Margaret walked quickly away in the direction the man indicated, trying to maintain the confident expression of a woman who knew perfectly well where she was going. Turning onto Worth Street, the thoroughfare narrowed and very quickly became down at heel, the brick buildings interspersed with wooden shacks. She could still hear the roar of the traffic on Broadway, but it was clear she was entering another world entirely. The cobbles gave way to mud from which horse manure was the prevalent but far from the only smell. Water dripped from stand-pipes into the gutter. The traffic consisted largely of carts and rusty wagons. The shops were dingy: a grocer’s, a second-hand clothing shop, a shop that sold single boots and shoes. The houses had sagging roofs and cracked walls, brown paper holding broken windowpanes together. Rickety stairs led up the outside of some of the tenements, and washing hung limply in the cold, sooty, stagnant air, reminding her of the very poorest parts of Sebastian’s parish.

Irish brogue, Italian, and German voices mingled with the New York twang and the heavily accented drawl of the American South. Black-skinned men and women were very far from being a noticeable minority, as they were farther up-town. It was she who stood out here, despite her shop-bought woollen gown and plain winter cloak. It wasn’t the colour of her skin, or even her red hair, but the lack of darns and patches on her clothes, the lack of holes in her boots. She was sure that even the pristine fur lining of her mittens was visible.

In Lambeth and in Dublin, people had eyed her covertly as an obvious stranger. Here, they stared openly at her as she passed. Finally seeing her destination, Margaret gave a huge sigh of relief. The substantial angular edifice loomed high into the grey sky, its identity proclaimed in block capitals fixed under the roof and painted on the side of the building. Diagonally opposite were two large brick buildings which must be the House of Industry. The sidewalk in front of the mission was paved; the front door, offset on the left, was imposing. Margaret stood before it, beset with nerves. They might reject her. They might think her a fraud, coming here with no testimonials, for it had not occurred to her until now to try to obtain any. She had never applied for work before, had never had to justify her experience or her credentials.

From behind the high fence came a squeal, then a peal of laughter. “Race you to the wall,” a small child cried out.

These were the children she hoped to help teach. She had conquered the formidable Lambeth Ladies. She had won over the Enniskerry infants and their schoolmaster. She was here to honour Sebastian, and she was determined to do him proud. And Donald, too, though he would never know it. His continual bolstering of her confidence had given her belief in herself.