THE CITY OF NEW YORK boasted so many attractions it would be easy, Margaret quickly realised, to spend the next few months as a tourist. But since she planned to settle here, she must do more than see the sights, she must engage with the locals. The growing stack of calling cards on the table in her hotel suite offered her ample opportunity to do this, though the sheer volume of them as she laid them out like playing cards was daunting. She was tempted to close her eyes and select one at random, but as ever, Marion’s good sense prevailed.

“When in doubt, start at the top,” she advised.

So it was that three days after their arrival in the city, they set out to pay their first call. The snow had melted, but a hard frost had set in overnight, making the sidewalks glitter. They decided to walk the short distance from their hotel, and set out just before noon, dressed for the weather rather than the occasion, in thick cloaks and boots.

Mrs. William Astor occupied what Margaret now knew to call a brown-stone at number 350 Fifth Avenue. It was a square town house four stories high, separated from the sidewalk by a low balustrade and a neat flight of steps leading up to a door flanked by two pillars. This was opened by a liveried footman in an eye-catching combination of green coat, red waistcoat, white knee breeches, and black silk stockings.

“Good morning,” Margaret said, smiling and holding out her visiting card. “Is Mrs. Astor at home? Then you will tell her, if you please, that Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott is returning her call.”

After a moment’s hesitation, they were ushered into a large marble-floored reception area where the footman took their cloaks, gloves, and hats, then bade them follow him upstairs. The plain façade of the Astor town house belied an opulent interior. Heavy tapestries hung from the walls, jostling for space with large paintings in gilded frames, most of them still lifes, doubtless Old Masters, but rather dull nonetheless. On the first floor, there were an array of busts and bronzes on plinths. There was not, Margaret noted with amusement, a single set of antlers in sight. Presumably because Julia’s husband had cornered the world market.

“Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott and Mrs. Scrymgeour,” the footman intoned, ushering them into a large drawing-room that had the gracious proportions of the Regency era. The classical elegance was lost however, as the room was so crowded with chairs and sofas, tables cluttered with Sèvres figures, flower arrangements, and curios that it was with some difficulty that Margaret managed to prevent her crinoline from knocking anything over.