Papa smiled at her encouragingly, but Margaret, for once, was lost for words. A husband had been found for her? She wondered where, exactly. Hiding in the attics? Wandering the streets desperately searching for a red-haired bride?
“Well?” Papa was looking at her expectantly. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
“I didn’t think it would happen quite so quickly.”
“To be perfectly honest,” Mama said, “neither did we, but the ‘Titian-haired breath of fresh Scotch air,’ as the press have it, has defied the odds.”
Margaret dearly wished she had not. Shocked, she stared dumbly at her parents.
“Don’t you want to know who the lucky gentleman is?” Mama asked.
No, she did not, for that would make it real. But Mama and Papa were looking delighted with themselves, and it wasn’t as if their purpose in bringing her to London was a secret. She pinned a smile to her face. “Who is it?”
“Come,” Mama said, smiling encouragingly, “surely you must be able to guess?”
Guess! Was this some sort of bizarre parlour game? Margaret felt sick. Of the many eligible men she had been introduced to, she couldn’t think of any she’d want as a husband, or even a single one who had indicated that he’d like her to be his wife. “No, I give in,” she said.
“Oh, for goodness sake! It is Lord Rufus Ponsonby.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped. Surely she had misheard. Lord Rufus Ponsonby was that pompous man with the irritating little cough whose smile would freeze boiling water.
“Ponsonby, the Earl of Killin,” her father repeated. “You’ll be a countess, mistress of a castle set on the banks of Loch Tay. Of course it’s a bit run-down, in need of your dowry to fix it up, and the Killin title isn’t as prestigious as ours, but it’s a venerable one. And as for his side of the bargain—well, it’s what I would call serendipity. Our estates have lots of sheep. He has woollen mills. In more ways than one, it will be a marriage made in heaven. So, what do you say?” he concluded with a rare smile. “Haven’t your mother and I done well by you?”
Horrified, knowing her feelings would be writ large across her face, Margaret prevaricated. “I had no idea he was interested.”
“Why would you? He’s a perfect gentleman; he wouldn’t dream of fixing his intentions with you until he’d spoken to me. I’m very glad he did. Just between ourselves, he was already in our top five.”
“You actually had a list?”
“Choosing your husband is the single most important decision we have to make for you as parents, and we set about it with due diligence.”
Margaret tried to imagine her parents, closeted together in Papa’s study, working their way through the runners and riders, but this was no laughing matter. Whether or not she and her prospective suitors shared any interests or, heaven forfend, found each other attractive or even liked each other would not have been taken into consideration.
“What does that pained expression mean? Come on, out with it.”
Papa’s tone was considerably less indulgent now. She braced herself. “I am so sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t like Killin.”
“You don’t like him?” Papa’s face was set, his expression forbidding now. “There is plenty to like about him, is there not, Charlotte?”
Taking her cue, Mama launched into a rhapsody about Killin and all his husbandly qualities.
Margaret couldn’t argue with any of them. “It’s the way he clears his throat,” she exclaimed when her mother finished her encomium. “Just before he speaks, he makes this really irritating noise—”
“Margaret! You do realise that is the most preposterous—”
“I don’t like him, Mama, and I’m certain he doesn’t like me either. Or if he does, he’s certainly done an excellent job of concealing the fact. He is so—so cold.”
“You mean he does not wear his heart on his sleeve as you do. A modicum of reserve is no bad thing.”
“He has vast reservoirs of it! Enough to drown me. Please, I beg you don’t make me—”
“Make you! You are not some foolish heroine in a melodrama. There is no question of my making you do anything.” Brows drawn fiercely together, Papa got to his feet. “The law of the land gives me the right to insist you marry any man of my choosing. I am not a despot, however, but a father wishing to do his best by a daughter who should understand her duty to the family by now.” He glowered. “I have found you an eminently suitable husband, whose family interests perfectly complement ours. What I expect from you is compliance and gratitude, not disrespect and disobedience.”
