so much already in your young life that I find it difficult sometimes to reconcile the impetuous, impulsive child with the sensible businesswoman.
Margaret sniffed, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve. What she would give if she could be with Mama for just a few minutes! But it wouldn’t be nearly enough. She would almost rather do without than have one snatched moment. She wanted to linger among familiar accents, and to have her own pass unremarked. She wanted to take a walk in the countryside under a driech, mizzling sky, her feet soaked through, the soft rain falling like mist and the smell of peat smoke wafting lazily through the air. She wanted to meet all her nephews and nieces, to hug them, to tell them stories. And she wanted to take tea and cake with her sisters and Mama, to chat about nothing of consequence knowing that there would always be more time and yet more to talk together.
What she wanted was to go home.
But this was her home, wasn’t it? This little town house in this extraordinary metropolis, the place where she had truly grown up, become a woman she barely recognised. She’d had no idea when she sailed from Ireland what path her life might take, but now there was ample proof on her desk of her achievements. The Sanctuary was being expanded and, thanks to the bequest dear Mr. Gordon Bennett had left in his will, would be secure for years to come. Between her work there, her writing, and the few social engagements she continued to keep, her days were full.
Yet watching Randolph revelling in domestic bliss had unsettled her. He would always be her friend, but his marriage had changed things between them. Naturally, Geraldine and now Rita came first with him. It wasn’t that Margaret wanted what he had, but it reminded her that she, too, had a family and that they were very far away.
She loved New York and all the people from every walk of life who had allowed her into their lives. She would never have had the freedom to achieve what she had done here back home, nor even have gained the confidence to try. She loved the fact that every day she could prove herself useful; but as she stared down at her latest turquoise notebook, open on her blotter, Margaret wondered, wasn’t there room for more?
Her heart ached for home. Her inconvenient heart, she thought wryly, always pulling her in another direction whenever she was in danger of becoming too settled. But already her tears were drying on her cheeks, her spirits lifting.
Could she go home? She could not possibly make such a momentous decision on the spur of the moment. How would she live? She would breach her father’s terms the moment she set foot on Scottish soil, and though she no longer relied upon her allowance in New York, she had no idea whether she would be able to earn enough to live on in Scotland.
She would find a way. She always did, didn’t she? She could continue to wield her pen. Another book of stories? Perhaps Demorest’s would be interested in the Journal of a New Yorker in Scotland? And there was that Englishwoman, the rather terrifying suffragist she had met at one of Mary Louise’s soirées, who had offered her work. Emily Faithfull, that was her name, and the magazine she edited was the Victoria.
Would that be sufficient? Margaret had no idea, but she knew without a quiver of a doubt that she was determined to find out. As to where she would live, that was easy, for she would go to Edinburgh. A city like every other, no doubt, in having children in need of sanctuary.
Because if I can do it here, then why should I not succeed on my home turf! she thought, smiling to herself and picking up Mama’s letter once more, this time taking out the photograph. Staring back at her, his hand on her mother’s shoulder, was the one large obstacle to her plans, the duke. She forced herself to study him, trying to understand her feelings for him, which she had not done for a very long time. She was unable to conjure any trace of love, but there was pity, for he never would be able to understand her while she understood him very well. Was she going to let this bully who had never cared for her continue to dictate her actions and mitigate her happiness?
Absolutely not! Propping the photograph up on the desk, she picked up her pen. In the act of pulling a fresh sheet of writing paper towards her she caught her father’s eye. No, she didn’t love him, but he was her flesh and blood. Surely, eventually, even for him, that would count for something?
Your Grace, Margaret wrote, you will no doubt be surprised to hear from me after all this time. . . .
Demorest’s Monthly Magazine, March 1873
Demorest’s Monthly Magazine, March 1873
Jenny June Bids Farewell to Our Favorite Novice New Yorker
Last week, I waved Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott off on the voyage across the Atlantic which would take her back to Scotland. Having graced us with her presence for five years, she is now returning to her ancestral home. I am sure that I am not the only one who will miss her.
Lady Margaret delighted readers with her monthly journal in this periodical. While many incomers to the Metropolis insist that they intend to immerse themselves in the city, what they actually mean is that they intend to play the tourist and see all the sights. They consider themselves true New Yorkers if they have waited in line at Delmonico’s or braved a ride on a streetcar, but they do not seek out the Gotham beyond their guide-books, which is precisely what Lady Margaret did—and more! Not content with joining the crowds on the ferry to Coney Island in the heat of August, she went sea-bathing in a hired suit. Though she never managed to prefer coffee to tea in the morning, she was happy to sample the many and varied cuisines this city offers, from baked beans and succotash to pumpkin pie; oyster stew; and her favourite, beer with sauerkraut and smoked German sausage.
