Chapter Forty-One

New York, 8 August 1870

MARGARET KNEW NEXT TO NOTHING about sailing. In her first disastrous London Season she had been invited to Cowes, but by August, when the regatta took place, she had already been exiled to Dalkeith. When Randolph informed her that he had an invitation to the New York Yacht Club on the morning of the Queen’s Cup challenge, she had been ambivalent about accompanying him. He had laughed when she queried his sudden interest in a pastime he had never before mentioned, telling her that it was likely to prove quite a spectacle and, besides, he hoped to seal an important bit of business which she might be able to assist him with.

And so this morning Margaret had donned one of her most elegant gowns in emerald silk trimmed with cream lace, and prepared to enjoy the experience. It was a beautiful summer’s day, bright and sunny, the heat tempered by a gentle breeze. To her astonishment, the harbour was alive with people competing to board the ferries and steamers from where they would watch the race.

“It looks like every single person in New York is trying to get out onto the water,” she said to Randolph. “My goodness, there are even people in rowing boats.”

“Luckily we have a reserved place on a steamer to take us to Staten Island, courtesy of our host. It’s this one, I think,” he answered, putting a protective arm around her. “We’ll get a view of the competitors if we’re lucky. They’ve been in the Narrows overnight, and won’t head up to the starting point at the yacht club until just before the race gets underway.”

The steamer on which they were settled was significantly less crowded. “Who is our host?” Margaret asked, looking around her at the well-dressed guests, some of whom she recognised as Randolph’s richer clients.

“James Gordon Bennett Junior.”

“You mean the editor of the Herald?”

“And a mad keen yachtsman. He won the first transatlantic race back in sixty-six on the Henrietta, and he’s commodore of the New York Yacht Club.”

“He’s not your usual type of client.”

“It’s his father I’ve been doing a bit of business with. Trust funds, the usual stuff. It’s him I want you to meet. No, don’t ask me any more questions; you’ll find out why in due course. For now, let’s just enjoy the spectacle.”

Spectacle was certainly the right word. Their steamer began to ease away from the dock and out into the bay, where it joined the flotilla, all crowded with people, women and children as well as men, dressed to the nines. Horns blared, sails flapped, and steam billowed into the clear blue sky. In the Narrows, the strait between Brooklyn and Staten Island, Margaret and Randolph stood at the rail to view the schooners that would take part in the race later that morning.

“That’s Cambria, the British challenger,” Randolph said, pointing at a yacht that looked almost exactly like the others. “She’s from the Royal Thames Yacht Club. You might even spot a few familiar faces in her entourage.”

“I doubt it very much. Is there only one challenger? Isn’t that rather unfair? It makes it very unlikely that they will win, doesn’t it?”

“Dear lord, Margaret, don’t go saying that—you’ll have us ejected from the club.”

She giggled. “I can’t tell one of these boats—I mean schooners—from the other, so you’ll need to tell me when to cheer.”

“Which side are you on?”

“Oh, if the challenger was from Leith—that’s Edinburgh’s port—then I might have a dilemma, but they’re English, so there’s no question but that I’ll be cheering for our team.”

“That’s my girl! Come over to the other side and take a look at the crowds. Fort Richmond over there is the most popular viewpoint, because you can see both the start and the finish of the race.”

“There must be tens of thousands here!”

“Some of them will have been here since dawn. Maybe earlier.”

Randolph leaned on the rail, his elbows brushing hers. Back in April, she had worried that their friendship would falter, but after an initial awkwardness they had established a new, easy camaraderie, leaving neither with doubts or regrets. He was formally dressed today, in an expensive black suit, though he was holding his hat, for the breeze had got up, ruffling his hair over his forehead. When she reached out to push it back, he grinned. “I guess I need a haircut. We’ll be docking in five minutes. The race is due to start at eleven thirty, so we’ll join Gordon Bennett and his party when we arrive.”

She listened with half an ear as he ran through a list of people she may or may not bump into, surprised to hear that it included both the Astors and the Vanderbilts. “You still haven’t told me how I am to help you.”

