Chapter Forty

Washington Square, New York, May 1870

IT’S AN EXCELLENT ARTICLE, MARGARET, very powerful and clearly spoken from the heart,” Randolph said, setting the copy of the Revolution newspaper down on her desk, “but how many people read this publication? A thousand?”

“Three thousand.”

“And I guess from your expression that there’s not been much of a response?”

“A few letters of support and that’s it. I don’t know what else to do,” Margaret said despondently. “I’ve tried to interest the wealthy people I know, to the point where I’m in danger of being ostracized from society, but to no avail. I tried to have that article published in a magazine with a significant readership, also to no avail. Demorest’s wouldn’t touch it, nor Harper’s. It was Mary Louise who introduced me to Mrs. Cady Stanton, who is one of the founders and editors of the Revolution and a member of the Sorosis Club. Even with Jane’s help, I couldn’t persuade any of the other dailies to take it.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re holding up a mirror to a part of the city their readership prefer to ignore.”

“Those who could do something about it aren’t sympathetic; those who are sympathetic don’t have the means to help.”

“The real problem is that we tend to accuse people who fail to make something of themselves of being lazy or no good.” Randolph joined her on the window seat and put his arm around her. “Don’t look so down. You already do more than enough, helping at the mission. I know you use your own money to buy things for those kids, not to mention finding their mothers work when you can, including positions in your own home. There’s a limit to what one person can do.”

“But there’s no limit to what needs to be done, and my contribution is a drop in the ocean. These children need somewhere they feel safe, Randolph, a sanctuary they can go to anytime.”

“Somewhere they won’t be judged.” He smiled sadly. “I’m flattered you’ve taken that idea so much to heart but, like I said, maybe it’s time to stop berating yourself for what you’ve not achieved and pat yourself on the back for what you have.”

“It’s not enough. I need to find a way to reach more people. New Yorkers need to know what is going in their back garden.”

“And then what? Even if you persuaded the New York Times to publish that piece, what difference would it make? A few more people shaking their heads and muttering about how dreadful it all is before they forget about it and get on with their lives.”

“You’re right,” Margaret said grimly after a moment. “Words are not enough. What we need is action. I need to raise the funds myself, but how? I have signally failed to interest a single one of my philanthropically minded acquaintances that this is a worthy cause.”

“You’re really set on this? No, that’s a stupid question. You want my advice?”

“Always.”

“Start small, with what you know. That’s how I tackle my cases, the complicated ones, I mean, a step at a time.”

“Or a brick at a time, in my case. Start with what I know? But the only thing I know is that I need money, and the only way I know to earn money is by writing, and—oh! Randolph, I think you might be a genius.”

“You only think!” he said indignantly.

“I could write a book of stories for children set in Five Points, with all profits being ploughed back in. I would have to paint a slightly sanitized picture, but actually children like gruesome tales. It won’t raise very much, but it will be a start, and the publicity can only help make more people aware of the true situation.”

“Will you include the noisy hen story?”

“What? Oh, Cluckalot! I shall write that one especially for you.”

“Wow! You really are serious!”

“I am indeed.” Margaret smiled suddenly. “I’m going to do it, because if I don’t, then no-one else will.”

“It could take years.”

“So be it.”

“Don’t let it become all-consuming. Leave room for other things.”

“I will continue with my writing and work at the mission.”

“I was referring to more personal commitments.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then the penny dropped. Appalled, Margaret sat abruptly down at her desk. The very last thing she wanted was for Randolph to propose. She had already rejected three proposals, and the memory of the last one still made her heart ache. The love Donald had declared so passionately had died, and now Miss Helen Blair held Margaret’s place in his heart. Reading the news back in January, her first reaction had been very far from the delight Julia had predicted. On the contrary, she distinctly recalled crying out no! It was wrong, impossible, for Donald to marry someone else, for Donald to love someone else. When her shock had subsided, she had set about rationally persuading herself that she was happy for him, but it had taken her much more time than it should have to accustom herself to the fact, and longer still for her to truly and honestly believe what she told herself she ought to feel.

Donald would probably be married now. Miss Helen Blair would be Mrs. Donald Cameron, a position Margaret had rejected and probably would again. Probably? Almost certainly. But it wasn’t Donald who was on the brink of proposing, it was Randolph.

