New York, Wednesday, Christmas Day, 1872
MARGARET GAZED DOWN IN AWE at the tiny bundle sleeping in her arms. Little Margherita Mueller, known affectionately as Petite Rita, was only three weeks old, and already she had her parents and her honorary aunt wrapped around her tiny dimpled fingers. She smelled of milk, and when Margaret buried her nose in the silky-soft mass of her hair, that particular baby scent that made her so fiercely protective and at the same time filled with a wondrous love. Though she was accustomed to children, she knew little about infants and had, the first time she had held Rita, been terrified of breaking her.
“She’s so perfect,” she said now to Randolph, who was leaning over her shoulder with the stunned expression he had worn ever since his daughter was born.
“You won’t get any argument from me on that front. I still can’t believe she’s here.”
“Happy first Christmas,” Margaret said, kissing the baby’s impossibly soft cheek before handing her back reluctantly to Geraldine. “And thank you for inviting me to share it with you. I know that both sets of grandparents were vying for the honour of having you to stay.”
Geraldine snuggled her daughter close, kissing the top of her head. “The very idea of having to get dressed up and endure one of my parents’ gargantuan formal dinners is exhausting.”
“And though my parents promised they’d only invite a few of the neighbours and just our closest family to dinner—well,” Randolph said ruefully, “you can imagine.”
“Then I’m even more honoured to have been your guest, but it’s getting late, so I’ll let you put little Rita to bed,” Margaret said, getting to her feet.
“It’s only just after seven, but I must confess I’m exhausted,” Geraldine said. “Thank you for coming, and for Rita’s beautiful christening gown. We’ll see you at the ceremony next Sunday. Randolph will walk you home.”
“Good idea,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I could use the fresh air; otherwise I’ll fall asleep in front of the fire.”
Outside, it had stopped snowing and the sky had cleared. Randolph had moved only a couple of doors down to a larger town house on Bleecker when he married, and now he and Margaret walked the well-trodden path to Thompson in companionable silence. It was bitterly cold. The sidewalks crunched under their feet; the air was painfully sharp to breathe; but as they reached the entrance to Washington Square and the street lights dimmed, the stars brightened in the clear sky. The park had a magical quality, carpeted with snow, icicles dangling from the trees like Christmas decorations, the noises of the city muffled. Pausing to lift her face to the sky, Margaret was transported back to Dalkeith, as she always was during the festive season when there was snow, but this time when she opened her eyes, the longing that engulfed her refused to dissipate.
“What is it?” Randolph asked. “Are you worried that Rita is going to come between us?” he joked, though his smile faded when he saw she was close to tears. “Just because I’m a father now doesn’t change our friendship, Margaret, anymore than my becoming a husband did.”
“Don’t be daft! I couldn’t be happier for you and Geraldine. My goodness, I remember that first time you saw her, on the day of the Queen’s Cup. You looked as if you’d been struck by a thunderbolt.”
“An arrow straight to the heart.” He grinned sheepishly. “One look and I simply knew, though if you’d told me that could happen, I’d have laughed in your face.”
“I saw it with my own eyes, remember?” Margaret squeezed his arm. “You’re my best friend, Randolph. I want you to be happy, and you very obviously are.”
“So what’s bothering you all of a sudden? And don’t try and deny it—you can’t fool me.”
“Seeing you with your new family makes me think of mine, I guess.” She started walking towards the lights of the town houses on Washington Square, forcing him to follow. “It’s five years in January since I landed at Castle Garden, but it’s always more difficult to be so far away from home at this time of year. More so, since Mama started writing to me again. I feel I’m missing out on so much. My niece Margaret, my first little namesake was four in the summer, and now my sister, little Margaret’s mama, is expecting her sixth child this month—can you believe that!—and I’ve not set eyes on any of them save in the photographs she sends. In fact I have a brood of nieces and nephews I’ve never met and—oh, ignore me, Randolph, it’s like I said, I’m a little homesick, that’s all. Now here we are, back at my little town house. I won’t invite you in—Geraldine will be expecting you.”
“You sure you’re all right on your own? I know you’ve given your help the day off.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had a lovely day, but now I’d rather be alone.” Margaret stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “See you at the christening, if not before.”
Randolph waited until she had let herself in, then bounded off down the steps, understandably anxious to be home. She locked the door behind her, turning up the lamp which had been left low, shedding her outer clothing before climbing the stairs to her study, where she set a taper to the logs in the fireplace.
Curling up on the hearthrug, she picked up her bundle of Christmas letters, shuffling through the well-read pages. Susannah was happily established in Cornwall, and as busy as ever with her mothers’ groups. Victoria looked decidedly matronly with her ever-growing brood in her annual photograph, and Kerr, now the Marquess of Lothian, with his grizzled beard, looked much older than his years. Marion had written in eager expectation of what had become Patrick’s annual pilgrimage to County Kildare, and Julia was spending her Christmas with her sister’s family while Wingfield remained at Powerscourt.