“Have a little patience. Come on, let’s see if we can get you a cup of tea before the race starts.”

They disembarked and walked up the short hill to Rosebank. The club-house was built in the Swiss-Italian style with a broad front porch and situated just above the shore with a commanding view of the harbour.

“Gordon Bennett Junior acquired this place for the club about two years ago,” Randolph said as they joined the line of people waiting to be received. “That’s our host there.”

Mr. Gordon Bennett looked to be about the same age as Randolph. His sparse hair was cropped very short in the military style, and this combined with the vigorous moustache and hawk-like nose made him look rather forbidding.

“Mueller,” he said, thumping Randolph on the back, “glad you could make it.”

“Allow me to introduce you to Lady Margaret Scott. Margaret, Mr. James Gordon Bennett Junior.”

“Well! How do you do?” Mr. Gordon Bennett took her gloved hand, surprising her by bowing over and kissing it. “A Scott from Scotland. Now that’s a good joke! Do you like sailing? Of course you do, coming from an island and all, eh? My father will be delighted to meet you. Not sure where he is at the moment, but I’m sure—anyway, you’ll need to excuse me. I have to go and make sure we’re set for the off. Good to meet you, Lady Margaret. There’s champagne—or maybe you prefer a wee dram? Ha! Enjoy the day.”

Nodding absently at the line of guests waiting behind them, Mr. Gordon Bennett picked up a cap from the table behind him and made his way out.

“I can’t see the old man,” Randolph said. “We’ll go and watch the start, then I’ll track him down.”

“I still don’t understand—” She broke off, shaking her head ruefully. “Patience is not one of my virtues, is it?”

Despite her scant interest in sailing, Margaret couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement as she stood among the crowd on the veranda, watching the tugs pull the schooners, in full sail, into position. Flags were being unfurled on the shore and on the yachts. Then just before eleven thirty, a gunshot cracked, making her jump; the cheering and whooping became a crescendo; and the race was on. The schooners very quickly picked up the breeze and headed out into the bay.

“What happens now?” Margaret asked.

“The course is about forty miles, I’m told. We should know the winner in four hours, maybe a bit longer, but before that, you and I have work to do.”

“At last!” She followed him back into the now empty clubhouse. “What do I have to do?”

“Make a pitch,” Randolph said. “Sell your idea for Five Points Children’s Sanctuary. James Gordon Bennett is not your typical philanthropist, but he’s agreed to hear you out. I’ve opened the door for you; it’s up to you now to persuade him.”

“Randolph! This is the bit of business you wanted my help with? You might have warned me.”

“If I had, you’d have prepared a speech. Much better to speak from the heart, Margaret—it’s what you do best. There he is. Mr. Gordon Bennett, sir,” Randolph said, hailing an elderly man who was seated partially obscured in an alcove, “allow me to introduce Lady Margaret Scott to you. Go on,” he whispered as he pushed her forward, “work your magic on him.”

Mr. James Gordon Bennett Senior got to his feet. He was dressed in an old-fashioned coat with a high cravat, was very tall, and had a thick head of white hair and a beard trimmed in a Newgate frill. His features were large. He was distinctly cross-eyed under a pair of fierce, shaggy brows, giving him the look of a battle-hardened general rather than a partially retired newspaperman.

“Lady Margaret,” he said, his voice belying his appearance for he had the soft accent of the north-east of Scotland, “a pleasure to meet you. Won’t you take a seat?”

She did so, her heart beating wildly, vaguely aware of Randolph disappearing into the background. She had, as he would say, one chance at this. “I understand you might be interested in helping set up the sanctuary I want to build in Five Points.”

“I’m interested to hear what you have to say, Lady Margaret, especially in that accent which reminds me of the old country. You’ve made an unusual choice, in the people you wish to help.”

“Someone has to help them, Mr. Gordon Bennett. They deserve a chance, the same as every other child in this city.”