“Papa! I am neither of those things.”
“I beg to differ, Margaret. You are also immature and overly dramatic. To speak so defiantly—”
“No, no, Papa, I would not dream of— I did not mean—” Margaret broke off, tears smarting her eyes. “I am perfectly aware that I must marry, but—”
“I am pleased to hear that.” Her father cut her short. “This betrothal has, for reasons I cannot fathom, come as a surprise to you. You are very young for your age compared to your sister. I will make some allowance for that, and you in turn must trust me when I assure you that you will thank your mother and me when you understand the many advantages of this match.”
“I can already see the advantages, but—”
“As for this irrational dislike you claim, that is stuff and nonsense. You barely know the man. I am convinced you will think very differently when you do. Trust that your mother and I know best. Now, if we are finished, I have other urgent business to attend to.”
“Let me talk to Margaret. There is no need to detain you further,” Mama said, accompanying him to the drawing-room door, where they whispered together for a moment.
“Mama,” Margaret exclaimed as soon as the door was closed behind her father, “please . . .”
“No more. You have said quite enough.” The duchess’s pretty mouth firmed as her expression hardened.
Margaret could almost feel the shackles being locked and bolted into place around her heart. “But you don’t understand. I haven’t explained myself properly.”
“Explained what, precisely? Why you have decided to take an obtuse aversion to a well-respected gentleman of excellent character and means? Are you setting yourself up as a superior judge of character to the duke?”
“No, but . . .”
“Or myself, perhaps? You think that I don’t know you, my own daughter, well enough to judge the type of man who would best suit you as a husband? You have made your mind up without giving Killin the benefit of the doubt. The man is doing you the honour of offering for your hand, and you won’t even consider his proposal. Do you think that fair?”
“No, Mama,” Margaret said, mortified. “I’m sorry for my outburst.”
“Very well. We will put that behind us. I trust that we now understand each other perfectly. You have approximately two hours to regain your composure and to reconcile yourself to the fact that your future husband is on his way to make his declaration as we speak. I trust you will contrive to give Killin a significantly more positive response to his proposal than the one you have treated us to.”
Chapter Five
Montagu House, London, Wednesday, 19 July 1865
The garden gate had barely slammed shut behind her when Margaret heard Lochiel’s alarmed voice calling her name from the other side. He would catch her easily if she tried to outrun him, and having made her bid for freedom, she was determined to hang on to it. In the ballroom her parents, their guests, and most of all the man standing on the orchestra dais waiting to claim her could go hang for now. There would be a terrible price to be paid for what she’d just done, but for the moment all she cared about was that she was free. She was absolutely not going to allow Lochiel to drag her back to face the music until she certain she could stand resolute in the face of what would be intense pressure to recant.
Margaret had never before ventured beyond the garden gate on this side of the house. As her
eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw that she was standing on the actual banks of the Thames. Up close, the river smelled absolutely foul. She could hear the water rushing past just a few feet away. Momentarily distracted, she inched forward, marvelling at the sheer power of the tide as it raced in from the estuary, experiencing a wild, irrational urge to jump in. She could imagine herself, buoyed by her crinoline, being carried by the river, waving at Lochiel as he stood helpless on the banks as she bobbed past. His disembodied voice called her name again, yanking her back to reality.
Her pale gown was positively glowing in the dark. She had to hide, but there was nowhere obvious. As the gate creaked open, she reached the corner of the wall marking the edge of her father’s property just in time. He was still calling her name, for goodness sake, as he approached. She crouched down as best she could behind a bushy shrub, closed her eyes, and prayed.
