New York, April 1869
RETURNING FROM HER AFTERNOON STINT at the mission, Margaret bathed and changed. The fashion for a bustle with skirts drawn back and pinned like a pair of drapes continued to reign in New York society, forcing the wearer in the most extreme cases to lean forward in order to prevent herself toppling backwards on her heels. The posture, known as the Grecian bend, was subject to much ridicule in the press for giving rise to physical discomfort. Margaret eschewed this particular trend, having no intention of replacing her hated crinoline with another instrument of torture unless it was absolutely necessary. Gone were the days of requiring a maid to help her to dress or of having her corset laced to a specified circumference. For her occasional forays into polite society, heeding Marion’s advice to keep every door open, she wore a small bustle and perched fashionably sideways when she sat down, but on all other occasions she kept her undergarments to a minimum of petticoats and sat squarely and comfortably on her chair to write. She would never be willow-like, but she had grown accustomed to her natural curves and much preferred them to anything enhanced by bustles, crinolines, or corsets.
Arrayed in a gown in her favourite turquoise with a dark-blue jacket, she set out for Delmonico’s, where she had arranged to meet Mary Louise and Jane for dinner. The restaurant, on Fourteenth and Fifth, near Union Square, was a ten-minute walk away. Last year Jane had, despite her best efforts, failed to persuade the Press Club to invite any female writers to the dinner given in honour of Charles Dickens unless they stayed hidden behind a curtain. Defiantly, she had, with Mary Louise and several other like-minded businesswomen, formed the Sorosis Club. Lorenzo Delmonico has offered them the use of the private dining room for their inaugural meeting, the first restaurant in New York to admit a ladies’ only club, and since then Jane and Mary Louise had become regular customers.
Tonight was not a club event, with just the three of them for dinner, which meant waiting in line with the rest of the diners, for Delmonico’s policy was to offer tables on a first-come, first-served basis. When Margaret had first explained this in a letter last year, Julia had been outraged, not only by the notion of ladies actually queuing up to eat but by the idea of ladies dining in public. Victoria, in contrast, made no secret in her letters that she envied the various freedoms Margaret enjoyed and relished reading every detail of her shopping trips as well as the delights of Delmonico’s extremely expensive menu. In fact, Margaret found the atmosphere of hushed reverence in the luxurious restaurant rather overpowering, and the food too rich for her taste—though Marion had revelled in it—but she was looking forward to catching up with Jane and Mary Louise.
She arrived early, and having ascertained that neither of them were in front of her, she took her place. Her friends had still not arrived by the time she reached the head of the line, and she was in the process of informing the maître d’hôtel that she was expecting two friends, when a stranger approached her. Dressed in an expensive brown wool suit, he looked to be around thirty. With short dark hair and brown eyes, he had the kind of frank, open expression that made him neither classically handsome nor memorable but genially attractive.
“Excuse me, miss. I wonder, if you are still waiting on your friends to arrive, would you mind giving your position up?” he asked, indicating three older men standing some way back in the queue.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ah, you are English. A visitor to New York, no doubt. I hope you are enjoying your stay in our fine city. Now, if you could oblige me, I would very much appreciate—”
“I am Scottish actually,” Margaret interrupted, irked by his smooth, urbane manner, “and I am not a visitor but a resident with no requirement to oblige you. The policy, as every New Yorker knows, is that you wait in line at Delmonico’s no matter who you are.”
“I am aware of the policy,” the man replied equably, his smile remaining annoyingly fixed in place. “I dine here regularly. If you could see your way to accommodating my request, I would be happy to pay for your meal—and for your friends, too, for I assume you are not dining alone.”
“Whether I am or not,” Margaret said, her hackles rising, “is frankly none of your business.”
“Your dining companions are late, or you are early,” the man persisted. “Why take up a table when you could—”
“Surrender it to someone who can’t be bothered waiting?” Margaret snapped, by now thoroughly rattled.
“Do a fellow a good turn, will you not, miss? I wouldn’t normally ask, but we are running late, and are expected at another engagement in just over an hour, so—”
“Then you will have to choose between arriving late or arriving hungry. And here are my friends,” Margaret said, waving to Mary Louise and Jane. “If you will excuse us. Come, ladies,” she said, turning her back and following a waiter into the dining room.
“What on earth was that all about?” Mary Louise asked, as they sat down. “You look quite flustered.”
“Some entitled fellow in a suit tried to bribe me into giving up our place in the line. The gall of him!”
“Who was he?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Oh my, we are in exalted company tonight!” Jane nodded over at the doorway, where a party of four were being ushered in. “The one with the whiskers is Cornelius Vanderbilt. I’m surprised you don’t recognise him—he’s the richest man in New York.”
“And the one on his right is his eldest son, William,” Mary Louise informed her. “I think that’s Goelet on his left, the founder of the Chemical Bank.”
“The young man with them, raising his glass and smiling over at us, is the man who accosted me. Clearly the people next in line had no qualms about accepting a free dinner,” Margaret said, glowering.
“That’s Randolph Mueller,” Jane said. “He’s an attorney, a well-known deal maker. He creates trust funds, ties up property acquisitions, that sort of thing. Makes sure the rich stay rich and no doubt amasses a small fortune for himself in the process.”
“There’s nothing wrong with earning an honest crust,” Mary Louise said.
“If it is honest,” Jane said darkly, before shaking her head. “No, that’s not fair. One of the reasons he’s so successful is that Randolph Mueller is said to be clean as a whistle and sharp as a needle. Did he really try to bribe you with a free dinner, Margaret?”
“Three free dinners,” Margaret said contemptuously.
“We could have run up an enormous bill, and those four wouldn’t have batted an eye,” Mary Louise said. “Champagne, a couple of bottles of good burgundy. And I could have had the woodcock. I’ve never had the woodcock here, for it is hideously expensive.”
“Mary Louise! You are surely not suggesting I should have accepted that man’s offer?”
“No, no, of course not. Goodness, Margaret, that man has got right under your skin.”
“He most certainly has not!” Margaret picked up her menu. “I probably wouldn’t even recognise him again if I passed him in the street.”