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. . . .

Demorest’s Monthly Magazine, March 1873

Demorest’s Monthly Magazine, March 1873

JENNY JUNE BIDS FAREWELL TO OUR FAVORITE NOVICE NEW YORKER