MARGARET HAD VISITED THE SHOPPING DISTRICT known as the Ladies’ Mile several times with Marion, but this was the first time she had ever ventured there on her own. It was still a novel experience for her to be out and about without an escort, and she couldn’t help but feel that she was doing something scandalous. However, the throngs of shoppers she joined, disgorged from private carriages, hansom cabs, and streetcars in front of their emporium of choice, were almost all women. Some were accompanied by their maids; some were with friends; but others, like her, were alone.
The array of stores seemed to change, like the city of New York itself, at a bewildering rate. As people moved uptown, so department stores followed, with both the ladies’ outfitter Lord & Taylor and the jeweller Tiffany’s, known as the palace of jewels, in the process of building new premises. The pace at which New York and New Yorkers moved filled Margaret with a mixture of excitement and awe. New buildings seemed to appear overnight, every one of them more imposing than its neighbour. Her neck hurt from craning it to look upwards at the stores built of iron and glass, Crystal Palaces on a towering scale, flaunting their wares in a manner that the staid London shops would consider vulgar. The welcome they extended was very different, too. Every customer was treated identically, greeted with an enthusiasm that would appal a London shopkeeper eager to disdainfully look down his nose at those he deemed unworthy of his emporium.
At Fourteenth Street Margaret left Broadway to head over to Sixth, and Macy’s with its distinctive red star beside the name. She dallied in front of the window display, marvelling that such mundane items as sheets and towels and blankets could be made to look so attractive. One window, set out like a child’s nursery complete with a large cradle and a doll’s house, made her think of Julia, who had been alone at Powerscourt since Margaret left. Her last letter had been full of her plans for the gardens, which, she had written, she could at least be reasonably sure would bloom. Julia, whose linen cupboards were a hymn to domesticity, would thoroughly enjoy a shopping trip in New York. Resolving to recount it for her in detail, and mindful of how much she had to acquire on the budget she had worked out with Marion’s help, Margaret entered the store.
Two hours later, she headed for A. T. Stewart’s on Broadway between Ninth and Tenth Streets, just five minutes from Washington Square, to complete her shopping. Known as the Iron Palace, each of the floors and galleries of this magnificent dry goods store were filled with light from the huge windows and the glass dome which soared above the central atrium. After another extensive bout of purchasing, during which Margaret reckoned she must have walked several miles between the various departments, her feet were beginning to protest.
Pausing on the landing of the fourth floor, she looked about her and was struck by one of those strange sensations that assailed her every now and then: that she wasn’t really here at all but merely dreaming. The vista before her, of the tiers of galleries, the vast ground-floor atrium, and the glass roof high above through which the grey winter sky could be seen put her in mind of an enormous theatre. The cast of thousands, almost all women, promenaded below and around her, circling the counters, viewing the goods, consulting their lists and their friends. On each gallery there were more people, a chorus of women that never stilled. And above her, in the workrooms behind the scenes, there would be more women sewing and altering clothes; there would be clerks making up accounts and delivery men packing items. The range of goods on offer was dazzling, from clothes to carpets, china and toys from all over the world. And the women themselves were from every walk of life—New Yorkers, immigrants, and tourists—each customer treated in the same way whether she was buying a box of pins or furnishing a mansion.
What would Mama think if she could see Margaret now, standing quite alone and unobserved in the midst of all this activity, this world within a world? It was liberating, to blend into the crowd, but at the same time it made her acutely aware that she was not yet one of them. Her days were filled, yet she still felt purposeless. And her feet were aching. Deciding to take a rest in the Ladies’ Parlour which she had heard of but never visited, she made her way to the second floor.
The parlour was set out like a drawing-room, with clusters of chairs and sofas in groups. Most of them were occupied, and when Margaret stood uncertainly in the doorway, she found herself the unwelcome object of attention. New Yorkers did not disguise their interest when it was aroused, and though she knew they were not being rude, the women’s scrutiny scraped away her thin veneer of newly acquired confidence. Fortunately an attendant came to her rescue, ushering her to a free chair with a friendly smile and informing her discreetly that the facilities were in the next room, should she need to use them.
Imagining Mama’s horror at the mention of this very practical amenity made Margaret smile to herself. Across from her, a petite woman in a grey gown smiled back at her, clearly thinking the smile had been intended for her. Embarrassed, Margaret sat down and pretended to consult her shopping list, but the woman was not to be put off, and came over to join her.
