THE CITY OF NEW YORK boasted so many attractions it would be easy, Margaret quickly realised, to spend the next few months as a tourist. But since she planned to settle here, she must do more than see the sights, she must engage with the locals. The growing stack of calling cards on the table in her hotel suite offered her ample opportunity to do this, though the sheer volume of them as she laid them out like playing cards was daunting. She was tempted to close her eyes and select one at random, but as ever, Marion’s good sense prevailed.
“When in doubt, start at the top,” she advised.
So it was that three days after their arrival in the city, they set out to pay their first call. The snow had melted, but a hard frost had set in overnight, making the sidewalks glitter. They decided to walk the short distance from their hotel, and set out just before noon, dressed for the weather rather than the occasion, in thick cloaks and boots.
Mrs. William Astor occupied what Margaret now knew to call a brown-stone at number 350 Fifth Avenue. It was a square town house four stories high, separated from the sidewalk by a low balustrade and a neat flight of steps leading up to a door flanked by two pillars. This was opened by a liveried footman in an eye-catching combination of green coat, red waistcoat, white knee breeches, and black silk stockings.
“Good morning,” Margaret said, smiling and holding out her visiting card. “Is Mrs. Astor at home? Then you will tell her, if you please, that Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott is returning her call.”
After a moment’s hesitation, they were ushered into a large marble-floored reception area where the footman took their cloaks, gloves, and hats, then bade them follow him upstairs. The plain façade of the Astor town house belied an opulent interior. Heavy tapestries hung from the walls, jostling for space with large paintings in gilded frames, most of them still lifes, doubtless Old Masters, but rather dull nonetheless. On the first floor, there were an array of busts and bronzes on plinths. There was not, Margaret noted with amusement, a single set of antlers in sight. Presumably because Julia’s husband had cornered the world market.
“Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott and Mrs. Scrymgeour,” the footman intoned, ushering them into a large drawing-room that had the gracious proportions of the Regency era. The classical elegance was lost however, as the room was so crowded with chairs and sofas, tables cluttered with Sèvres figures, flower arrangements, and curios that it was with some difficulty that Margaret managed to prevent her crinoline from knocking anything over.
“Lady Margaret, this is a most unexpected surprise. How do you do?” The woman who got to her feet was nondescript in appearance, the kind of woman who would have been called homely were it not for her intent grey eyes and her reputation as the doyenne of New York society. Mrs. William Astor was as plain in person as the façade of her home, her severe black gown augmented only by a small lace ruffle at the neck, with none of her legendary diamonds on display.
“I am so sorry,” Margaret said, eyeing the gentleman who had also got to his feet. “I didn’t realise you already had company.”
“Oh, Lina and I are such close friends, I don’t count as company. Samuel Ward McAllister at your service, Lady Margaret.”
The gentleman looked to be in his forties and like Mrs. Astor’s, his dress was plain to the point of funereal. Perhaps, Margaret thought as he bowed over her hand, to compensate for his hair which, despite the Macassar oil which he had applied so copiously that she could smell it, had failed to tame the grizzled curls which looked as if they were beating a hasty retreat from his high domed forehead. His goatee and absurdly long moustaches looked as if they had been badly knitted from thin wire; and she could see, as he made a decidedly shallow bow, that Marion was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Please do sit,” Mrs. Astor said. “And you, too, Samuel.”
“Strictly speaking, I should leave,” Mr. Ward said, resuming his seat. “But since you have, albeit inadvertently, broken the rules, Lady Margaret, I am sure you will not object to my bending them just a little further. It is the custom here,” he continued in response to her blank look, “to leave a card before paying a call, but I assure you we take no offence.”
“Oh, none at all,” Mrs. Astor said.
“Well,” Marion said rather dryly, “that is a relief.”
“Mrs. Scrymgeour, isn’t it? I am afraid I am not familiar with the name.”
“Mrs. Scrymgeour’s late husband was one of Her Majesty’s diplomats,” Margaret explained.
“Were you ever attached to the embassy in Paris? No? What a shame. It is a marvellous city,” Mrs. Astor said. “I myself go to Paris every spring, to buy my new season’s gowns. There is nowhere like it.”
“I am looking forward to shopping here in New York. I have never been to a department store. I am told that in A. T. Stewart’s one can buy anything from a mousetrap to a—a . . .”