Perhaps she had mistaken him? “Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to give yourself at least until you were thirty-five before you made any changes to your life? I distinctly remember you saying that there weren’t enough hours in the day as it is without—without any other distractions.”

He didn’t answer her for a moment, staring down at his hands and then out the window at Washington Square. Then he shrugged. “It’s a nice day out there. Maybe even the first proper day of spring. Shall we take the streetcar up to Central Park, join the other Sunday strollers?”

In other words, Margaret thought, I know you don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t push it. She was so relieved she almost agreed, but another horrible realisation prevented her. Whether they talked now or in a month’s time or in six months, she wouldn’t feel any different. “No, wait.”

Randolph had half got to his feet, but now he sank back down onto the window seat, not saying anything but watching her. What was wrong with her! They were best friends. They respected each other; they had an instinctive understanding of each other that meant their occasional differences never turned into arguments. She was unlikely to meet another man who seemed such a perfect match, and now that Donald was married—but, no, she would not compare Randolph to Donald: that would be quite unfair to both of them.

Though wasn’t that the root of the problem? Randolph wasn’t Donald. Sadly, Margaret recalled Marion saying something similar about Patrick not being Alexander. If Donald was her ideal, then Randolph was doomed to come up short in comparison. The kisses they shared were delightful, but they had never stirred her to the passionate heights of Donald’s kisses. Randolph made her laugh, she thoroughly enjoyed his company, he made her feel comfortable.

Oh no! Oh, M.! She did love him, but as a friend, and far too much to hurt him. Rejoining him on the window seat, she angled herself to face him. “I have to be painfully honest with you—it’s the least you deserve. You are my best friend, Randolph. I don’t want that to change.”

“Yeah! That’s the problem, isn’t it? We haven’t really been able to move beyond being friends.”

“Oh!”

“You thought it was only you?” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, there have been times when I could happily persuade myself—because logically we’re perfect for each other.”

“We are!” Margaret said fervently. “That’s what I don’t understand.”

“I guess love isn’t logical.”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing.” Giddy with relief, Margaret took his hand. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I haven’t allowed myself to think about it until just a moment ago, and when I did—” She broke off, for there was a lump in her throat. “I should have spoken up earlier. It was wrong of me to kiss you when I knew—though I didn’t know, or I wasn’t sure. Oh, Randolph . . .”

He hugged her briefly. “Don’t blame yourself. I wanted this to work, I kept hoping it would, but I’m glad we’ve sorted it out now. That was brave of you, to force the issue. I wouldn’t have pushed you.”

Margaret sat up. “No, but then it would have been there all the time between us, wouldn’t it?”

He sighed. “You’re right, but all the same, it was brave of you.”

It would be the most natural thing in the world for their lips to meet, but what passion they had nurtured between them had dissipated. Margaret moved away, blushing. “Can we remain friends, do you think? I would hate this to come between us.”

Randolph got up. “I don’t want to lose you either. I think I’ll take that walk in Central Park by myself, though, if you don’t mind. I need a little time to adjust.”

“We’ll find a way, won’t we?”

“You bet.”

She heard him call goodbye to Johanna, the newest recruit from Five Points. Standing by the window to watch him descend the steps, Margaret was relieved when he looked up to wave as usual before he headed for Broadway. Turning away, tears stung her eyes and doubts crowded her mind. Would love eventually have blossomed between them, given time? Was she misremembering her feelings for Donald, creating a false ideal that no man could live up to?

It didn’t matter. The point was that she still wasn’t ready to marry. She would have to accept that she might never be ready to marry; and until she was, there could be no more romances. She’d had a narrow escape with Randolph, provided their friendship was not a casualty. She would not risk misleading another man.

“And in the meantime,” Margaret said, scrubbing at her eyes and giving herself a mental shake, “there is the small matter of raising funds to build a Five Points children’s sanctuary.” Had she finally bitten off more than she could chew? Sitting down at her desk, she selected a fresh notebook bound in her favourite turquoise leather. Pulling the inkstand towards her, she dipped a newly sharpened pen and began to write.

Cluckaluck Cluckalot was a very noisy hen. The noisiest hen in the henhouse in fact, and that was saying something. . . .