“Excuse me. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting, but are you by any chance Lady Margaret Scott?”
She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties and had brown hair and blue eyes the colour of Margaret’s own, an open smile, and an unexpected accent. “You’re English,” Margaret replied in surprise.
“Originally, though I came here as a child almost thirty years ago. I am Mrs. Jane Cunningham Croly,” she said, holding out her card. “And now that I’ve heard you speak, I know you must be Lady Margaret. I do love a Scotch accent.”
“How do you do?” Margaret said, getting to her feet.
“I do very well, thank you. You’re thinking I’ve taken a real liberty accosting you like this, I can see. I should explain that I am a journalist, better known to my readers as Jenny June. Oh no,” she added, as Margaret instinctively shrank back, “I’m not a hack in search of scandal; and, though I will confess that I do write two gossip columns, they are both of them perfectly harmless, I promise.”
“Is there such a thing as a harmless gossip column?”
“Oh, dear, that is the reaction of one who has been badly burned, if I’m not mistaken, but I assure you mine are really very tame. I swear I couldn’t publish a fraction of the things I hear right here in this room.”
“Really?”
“The Ladies’ Parlour is notorious for tittle-tattle. Trust me, that little coterie over there aren’t comparing the price of table linen,” Mrs. Croly said. “A long day’s shopping, weary feet, and a soft seat loosen the tongue. Now, please feel free to say no, but if you’d like to join my friend and me, then we’d be very pleased to have your company. That’s Mary Louise Booth, who has written a history of New York and who is the editor of a magazine called Harper’s Bazar which launched last year,” she added, nodding over at the other woman.
Two female journalists, and both of them looked entirely respectable, yet Margaret hesitated. Mama would politely decline the invitation. Louise would tell her that no journalist was to be trusted. But Marion—hadn’t Marion exhorted her to enjoy all that New York had to offer? And here were two women who actually made their living from writing. “Thank you,” Margaret said, “I would be delighted to join you.”
Mrs. Croly beamed. “Come along, then. Mary Louise,” she said, as the other woman got to her feet, “this is Lady Margaret Scott. Lady Margaret, this is Miss Mary Louise Booth.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Margaret.”
The woman who extended her hand was strong-featured, with a generous mouth and a rather prepossessing nose, but there was an air of quiet self-possession about her, of a woman confident in herself, that drew Margaret to her instantly. “Miss Booth, how do you do?”
Like Mrs. Croly, she laughed at the question as the three of them sat down. “I do very well, thank you.”
“Lady Margaret is worried I’ll write something scandalous about her,” Mrs. Croly said.
“In one of Jenny June’s columns? Clearly she’s not familiar with them. Jane—Jenny June to her many, many readers—writes gossip of the elevating and informative kind. You know, how to climb a ladder without showing your ankles or the polite way to blow your nose in public.”
“I do not!” Mrs. Croly said, laughing. “Honestly, Mary Louise, just because I’m not permitted to write on any serious, manly subjects doesn’t mean that what I do write is pointless.”
“You know I’m only teasing you,” Miss Booth said, tapping Mrs. Croly’s arm affectionately. “Jane here,” she said, turning to Margaret, “has written a best-selling cookery book and is a past master at writing about serious subjects under the guise of feminine trivia.”
“Thank you, but I won’t deny that my columns for New York World and Sunday Times and Noah’s Weekly Messenger are frivolous. ‘Parlour and Side-Walk Gossip,’” Mrs. Croly added, rolling her eyes. “Now never mind me, Lady Margaret. Is it true that you are taking a house south of Thirteenth?”
“This is not an interview, Jane,” Miss Booth said sharply. “Tell us how you are enjoying New York, Lady Margaret.”
“I would say it’s the most exciting city I’ve ever visited, but since I’m not very well-travelled, that is hardly saying much.”
“What appeals to you most?” Mrs. Croly asked.
“Well, this, I suppose,” Margaret replied. “Shopping alone. Sitting in a parlour in a department store talking to two women with careers. None of this would have happened in London, where one must be introduced by another acquaintance, so that one never meets anyone new—or at least, one is not supposed to.”
“Do I sense that you broke a few rules, Lady Margaret?” Mrs. Croly leaned forward. “Do tell.”