Lochiel came agonisingly close to her hiding place, but he didn’t spot her. Breathlessly, she waited until he made his way back to the riverfront before risking a glance. She could barely make him out, a dark figure, hesitating, unsure of which direction to take. When he finally made his choice, Margaret counted to fifty before edging out, spitting dust from her mouth. Picking up the hem of her ball gown, she fled in the opposite direction. She had no idea where she was going. She didn’t care. She was alone, her whole body energized by her flight, with every step casting off the fetters of her disastrous London Season. Emboldened, she ran faster, relishing the tug of the wind in her hair, enjoying the visceral thrill of her speedy if somewhat ungainly progress.
What a sight I must be! Laughing, she pictured herself, her crinoline bouncing and swinging like a mainsail flapping in the breeze, her satin dancing slippers slipping and sliding in the mud and the slime, the pins dislodging one by one from her hair, which was unravelling from its regulated curls and flying out behind her. Back at Montagu House lay chaos, but this impetuous, grand gesture would finally force her parents to accept that she was deadly serious. Whatever happened next, she would not be marrying Lord Rufus Ponsonby.
Running at full tilt in satin slippers on ground that seemed to consist entirely of mud was hard going. Eventually forced to come to a halt, her chest heaving, Margaret sucked in air that filled her lungs with an acrid metallic tang. Above her, the sky was starless as it always was in London, for even at the height of summer, a cloud of soot from myriad chimneys cast a pall over everything. She had no idea how far she had gone, but looking over her shoulder, there was no sign of Lochiel.
Her exhilaration began to fade as she gazed around her. Impulsive grand gestures were all very well, but she’d have made her point just as effectively if she’d returned to the garden and hidden in the shrubbery, as she’d originally intended. Damn and blast the man. It was his fault that she’d run off like a spooked horse and ended up who knew where.
What was happening back in the ballroom? Would Mama and Papa still be standing on the dais while confusion reigned? Or had her pursuer returned to report her flight, forcing them to send all their guests home? They would be utterly furious with her. If they had only listened to her. No, no, that wasn’t fair. She had not tried nearly forcefully enough to make herself heard. She had been too eager to please, ignoring what her instincts had been telling her from the first. They’d think her actions childish, selfish, thoughtless, undignified. They were unaware of the ongoing debate she’d been having with herself from the moment the match had been proposed, so her flight would seem like a bolt from the blue.
Her father would be cursing her. Why is it that you are capable of thinking only of yourself! How many times had he hurled that accusation at her? It seemed particularly unfair, given how hard she had tried to quell the rebellious little voice in her head and do as he bade her. But she had finally paid heed to that dissenting voice, and she could not regret having done so.
So what now, M.—go back and face the music? That would certainly be the sensible thing to do. Better to surrender herself than be marched back by a search party. But as she hesitated, she heard footsteps coming her way. Hurriedly, Margaret crammed herself and her crinoline into a narrow alleyway, screwing up her nose as her foot splashed in something she hoped was a puddle, even though it hadn’t rained for weeks. She could hear them now, talking. Not one man, but two? Holding her breath, closing her eyes, as if that would make her invisible, her ears strained. Not talking but singing a sea shanty.
When I was a little lad
And so my mother told me,
Way, haul away, we’ll haul away Joe,
That if I did not kiss a gal
My lips would grow all mouldy,
Way, haul away, we’ll haul away Joe.
The men’s voices were surprisingly tuneful. They staggered past her hiding place, oblivious to her presence, arms around each other’s shoulders, absorbed in their drunken reverie.
As their voices faded into the gloom, she crept out. Behind her someone laughed, making her heart leap in her chest. Peering over her shoulder, she couldn’t see anyone at all, but her skin prickled all the same with awareness of someone being close by, watching her. The last sparks of elation were doused by a cold trickle of fear. She was in the middle of the docks. A flight of stairs led down to the river, which was lapping near the top step, covering it in a layer of scum. Several of the barges she knew were called lighters were moored, though all seemed deserted. Behind her was a row of shuttered warehouses. Her sensitive nose twitched at the rich aroma of coffee beans and spice. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? A loose rope dangling from a winch swayed in the breeze like an empty noose on a gallows.
