Personally, I fail to understand how you can have behaved with such an utter lack of decorum. You cannot be ignorant of the conventions and rules which govern good society, and yet you seem to have decided wilfully to break every one. Were even a small portion of the truth known, there is a real risk that the queen would ostracize us from court. That eventuality does not bear considering. It is a matter of small solace to all of us that the birth of their second child prevented the Prince and Princess of Wales from attending the ball that ill-fated night.
As to how matters stand with Killin, Mama has most graciously granted you permission to write him a conciliatory letter. I trust that you will make the most of this extremely generous concession, for it seems to me that his lordship’s steady nature would be an excellent ballast to your own impetuous and capricious temperament. Look to the excellent example my own marriage provides, and have faith in our parents’ stewardship. When the match with Kerr was first mooted, I confess to having had some reservations as to our suitability, but Mama assured me that affection and esteem would develop after the ceremony. With a determined effort on my part, Mama has been proved quite correct. It is with great delight that I confide in you, Sister, that I am expecting a most wonderful event in the early spring.
I expect no reply to this missive. Mama asks me to inform that she has read none of your letters, so there is no point penning more.
Your sister,
Victoria Kerr
Donald Cameron of Lochiel to Lady Margaret
London, 28 October 1865
Dear Lady Margaret,
I pray you will forgive the delay in responding to your earlier correspondence. I have been much taken up with matters of state, and in particular with the diplomatic ramifications of Lord Palmerston’s death. As you doubtless know, his state funeral took place yesterday, your father being one of the many senior mourners. I was also in attendance in a minor capacity. The Times this morning estimated that a crowd half a million strong came to our capital to pay their respects to our late prime minister. A goodly number of the mourners were veterans of the Crimean War, who credit his lordship with bringing that conflict to a close. As far as I am aware, our own Mr. Scott was not among them.
Which brings me to the crux of this missive. I am delighted to be able to tell you that I have not only managed to track Mr. Scott down, but I have retrieved your mother’s bracelet. Your logic, to suggest I return to the place where last you recall seeing it, proved absolutely sound. I am pleased to be able to reassure you that your instincts, that he is an honourable man, were also well-founded. Mr. Scott discovered the bracelet lying on the ground after I had marched you off. He kept it in the hope that you would return to reclaim it. A hero and a noble character indeed!
The clasp of the item is broken, but there are no stones missing. He was extremely relieved to know that it would be finding its way back to you, having been most concerned that its loss would, in his own words, get you into even more of a fankle than the one you were already in. I took the liberty of compensating Mr. Scott handsomely for his trouble. He asked me to pass on his very best wishes and his hope that you have resolved your matrimonial dilemma to your satisfaction. Obviously I paraphrase!
Your kindness and interest in him made a great impression on the man. If you will direct me as to what you wish me to do next, I will act upon your instructions immediately. I am acutely aware of how improper it is for me to write to you without your parents’ consent or knowledge, but due reflection persuaded me that the very peculiar circumstances justify our clandestine correspondence.
It has been my pleasure to be able to perform this small service for you, Lady Margaret. My reward will be in knowing that I have provided some comfort to you in your exile. While the gratitude you express for my coming to your rescue is much appreciated, it is unnecessary. As to your apology for, in your own words, ripping up at me, that, too, is quite unnecessary. You were greatly distressed, and understandably so. Your determination to shoulder the entire blame for the episode does you enormous credit, and will, I trust, stand you in good stead with those closest to you.
It only remains for me to wish you good health and happiness, whatever the future holds for you. I trust most sincerely that in the three months which have elapsed since your departure from the metropolis, good relations have been restored with your most esteemed parents and that they are now happy to receive your letters. Sadly, without their consent, I must sacrifice the pleasure of writing to you again.
Yours with respect and sincerity,
Lochiel
Princess Louise to Lady Margaret
Windsor Castle, 4 November 1865
My very dear M.,
Vicky and Fritz finally departed this morning to go to Sandringham for the week, which left the queen most melancholy, and so she concluded that a visit to the mausoleum would be the very thing to cheer her up! I was lucky enough to be selected to accompany her. You won’t be surprised to learn that paying her respects to Papa did not raise Her Majesty’s spirits noticeably. Incidentally, Vicky is expecting—again! Number five, would you believe. I hear that your sister Victoria is also breeding, as you would put it. I hope she has an easier time with her first than my sister did.
I know you’ll forgive me for replying tardily to your last two letters, but my time truly has hardly been my own due to my revered sister’s extended visit. (Yes, I am rolling my eyes—she is so determined to demonstrate her saintliness, just like your own sister. You and I cannot possibly compete!) I shall dash off this note now and write more fully later. I have so much to tell you, M., though most of it will have to wait until we meet again, for I dare not put any of it in writing, even though I know that no-one enjoys salacious gossip more than you do—except me!
I have to say that I am concerned about your state of mind. Your last letter was frightfully serious. When you mentioned that you were determined to use your enforced idleness to read some improving material, I thought you meant digesting an etiquette manual or two—and in the process discovering all the rules which you have blithely broken! A Guide to Manners, Etiquette and Deportment of the Most Refined Society is the kind of thing I imagined, not Mr. Mayhew’s no doubt very worthy book, London Labour and the London Poor. Do not imagine yourself unique in showing an interest in the less fortunate, however. I am willing to wager that another young woman of my acquaintance has read it. Lenchen’s friend Lucy, who last year became Lady Frederick Cavendish, has taken up good works with gusto since her marriage. Amongst other things, she has been assisting at a soup-kitchen in Westminster. Would you like me to facilitate an introduction? I’m sure Lucy and the new, philanthropically minded Lady Margaret would have much to discuss.