But once again, Miss Booth intervened. “So women have more freedom in New York, you think? And yet Jane and I were just talking about how sick and tired we are of being told to be happy with our lot. Don’t stretch your tiny little minds to the limit by writing about politics or science, just tell us what colour is in this season and whether the crinoline is going to give way to the bustle.”
“I wish it would,” Margaret said. “If ever there was a test of woman’s ingenuity, it is getting in and out of a carriage in a crinoline.”
“You should try riding a streetcar in one. Or perhaps you have?” Mrs. Croly said.
“Not yet, but when I do, I shall note down my thoughts and send them to you for your column,” Margaret retorted.
“Ha! She has your measure, Jane.”
“You know, that’s not such a bad idea. Have you any writing experience, Lady Margaret? Are you a great letter writer?”
“I don’t know what you mean by great. I do write home regularly. . . .”
“And describe your life here? Your thoughts? What you like about New York, how it differs from London?”
“And Dublin, for my friend Julia’s sake.”
“Excellent! Then I have a proposition for you, Lady Margaret. How do you fancy writing a piece for me?” Mrs. Croly asked. “You can simply draft it up if you like. I can finesse it for publication.”
“Actually . . .” Margaret hesitated. Would these two erudite women think her stories trivial? You are a published author! She could almost hear Donald urging her not to hide her light under a bushel! “Actually, I have already been published. I’ve written a book of children’s stories. It was published in December last year—a cheap edition, which I believe has proved very popular, intended for use as a primer in schools.”
“Well!” Mrs. Croly exclaimed. “That is very interesting.”
“It was a charitable endeavour, privately funded, I was not paid for it.”
“I wasn’t paid a single cent for any of my writing when I first started out,” Miss Booth said, “and I barely made enough from the first edition of my history of New York to feed myself. If you agree to write for me, then you will be paid a fair rate.”
“Mary Louise, I saw her first! Lady Margaret, I reckon if you wrote a little column—‘A Peeress in New York’—no, we can come up with a better title than that—then I can help you sell it. Demorest’s would love to publish it, I’m sure. And they will also pay you.”
“Lady Margaret, I can top that. I could have you published in the first-anniversary edition of Harper’s Bazar which will be out in November this year. Your name will appear on the list of contributors along with Charles Dickens—”
“You haven’t signed Dickens yet.”
“I will, if I can get invited to that blasted dinner at Delmonico’s.”
“You know they won’t let us in. No women allowed.”
“Even though it is for the Press Club, and you and I are both members.”
“Even though my own husband is on the board,” Mrs. Croly said grimly.
“I am determined to find a way. However, I am equally determined,” Miss Booth said, “to recruit Lady Margaret. What do you say? You could write me a sample column on a subject of your choosing. . . .”
“I’ve already offered her the opportunity to do that.”
“How about she does both and then everybody wins?”
The two women smiled at her expectantly. “I’m very flattered but I’ve never written for the press,” Margaret demurred.
“As I said earlier, we would be able to pay a fee.” Mrs. Croly quoted a figure that took Margaret aback. “It is high for a new writer, but your name will sell.”
“And I can pay the same rate. That is per article,” Miss Booth said.
“My name? Do you mean my real name would be printed?”
“Is that a problem?”
Her father would be furious. But her father was on the other side of the Atlantic. “Are your magazines published in England?” Two decisive shakes of the head were her answer. “Are these serious offers?”
“Very.” Miss Booth took a card from her purse and handed it to her. “We’ve ambushed you somewhat. Why don’t you think about it? Draft something and then we can talk more. There’s no rush.”
“And the same goes for me, though the sooner—ah no, you must take your time.” Mrs. Croly also gave her a card. “We will say no more on the subject for now; you must make your own mind up.”
I have already decided, Margaret wanted to say. But exciting and tempting as it was, she was determined not to rush into anything, and so she tucked the cards away in her purse, handing over two of her own before getting to her feet. “Thank you. I will be in touch.”
“I do hope so.” Miss Booth extended her hand again. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“A real pleasure,” Mrs. Croly said. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
“You will, one way or another. But for now,” Margaret said mischievously, “Jenny June may tell her readers that Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott and Mrs. Scrymgeour have signed the lease on a small town house on Washington Square. And that, I promise you, is what you call an exclusive.”