Lady Margaret’s desire to explore all aspects of the city took her to places where few people venture, tourists or residents alike, and it is in the infamous Five Points district where she has left her most enduring legacy. The Children’s Sanctuary which she worked so tirelessly to establish has been extended several times since it was opened almost two years ago, and the model is now being replicated in other needy areas of the city.
“I would do almost anything to make a child smile,” Lady Margaret told me not once but several times, when the battle to fund her Sanctuary looked to be lost. It is to her great credit that she fought on, and the battle was eventually won against the odds.
On a personal note, I will miss my friend and her sparkling company very much. She will be a huge loss to the Sanctuary, and to Five Points, but she will also be missed in the mansions of
Fifth Avenue. I do not doubt that her natural curiosity, her innate kindness, and her irrepressible spirit will lead her to fight new causes in her homeland.
Will she triumph? Readers will be delighted to know that Lady Margaret is not entirely lost to us. Her “Journal of a New Yorker Returning to Her Roots” will debut in next month’s issue. I am sure I am not alone in looking forward to it immensely.
Chapter Forty-Three
Scottish Highlands, Thursday, 11 September 1873
“Your father is most put-out to be marooned in London, and concerned Her Majesty will take offence at his absence,” the duchess said. “But since the queen only informed Lochiel yesterday that she planned to call on him tomorrow, she cannot possibly imagine he will have been able to conjure a significant welcoming party at such short notice.”
Or that the party would include me, Margaret thought, gazing out at the view as the train puffed towards their destination after a somewhat complicated journey into the Highlands. Though Donald would know by now that she was coming, for Mama had sent a telegram. When she had proposed that Margaret deputise for the duke, it had seemed like an excellent opportunity for her to lay the ghosts of their past, but the closer she got to their destination, the more she wondered if she was ready for this encounter.
Her mother knew nothing of their friendship and would have been astounded if she knew how close it had come to marriage. Margaret had consciously refrained from asking any questions, anxious not to arouse her suspicions. Was Donald looking forward to seeing her? After all this time, he was most likely indifferent, especially if he was happily married, which she truly hoped he was. She hoped he loved his Helen, and was loved in return, and that when she saw them together it would put paid to any of her own residual feelings for him, once and for all. She had to knock him off the pedestal she had created for him and clear the way for the possibility of finding love herself, a possibility she finally felt ready to consider. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life alone. But first she had to prove to herself that Donald was not an obstacle to her future happiness.
“You are eerily quiet,” Mama said, as the train began to slow for the approach to the station.
Roused from her reverie, Margaret smiled apologetically. “The view is so beautiful, I was quite distracted,” she said, which was partially true. “I wonder what my father’s reaction will be when he discovers that I have taken his place?”
“He is in no position to object,” the duchess said dryly. “Besides, I am sure the queen will be very pleased to see you again. The royal party are to drive from Inverlochy Castle tomorrow, where they are on a little sketching holiday. Poor Lochiel has no idea when they will arrive or for how long they plan to stay. You know how it is with Her Majesty when she is in Scotland. She will say that she wishes the call to be quite informal with no ceremony, and has no notion of the amount of preparation it takes to receive her, informally or otherwise. Thank heavens I had a decent plaid gown to bring with me.”
“And thank heavens that Mary’s tartan dress fitted me.”
“Your younger sister is very like you in figure and in temperament.”
“Oh, poor Mary.”
Mama laughed. “You know perfectly well I meant it as a compliment. It is a shame that Louise isn’t with the queen, but I believe she will only have Princess Beatrice with her.”
“Oh, Louise is far too busy for jaunts to Scotland. She is redecorating the private apartment in Kensington Palace she has been granted, and so excited to finally to have space to create a sculpting studio of her own. Her letters are full of her designs and plans. She is absolutely determined to have it reflect her personal taste, which I suppose is no surprise, after having endured the queen’s more sombre preferences for so long.”
“She and Lorne seem to spend an inordinate amount of time apart.” The duchess pursed her lips. “I am assuming that there is no substance to the latest round of speculation in the press, that she will shortly be making an addition to the house of Argyll?”
“Not that I am aware, though she does not confide in me as she once did, and even if she did . . .”
“You would not break her confidence. Quite right. You are a very loyal friend. It is a pity that you have managed to see her only the once since your return.”
