Lady Margaret to Julia, Viscountess Powerscourt

Washington Square, New York, 20 September 1868

Dear Julia,

I returned from my summer visit to Ferncliffe, Mrs. William Astor’s country retreat in Rhinebeck two weeks ago, but it already seems like months. New York is still stifling, with not a hint of autumn—or fall, I should say. The grass in the square is scorched to hay, and the leaves on the trees drooping with dust. In fact everyone seems to droop, exhausted by the summer. Even the boarders next door leave for work in the morning with a reluctant trudge rather than their usual brisk stride.

Mouse and Bina (Mary and Davina, to you!) had the house looking pristine for our return. I cannot tell you what a godsend those sisters are—tell Breda she is an angel for recommending them. They showed every sign of being pleased to welcome Marion and me back, though they assured me that they enjoyed the free time and have been regaling me with tales of Coney Island and day trips on the Hudson Bay steamer which sound like far more fun than the sedate picnics and highly uncompetitive archery that Mrs. Astor considers entertainment. Though I really have no grounds for complaint, for I was permitted to try out one of Mr. Astor’s mares, and he deemed me competent enough to grant me the use of her every day, which was a real treat.

Marion continues to enjoy the company of the exuberant Mr. Valentine. I have never before met anyone who could be described as rumbustious, but I think the word was invented just for him. You ask if he is vulgar, and the answer is that you would most certainly think so. He is never going to make Mr. McAllister’s list, that is for sure, though he once told me that if he ever did, he’d slit his own throat! I am no closer to understanding what the various endeavours are that generate his great wealth, though Marion has tried to explain it to me. She has an astonishing grasp of numbers and has even made a little money on the stock exchange here. Don’t ask me what that entails; I think it is like gambling—or as Mr. Valentine puts it, having a bit of a flutter.

You will doubtless be wondering what will become of this unlikely pair—though naturally you will refrain from asking me to speculate. I, however, being a New Yorker, have indulged my curiosity and put the question to Marion myself. She is having a fling, she tells me. Whatever that entails, it does not include marriage. I know, for I asked her that, too, and she said the most touching thing: Patrick is great company and he’s a lovely man, but no one can replace my Alexander. Where it will end, I know not, but I believe it will end sooner rather than later, for Marion has confessed to being homesick. Will you invite her to stay with you for a while, Julia, when next your husband is away? I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, it would do you both good.

I will end this overlong letter with some news of my own. My monthly “diary” in Demorest’s Magazine has proved so popular that they have commissioned me for another year at an increased rate, and have offered me very generous terms for three longer articles in what they call my “refreshing and lively” style. I enclose the September issue to keep safe under your pillow, since you tell me you enjoy it (oh, I do hope you are not simply being polite, dear Julia!). I am considering confessing my new career as a journalist to my sister, but have not yet decided, for fear it will put Mama in a tizzy about its offending my father. But if you had never heard of the magazine, then I cannot imagine how it would ever come to the duke’s attention.

And now I really must go, for I have some writing to do and time, as Mr. Valentine would say, consulting his solid gold fob watch, is money!

With great affection,

Margaret

P.S. You will be receiving a parcel from Macy’s at some point, containing a selection of towels which are cornflower blue to match your eyes!