He smiled, gently shaking his head. “When Randolph was trying to persuade me to meet you, he gave me that piece you wrote for the Revolution, so there’s no need to cover old ground. Don’t tell me what I should be feeling; tell me what difference you want to make.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Margaret said, regrouping her thoughts, “because as far as I’m aware nothing like it exists, but I want to build a safe space where children can escape the drudgery and the misery of their lives.”

“The missions—”

“Do a wonderful job,” Margaret said, interrupting him. “I have been a volunteer at the Ladies’ Mission for the last eighteen months, but they have limited resources and must therefore spend them on the causes which they deem worthiest. It is the same with the House of Industry, and the Howard Mission, too—they judge the children by their parents—or their lack of parents. I want to help the ones who fall through the cracks, so to speak. It is not a child’s fault, Mr. Gordon Bennett, if their father is a drunkard or their mother a streetwalker. I hope I have not shocked you.”

He laughed gruffly. “I’m an old hack, Lady Margaret. I don’t shock easily. What I find interesting is that you don’t shock easily.”

“Oh, I never fail to be shocked by what I see in Five Points, but it doesn’t make me want to close my eyes and pretend I haven’t seen it,” Margaret said earnestly. “Besides, Five Points is sadly not unique. In London . . .”

“I THINK I’VE HEARD ENOUGH,” Mr. Gordon Bennett said sometime later.

“I’m so sorry. Randolph warned me not to make a speech, but I fear I have let my enthusiasm get the better of me.”

“It’s certainly not like any appeal for funds I’ve ever heard.” Mr. Gordon Bennett pulled out his gold watch, frowning. “I have to get back to Fifth Avenue. My wife is expecting me.”

Her heart sank. “You’re not staying to see the end of the race?”

“I don’t share my son’s passion for sailing. Now, to practicalities. Have you a location in mind? Have you estimated the building cost, the upkeep? How many places—”

“Wait!” Margaret involuntarily clutched his hand, then immediately let him go. “I beg your pardon. You mean you’re going to help me?”

“I like the cut of your jib, to use an apposite nautical phrase. I’ll tell you something, Lady Margaret. When I first dreamed of launching my own newspaper, I made all sorts of rookie mistakes. I lost a lot of money, even after I launched the Herald. I nearly went out of business, but I kept my dream alive, and I fought for it, doing everything save actually turning the presses, and eventually I made it. Listening to you, I don’t doubt your enthusiasm or your commitment. Randolph told me you’re writing a book. . . .”

Tales of the City is what it will be called. It is to be published in September, and all the proceeds will go towards the sanctuary.”

“Are they likely to be significant?”

“Every dollar counts.”

“Then I’ll see what I can do to provide you with the rest. You’re well in, as they say, with the Astors and the like; I’m wondering why you haven’t gone to them.”

“I tried, and failed miserably. My cause isn’t considered worthy enough.”

“Maybe they don’t understand, as I do, what it’s like to have to scrabble up the greasy pole.” Mr. Gordon Bennett held out his hand, shaking hers warmly before getting to his feet. “Now here is Randolph come to rescue you. I’ll be in touch, Lady Margaret. I’m very glad to have met you.”

“Well?” Randolph said a few moments later, having seen the old man down to the pier.

“He’s agreed to help me, and it’s all thanks to you.” Margaret threw her arms around him.

Laughing, he disentangled himself. “Like I said, I opened the door, but you walked through it.”

“I can’t believe it. Oh, Randolph, thank you!”

“It’s what friends are for, isn’t it. Now why don’t we— Hey, who’s that over there?”

“Who?” Margaret looked in the direction Randolph was pointing. “The man is—”

“No, not the man, the woman. My lord, isn’t she striking?”

“It’s Geraldine Haight. Her father owns the St. Nicholas Hotel on Broadway.”

“You know her! Please tell me she’s not married.”

“No, she’s not married,” Margaret said, eyeing Randolph in astonishment for he looked quite—smitten, was the only word she could think of. “She’s a friend of Jane’s. A suffragist. I think she’s a member of the Sorosis Club. I take it you’d like me to introduce you?”

He quickly smoothed his hair back and straightened his jacket. “You bet!”