“She has a very full calendar, but I am delighted she made the effort to come to Edinburgh especially to see me. It was wonderful to finally meet face-to-face again. It’s been such a long time.”
“How does being married suit her?”
“Louise has never been one to give much away.” Her friend had been vivacious, garrulous almost, over the dinner they had shared in Edinburgh last month, but when Margaret attempted to steer their conversation onto a more personal level, the drawbridge was hoisted up. “It was bound to be a little awkward, given the gap, but by the end, it was just like old times.”
“Did she find you much changed? What does she make of your Sanctuary in Five Points?”
“We didn’t talk much about New York. Louise is involved with so many charitable endeavours herself. . . .”
“And she never could bear to be outshone.”
“Mama!”
“Yes, I know, that is unkind but perfectly true nonetheless. She is one of your oldest friends, and she ought to be proud of you. I know I am.”
“And you tell me so, at every opportunity. There really is no need. . . .”
“There is every need.” Mama took her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I know I also say this every time we meet, but I am so very pleased to have you home.”
“And I am very, very pleased to be here.”
“You don’t regret leaving New York?”
“Oh no, not a bit of it. I miss it and my friends there; but really, the world is not such a vast place as it seemed when I first crossed the Atlantic. I know I’ll visit one day. For now, I am very happy to be back in Scotland. I knew the moment the train started to pull in at Waverley station back in March that this is where I belong. We came through the tunnel, and I saw the big grey bulk of the castle looming over me. When I stepped onto the platform, I was surrounded by Scottish voices; and even though it had been seven long years since I’d set foot here—” Margaret broke off, smiling sheepishly. “You’ve read my first piece for Demorest’s, I don’t need to repeat it verbatim.”
Her mother smiled warmly. “I am so relieved that the closeness we established in our correspondence continues to thrive. Your father . . .”
“Oh, let us not spoil things by talking of him.”
“He will never admit it, but he is astonished by what you have achieved, Margaret. The fact that he has not once mentioned stopping your allowance should have told you at least that he no longer opposes the choices you have made.”
“Though he cannot endorse them!”
“No, that would be quite beyond him, but he makes no objection to my visiting you and even staying overnight in that little town house you have rented on Heriot Row, though Dalkeith is only seven miles from the city. What’s more, when I suggested that I could help raise funds for your Edinburgh sanctuary, he said he expected no less.”
“I’m delighted that we will be working together.”
“As am I. I wish I could spare you more time, but I have so many other commitments and spend far less time in Edinburgh than I would like. Ah, here we are. I believe Lochiel has arranged a carriage for us. All we need to do is find a porter for our luggage.”
A mere twenty minutes later they were on their way, following a sinuous road along the banks of a river. The nerves which Margaret had quelled now set her stomach roiling, making her wish that she had eschewed her boiled egg at breakfast. It was less than fifteen miles to their destination. In two hours, perhaps less, she would see Donald again.
My home is the Achnacarry Estate in Invernesshire, near the little village of Spean Bridge, and just north of the town of Fort William. The land is rugged, with some fine woods, and the castle itself sits low on the ter
rain, not far from Loch Arkaig, where I am thinking of building a new pier to allow a steamer to berth. She still had the letter he had written to her in Ireland. She still had all his letters. I think you would like it, Margaret. I know that I would very much like to show it to you one day.
And now that day had arrived, but she would not be arriving as the estate’s future mistress, only as additional ballast to the guests he and his wife had assembled to greet the queen. She smoothed an imaginary crease out of the olive-green travelling gown that Mama had been astonished to learn she had bought ready-made. It was quite plain, a pleated hem and cuffs and a row of pearl buttons on the bodice the only trimmings, but she had long ago given up any attempt to be fashionable and the colour suited her. Would Donald think her much changed? Perhaps she would find him much altered? What would Helen look like? And goodness, would they have children? It hadn’t even occurred to her until now. Mama had made no mention of children, but then Mama had no notion at all that Margaret and Donald were anything other than acquaintances. Which they were not, now.
“This must be Loch Lochy,” the duchess said, leaning out of the window. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Beautiful,” Margaret agreed, gazing out at the wooded banks of the loch, the hills behind looking blue rather than green. The road turned away from the loch to follow the banks of another river and the terrain became much more lush, the mountains more rugged. They had left Dalkeith in mizzle. As they journeyed north the skies had darkened and the rain had fallen with determined ferocity, but now the skies were clear, with only a few harmless puffy clouds drifting on the horizon. Through the open window of the carriage came the scent of spruce trees and bracken, the rush of the river, and the rumble of the coach wheels on the rutted road.
Her Heart for a Compass Page 40