“A throne,” Marion quipped, as Margaret floundered, making her giggle.
Mrs. Astor’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, the famed British sense of irony. I will be more than happy to supply you with a list of the best shops if you are thinking of refreshing your wardrobe. You may mention my name.”
“No-one could give you better advice than Lina in matters of lady’s fashion,” Mr. McAllister chimed in, “though in all other matters, you may turn to me with confidence.”
“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Astor said, bestowing a warm smile upon the man who, Margaret had decided, reminded her of a supercilious newt. “Samuel is the arbiter of taste here in New York. In fact, I would go so far as to say that there is no-one, save myself, of course, who understands the intricacies and nuances of society more. He was just helping me finalise the supper menus for my ball. You will receive an invitation in due course, Lady Margaret. And Mrs. Scrymgeour, too.”
“Lina’s ball is the most exclusive event of the season. You have no idea the lengths some people will go to, to obtain an invite. A woman who shall remain nameless recently accosted me at a soirée, determined to persuade me there existed a tenuous connection between her family and a cousin of a cousin of Lina’s.” Mr. McAllister tittered. “Needless to say no invitation will be forthcoming. You, however, are a different matter entirely, Lady Margaret. No-one could question your lineage. All doors will be open to the daughter of the Duke of Buckley? Buckluck? Is that how it is pronounced?”
“Buccleuch,” Marion corrected him. “It rhymes with clue, as in ‘haven’t a clue.’”
“I believe you were one of the bridesmaids at Princess Helena’s wedding, Lady Margaret,” Mr. McAllister continued, blandly ignoring this intervention.
“An honour earned through my mother.”
“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Astor said. “I had heard that the duchess is great friends with the queen. Is it true that Her Majesty wore black to her daughter’s wedding?”
“The queen never wears anything other than black.”
“Such a difficult colour for some to carry off as well as I can. Especially when they are lacking in inches. I do feel Her Majesty would be better advised to try softer tones. Grey, for example.”
“Yes?” Margaret said, nonplussed. Was Mrs. Astor imagining that she would pass her suggestion on to the queen? Louise would have been tickled by this. If only Lou were here—but, no, of all things, Louise loathed pretentiousness and toadying. She would have made mincemeat of Mrs. Astor’s chief courtier, for there was no doubt that was the role Mr. McAllister had allotted to himself.
“How long do you intend to grace us with your presence, Lady Margaret?” he now asked her.
“I plan to make New York my home, and Mrs. Scrymgeour’s, too, for the foreseeable future.”
“Really? Will you take a town house? I would be more than happy to advise you—”
“I am sure you would,” Marion intervened, “but Margaret and I are looking forward to combining a little sight-seeing with house-hunting, aren’t we, my dear?”
“We have acquired a guide-book. Lloyd’s Pocket Companion and Guide through New York City. It contains a number of walks we intend to explore.”
“Walks! Are you not intending to purchase your own carriage?”
“Hansom cabs are more than sufficient for our needs, and I am looking forward to riding on the streetcars,” Margaret said.
“Ha, very good joke.” Mr. McAllister’s laugh was unconvincing. “If your guide-book was written before yesterday, it will be obsolete already, you know. When you’re ready for some up-to-date advice, then I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Thank you. Now, I am unsure of local conventions, but in England a morning call should not last more than half an hour, so you will excuse us.”
“Very proper,” Mr. McAllister agreed. “I shall tell everyone that I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and Lina will, too, no doubt. I predict that you will be in danger of drowning in invitations before the week is out.”
“Toad,” Marion said under her breath when they had said their goodbyes and were reclaiming their cloaks.
“I rather thought newt,” Margaret replied with a grim smile. “I have crossed the Atlantic to escape being dictated to. I am seriously tempted to seek out the most unfashionable address in the city, just to ensure that I am never accused of having paid heed to him.”
“I know exactly how you feel, but you will not take a word of advice from me amiss, my dear, will you? Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. It requires little effort to keep a man like Mr. McAllister sweet. Snubbing him might give you fleeting satisfaction, but why make an unnecessary enemy of him? Let him have his say; that is all his vanity requires. Then you may smile and do precisely what you please.”
“Dear Marion, you are so wise. And I promise, I will not ask you to live in a hovel, not even to spite Mr. McAllister.”