Cold sweat pricked her back. A small cat—she fervently hoped it was a small cat—slunk by, disappearing into the pitch-black, narrow slit of an alleyway between the warehouses. The tall, shadowy shapes of the large cranes being used on the embankment works looked sinister, like monstrous giants waiting to claim the unwary who stumbled into the deep trenches they guarded.
Margaret shivered, too late realising how vulnerable she was. Just ahead of her on the river was a suspension bridge. Below it, she could make out a light swinging from side to side as the craft it illuminated bobbed on the tide. A blur of flashing light, clanking metal, and billowing smoke rattled across at speed. A night train carrying freight or post most likely. Which meant that must be the Hungerford railway bridge. Yes, and that huge building must be the Charing Cross terminus. The more her eyes became accustomed to the dark, the more she could see. The station was glowing almost invitingly compared to the gloom surrounding her. It didn’t look so very far away. From there, she could find her way onto Whitehall, to street lamps and safety.
Gathering her courage and her crinoline, Margaret hurried along as fast as her tired legs would allow. She was sure she could feel eyes monitoring her progress. A nightwatchman lifted his lamp. In its glow she caught his astonished gaze. She heard his shout, but she didn’t stop. Onwards she ran, past a brightly lit riverside tavern crammed full of people, even at this hour. She heard the discordant clink of a piano. A man, who stood in the doorway inhaling the contents of a large tankard, made a drunken lunge for her, catching hold of one of the swags of her gown.
“Looking for business, my pretty?”
Panicking, Margaret tore herself free, leaving him with a handful of sarsenet and organdie. A shout went up as she ran full tilt. Footsteps followed her but quickly died away. The man had taken her for a fallen woman. In the eyes of her parents, that was probably what she was. As she swerved to avoid a huge pile of planking, her nose assailed with the scent of resin and wood shavings, she tripped over a stone and tumbled into the mud.
The murky waters of the Thames loomed terrifyingly close. Heart pounding, she scrabbled back from the edge, having narrowly avoided falling in. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. It would be a suitably pointless and ludicrous end. Would a drowned daughter be less of a headache than one who had created a scandal by running away from her own betrothal party? Almost c
ertainly. The result of a tragic accident rather than a self-inflicted mortal blow. Mama and Papa would consider themselves better off being rid of her. They’d probably be right. Vaguely aware that she was on the verge of hysteria, unable to contemplate going back the way she had come, Margaret’s only coherent thought was to reach the sanctuary of the railway terminus. Picking herself up, she plodded on through the timber-yard and into what was clearly a deserted marketplace, trampling on discarded cabbage stalks, sliding on rotting leaves, conscious that at least some of the rank odours assailing her were coming from her soiled clothes.
The terminus building was absolutely massive, but she could see no way of accessing it from the riverfront. Another freight train screeching past overhead, sparks flying, sent her stumbling backwards, muffling her scream with a gloved hand reeking of slime as the giant iron beast hurtled past, belching steam, pistons pounding. Cautiously, she began to edge her way around the walls towards, she fervently hoped, the main thoroughfare, where there were bound to be people in the environs of the station.
Her footsteps slowed. The journey back to Montagu House was no more than a few hundred yards, but away from the gloom of the riverside, she was acutely aware of her appearance. Although she was covered in mud, and she was convinced there were bits of shrub in her hair, her white silk dress with its layers of petticoats and lace and trimming was still very obviously a ball gown. Her gloves were ruined, but they were still unmistakably evening gloves. Would she be taken for a woman of the night again, one who had been involved, quite literally in a bit of mud-slinging? Creeping stealthily onwards, keeping her eyes fixed on the treacherous cobble-stones, Margaret stumbled into a solid mass.
A loud curse rent the air. “Watch it! Ain’t you got eyes in your head?” A grizzled man, who appeared to be slumped on the ground, glared up at her.
“I’m so sorry,” Margaret muttered. “I didn’t see you there. Excuse me.”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 4