New York, March 1868
SINCE THEIR ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK, Margaret and Marion had accepted invitations to countless balls and soirées, afternoon teas and dinners. They had attended an Offenbach operetta at the magnificent, newly opened Pike’s Opera House, a piano recital at Steinway Hall, and had the honour of sharing Mrs. William Astor’s box at the Academy of Music for a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor. For two women both starved, for very different reasons, of a social life, the warmth of their reception, the generosity of their various hosts, and the sheer variety of entertainments on offer made their first few weeks in this new country a giddy delight. New York society was governed by as many unwritten rules and conventions as its London equivalent, but to Mr. McAllister’s barely disguised chagrin, New Yorkers seemed inclined to be indulgent of Margaret’s inadvertent breaches of the strict rules of etiquette for which he took personal responsibility.
The social whirl had left little time for the business of house-hunting, so when the manager of the Fifth Avenue Hotel had discreetly offered the ladies a discounted rate for an annual lease of the suite they occupied, Margaret thought it worth considering. That was, until he revealed the so-called bargain rate, which was considerably more than her entire annual allowance.
“And to think I believed myself wealthy,” she had said to Marion, still in a state of shock.
“Seven hundred and fifty pounds a year is hardly penury,” Marion had pointed out. “You could comfortably keep a family, servants, and even a small carriage for that in England.”
“When you convert it into dollars, it is over five thousand, yet compared to almost everyone we have been socialising with, I am a relative pauper. I have never before had to bear the expense of my own home. It is shocking how ignorant I am of such things. As indeed Mr. McAllister is of my financial status. ‘One may live fashionably and entertain in modest style for a mere fifteen to twenty thousand a year,’” Margaret mimicked.
“What I’d like to know is how much commission he earns from his various recommendations,” Marion said disdainfully. “He has a friend with a conveniently empty town house, or he can put in a word at the Stevens House and obtain one of the better apartments for us. Ha! I’m sure he can, and line his pockets into the bargain.”
“I could just about afford an apartment in the Stevens House, though.”
“If all you wanted to do was stay in and treat a ride on the steam elevator as entertainment. No, we must look farther downtown. I am sure the rental will decrease in tandem with the street numbers.”
Marion had been proved correct, but they had viewed several properties and were beginning to lose heart when the house on Washington Square became available, on a crisp, cold Monday in the middle of March.
“According to our guide-book,” Margaret said, “this park was once a burial ground known as potter’s field.”
“Presumably the bodies have been relocated. Although they certainly would make for quiet neighbours,” Marion said, as they strolled through the pleasant green space bounded with low iron railings, with a fountain and some fine trees just coming into bud.
They were to view the middle of a row of town houses bordering the northern side. Built of red brick, the elegant façades were fronted by white marble stairs leading up to an entrance with Ionic columns. “This reminds me of Merrion Square in Dublin,” Margaret said as they approached it. “I think it might be the one.”
“If you don’t mind being surrounded by boarding-houses. This square is certainly not a fashionable address.”
“Not yet. Wait until we move in, we’ll set a new fashion,” Margaret retorted, smiling at the real estate agent, who was waiting for them on the stoop.
“Two bedrooms, two parlours, and a bathroom for eighteen hundred dollars per annum,” Marion said an hour later, having persuaded the agent that he had waxed lyrical enough and should leave them alone to discuss the matter. “We will need help to run the household.”
“Two maids, provided one could double up to cook, the agent suggested would be more than sufficient. He said that would add another four hundred a year.” Margaret giggled. “Listen to me! If Mama could hear me, she would be horrified.”
“Nonsense. Every woman should have a solid grasp of her accounts. There is nothing like being in debt for keeping you awake at night. Alexander left me as poor as a church mouse. Foolish man, he had allowed himself to be cajoled into investing in copper mines that never produced an ounce of copper. When I found out after he died that I was pretty much penniless, I was furious—not that he’d lost all his money but that he’d kept it a secret from me. However,” Marion continued, shaking her head, “there was nothing to be done about it. I could bemoan my fate and be miserable, or I could cut my cloth accordingly, and get on with the business of enjoying life.”
“It’s an admirable philosophy.” Margaret looked out of the parlour window onto the square beyond. “Is it horribly ungrateful of me to say that I am a little bored with this constant round of parties, especially when everyone has been so kind and generous.”
Marion perched on the window seat beside her. “Are you beginning to regret coming here?”
“No, I had to get away.” Margaret sighed. “I want my life here to be different, and at the moment it’s in danger of becoming horribly familiar. Don’t get me wrong—I know how fortunate I am, and I know that most women would be thrilled to be in my position. Oh dear, I sound like a malcontent.”
“You’re a restless spirit, and that’s a very different thing. By that I mean you are not so much interested in the destination, it’s the journey you enjoy. Rather like myself.”
“Is that more of your homespun philosophy?”
“If you like.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Stop fretting so much about the future. What’s for you, as my old mother used to say, won’t go by you.”
Margaret smiled. “Like this house? Do you think it’s meant for us? It feels right. I know that’s not a very practical reason for taking it on, but . . .”
“Oh, don’t underestimate it. And as it happens I agree with you, though it will cost a pretty penny to furnish. We should take a look at the New York Times. There are any number of household auctions advertised in it—there are bound to be some good practical furnishings and carpets amongst the plethora of oil paintings, statuary, and mirrors.”
“House clearances following a death, you mean?”
“More usually a financial demise. One can get rich quickly in this city, and lose everything even more rapidly. I’m sure we could pick up a few bargains, particularly if you crave a seven-octave pianoforte with ebony inlay. There seems to be at least one in every sale.”
Margaret giggled. “Musical soirées were the bane of Mama’s life. She had a theory. ‘The less talent a young lady possesses,’ she used to say, ‘the more protracted her performance.’” An unexpected lump rose in her throat. “I miss her.”
“And you know from your sister Victoria that the feeling is mutual,” Marion said, patting Margaret’s arm.
“Yes, but I wish that she could write to me herself.”
“Keep out of trouble, and perhaps your father will relent.”
“He won’t, ever; and as long as I am beholden to him, Mama will not risk going against his wishes for fear he will withdraw my allowance.”
“Then perhaps you should find a way not to be beholden to him.”
Margaret stared at her in astonishment. “How will I do that?”
Marion spread her hands. “This is the Land of Opportunity, remember? You are a resourceful and charming young woman. I am sure you can find a way if you put your mind to it. In fact, perhaps we should both put our minds to it.”
“That is an excellent idea,” Margaret said, giving Marion a hug. “And in the meantime, we shall take a lease on this house and make my father’s hush-money work for me, not him. You see, I am starting to think like an American already!”