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Margaret said. “Should I accept their offers?”
Marion, who had never seen her so animated, resisted the urge to tell her to grab the unexpected opportunity with both hands. Margaret had pounced on Marion the moment she returned from the auction. Margaret’s eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed, barely giving Marion a chance to ease her aching feet from her boots. “I can see you’re all fired up. I take it that you want to write for them—both of them?”
“Yes, though I still can’t quite believe they asked me. Do you think that people will be interested in reading what I have to say? Both ladies wish to publish me under my real name. Perhaps they fear if I write anonymously, no-one will read it.”
“It’s certainly true that fewer people will read it.”
Margaret’s face fell. “So it’s only my name that interests them—is that what you mean?”
“Your name will gain you readers, but it is your writing that will keep them wanting more.”
“There was talk only of one article for each.”
“Miss Booth and Mrs. Croly are businesswomen. They want to taste and try before they buy, as everyone does here. If you come up with the goods, they’ll bite your hand off for more.”
Margaret laughed. “What an extraordinary way to put it.”
“I heard someone use that phrase today,” Marion said, smiling to herself at the memory.
“If my father ever found out, if he saw the family name in print, he’d be appalled and would very likely stop my allowance.”
Every time Margaret mentioned that bully of a father, Marion’s fists curled. He should admire his daughter, not denigrate her. If Margaret was her daughter, she’d be the proudest mother in the world. But there. “If your writing is successful, you may not need your allowance,” she pointed out. “Besides, it’s your name, too.”
“That’s true, and my father was happy enough to use it when he was trying to marry me off.”
Bravo! And about time, too, Marion thought. “Precisely,” she said.
“It hadn’t occurred to me that I could earn my living as Mrs. Croly and Miss Booth do. Now I have started to think about it, I have all sorts of ideas. My children’s stories, for example—but I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“There is nothing wrong with being ambitious, my dear. I take it you’ve decided to wield your pen, then?”
“I think I have. I would be foolish to let this opportunity pass, don’t you think? Dear Marion.” Margaret kissed her cheek. “I have wittered on enough about my day and I haven’t even asked you about yours. Did you enjoy the auction?”
“Actually, I don’t think that sort of auction is the place for us to acquire our household goods. We don’t need gilded chairs and marble-topped side tables, and we certainly don’t need a seven-octave pianoforte. Yes, there was one on offer, but there was a distinct lack of good practical furniture.”
“Oh dear. So it was a waste of time, then?”
“Not quite.” Marion bit back a smile. “I met someone there who has promised to help us.”
“Excellent. Who is she?”
“His name is Patrick Valentine. He’s an Irishman. A charming and very rich Irishman, actually, though I’m not quite sure how he made his money, for all he would tell me was that he has a finger in many pies. He came over here from Cork during the Great Famine.”
“Marion, are you blushing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We fell into conversation, that is all.”
“Clearly that is not all. Is he handsome?”
Marion chuckled. “In a bluff sort of way. He must be shrewd, ruthless even, to have come over on the boat with nothing but a pocketful of potatoes, as he put it, and make his fortune. He has what they call a touch of the Blarney. It’s his eyes, I think; they are the kind that twinkle when he laughs. He has a shock of white hair and a moustache that is waxed at the ends. He has an infectious smile too, and such a raucous laugh it made everyone stare. Oh dear, I’m not drawing a very attractive picture, am I?”
“A very intriguing one, though. Go on. Is he tall?”
“He’s certainly imposing. A big bear of a man, Not fat, but solid. The kind of man that makes even a woman of my proportions seem frail.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that. You are not fat, you are Rubensesque. No,” Margaret said, frowning at her, “don’t make a joke about it as you always do. As you are forever telling me not to do.”
“I stand corrected, my dear.”
“And another thing,” Margaret said, clearly warming to her task, “you talk as if you are in your dotage, which you are not. Mr. Patrick Valentine clearly doesn’t think so.”
“Actually, he has offered to take me shopping for bargains tomorrow. Do you mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind. As a wise woman once told me, you must embrace all that New York has to offer.”
“I hope you are not suggesting that might include Mr. Valentine.”
“Marion!”
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. I am only going shopping with the gentleman.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” Margaret said, looking entirely—and rightly—unconvinced, “will you please add a writing-desk to your list?”