He made no effort to dissuade me and appears perfectly content to spend Christmas without me, Julia wrote, and I find I, too, am perfectly content without him. Which for Julia, Margaret thought, folding the letter back up, was akin to a declaration of independence.
Louise’s brief note informed Margaret that she would be spending Christmas with the Argylls at Inveraray Castle. As usual, she gave no indication of her state of mind and made no mention of the possibility of motherhood. The photograph she enclosed was not of her husband’s family home but of the pretty fishing village by the same name on the banks of Loch Fyne, which I thought you would like, for I know how much you enjoy the Highland scenery, Louise had written. It was a very beautiful scene, with heather-clad hills in the background beyond the still waters of the loch, but the image Margaret saw as she looked at it was of another castle on the eastern side of the country, set in more familiar gently rolling countryside.
A tear tracked down Margaret’s cheek as she picked up Mama’s letter, knowing in her current mood that it would be a mistake to read it again, yet unable to resist. July 1866 was the last time they had been together, at Princess Helena’s wedding. Lenchen had four children now and, according to Mama, was very happy with her unprepossessing prince.
You always assure me that you want to know who will be spending Christmas with us, Mama wrote, but I always worry, even as I accede to your request, that I am causing you pain. I hang your stars on the tree each year, those bright jewel colours so distinct even after all these years, and I say a little prayer that you are happy, Margaret. You seem so. You have achieved so much already in your young life that I find it difficult sometimes to reconcile the impetuous, impulsive child with the sensible businesswoman.
Margaret sniffed, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve. What she would give if she could be with Mama for just a few minutes! But it wouldn’t be nearly enough. She would almost rather do without than have one snatched moment. She wanted to linger among familiar accents, and to have her own pass unremarked. She wanted to take a walk in the countryside under a driech, mizzling sky, her feet soaked through, the soft rain falling like mist and the smell of peat smoke wafting lazily through the air. She wanted to meet all her nephews and nieces, to hug them, to tell them stories. And she wanted to take tea and cake with her sisters and Mama, to chat about nothing of consequence knowing that there would always be more time and yet more to talk together.
What she wanted was to go home.
But this was her home, wasn’t it? This little town house in this extraordinary metropolis, the place where she had truly grown up, become a woman she barely recognised. She’d had no idea when she sailed from Ireland what path her life might take, but now there was ample proof on her desk of her achievements. The Sanctuary was being expanded and, thanks to the bequest dear Mr. Gordon Bennett had left in his will, would be secure for years to come. Between her work there, her writing, and the few social engagements she continued to keep, her days were full.
Yet watching Randolph revelling in domestic bliss had unsettled her. He would always be her friend, but his marriage had changed things between them. Naturally, Geraldine and now Rita came first with him. It wasn’t that Margaret wanted what he had, but it reminded her that she, too, had a family and that they were very far away.
She loved New York and all the people from every walk of life who had allowed her into their lives. She would never have had the freedom to achieve what she had done here back home, nor even have gained the confidence to try. She loved the fact that every day she could prove herself useful; but as she stared down at her latest turquoise notebook, open on her blotter, Margaret wondered, wasn’t there room for more?
Her heart ached for home. Her inconvenient heart, she thought wryly, always pulling her in another direction whenever she was in danger of becoming too settled. But already her tears were drying on her cheeks, her spirits lifting.
Could she go home? She could not possibly make such a momentous decision on the spur of the moment. How would she live? She would breach her father’s terms the moment she set foot on Scottish soil, and though she no longer relied upon her allowance in New York, she had no idea whether she would be able to earn enough to live on in Scotland.
She would find a way. She always did, didn’t she? She could continue to wield her pen. Another book of stories? Perhaps Demorest’s would be interested in the Journal of a New Yorker in Scotland? And there was that Englishwoman, the rather terrifying suffragist she had met at one of Mary Louise’s soirées, who had offered her work. Emily Faithfull, that was her name, and the magazine she edited was the Victoria.
Would that be sufficient? Margaret had no idea, but she knew without a quiver of a doubt that she was determined to find out. As to where she would live, that was easy, for she would go to Edinburgh. A city like every other, no doubt, in having children in need of sanctuary.
Because if I can do it here, then why should I not succeed on my home turf! she thought, smiling to herself and picking up Mama’s letter once more, this time taking out the photograph. Staring back at her, his hand on her mother’s shoulder, was the one large obstacle to her plans, the duke. She forced herself to study him, trying to understand her feelings for him, which she had not done for a very long time. She was unable to conjure any trace of love, but there was pity, for he never would be able to understand her while she understood him very well. Was she going to let this bully who had never cared for her continue to dictate her actions and mitigate her happiness?
Absolutely not! Propping the photograph up on the desk, she picked up her pen. In the act of pulling a fresh sheet of writing paper towards her she caught her father’s eye. No, she didn’t love him, but he was her flesh and blood. Surely, eventually, even for him, that would count for something?
Your Grace, Margaret wrote, you will no doubt be surprised to hear from me after all this time. . . .