Have you any news at all of your potential return to the world? Surely four months is penance enough. It is only a few weeks until Xmas now, and I have already started working on my little albums for gifts—you remember, those with the pressed flowers and leaves, and my drawings opposite? Oh, M., you have no idea how much I miss you. I am bereft of good company. No-one laughs with me as you do. Shall I use my influence and ask the queen to command the duchess to restore you to my presence? I am sorely tempted, save that my mother would be bound to take offence at my finding her company insufficient, and that would be a shame, for I have worked so hard at persuading her that I am quite her favourite!
I have enclosed a length of silk from a bale which I chose for a morning gown. There should be enough material for one for you as well. I know that turquoise is your favourite colour, and fortunately it also suits me very well. I’ve taken the liberty of sketching a design for you. You are forever saying that you envy my style, so now you may adopt it! Consider it an early Christmas present. If you can find someone to make it up, you can wear it on Christmas Day which, I do most sincerely hope, will be spent in the bosom of your family. They cannot possibly leave you all alone at Dalkeith on that day of all days, can they?
I will write more very soon, I promise.
Louise
Chapter Eight
Dalkeith Palace, Scotland, Monday, Christmas Day, 1865
The large entrance hallway at Dalkeith was cold, the marble-tiled floor missing the Christmas tree which usually stood proudly at its centre. The banisters of the staircase were bare of the garlands of greenery which adorned them at this time of year, filling the hallway with the scent of pine. The table in the grand dining room remained swathed in Holland covers. The silver punch bowl was still locked away on a shelf in the butler’s pantry. There was no yule log burning in the hearth of the drawing-room.
Margaret had always loved Christmas at Dalkeith. The house was filled with laughter and chatter, games and feasting. Even Mama and Papa let their hair down a little. All her brothers and sisters made an effort to be together for the festive season, with their various spouses and offspring. They had gathered at Drumlanrig this year. Mary was still there. Her eldest brother, William; his wife, Louisa; and their two little boys had arrived there for an extended stay last week along with her brother John and his new wife, Cecily, and the usual collection of aunts, uncles, and cousins who made a point of travelling to Scotland to celebrate Christmas. Right up until yesterday, Margaret had hoped for a last-minute invitation to join them, but nothing had been forthcoming. No letters. No gifts. No word.
Louise had been wrong for once. Her family were perfectly capable of leaving her all alone at Dalkeith today of all days. This morning she had attended church with the rest of the household, sitting alone in her father’s pew for the Christmas service, feeling horribly exposed by her isolation, too embarrassed to join in the hymns with her usual enthusiasm. After church was when Mama usually handed out her gifts to the village children. She had asked Mrs. Mack to act in her stead this year. The housekeeper had been clearly uncomfortable performing the task, the snub to Margaret too painfully obvious to be ignored. So much so that Margaret had denied herself her annual treat of watching the children unwrap the wooden toys and barley sugar twists before telling them one of her stories. She had written a story for Mary as usual, and sent it to Drumlanrig, but she doubted her sister would be permitted to acknowledge the gift, even if she received it.
“There you are!” The green baize door to the servants’ quarters opened and Molly appeared. “What are you doing standing there like a wee lost soul?”
“I’ve decided to go for a walk.”
“It’s snowing outside. You’ll freeze.”
“I have my cloak and my mittens,” Margaret said, “and I’m wearing my sturdiest boots. I need some fresh air.”
“It’ll be dinner-time soon. There’s roast goose and clootie dumpling.” Molly crossed the hallway to stand beside her, staring at the space where the Christmas tree should have been. “We’ve a tree downstairs. I spoke to Mrs. Mack. It’s not right that you eat your Christmas dinner alone. We’d be delighted to have you eat with us in the servants’ hall.”
Touched, Margaret blinked furiously as tears started in her eyes. “Oh, Molly, that’s so kind, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not? You’ll be miserable on your own.”
“Not as miserable as I’ll be if I think you’re going to spend the day fretting about me,” Margaret said, forcing herself to smile, “especially when there is no need. I’m perfectly used to taking my dinner alone after all this time, and, anyway, you know that my presence below stairs would put a damper on the occasion.”
“But—”
“No, Molly. I might pop down later for the sing-song as usual, though. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
“But what are you going to do with yourself in the meantime?”
“I told you, take a walk. Pay Spider a visit. Perhaps I’ll build a snowman.” Margaret gave her maid a brief hug, then a small push. “‘Go and enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”
Outside, the snow was falling far more thickly now, though a glance up at the sullen sky showed that it would probably clear in half an hour or so. Deciding to wait it out, she headed down the hill, by-passing the stables, for the sanctuary of the orangery.
Set on the banks of the River Esk, it was the centrepiece of the formal parterre gardens and one of Margaret’s favourite spots. The circular building was neoclassical in style, with an elaborately moulded cupola roof and ornately carved columns. The boiler housed under the tiled floor, installed by Papa to heat the exotic plants and fruits grown inside, kept the place warm even on a bitter winter day like today. The multicoloured parakeets squawked a greeting as she closed the glass door gently behind her, breathing in the smell of the warm, damp earth mingled with the lush greenery of the palms. She could be in a jungle, far away in Africa or South America, save that outside snow lay thick on the ground.
Watching the Esk burble and tumble its way under the wide arch of the stone bridge, Margaret traced the path of the snowflakes as they landed gently on the windowpane before melting. This was a day like any other day, she told herself, but it wasn’t true. If she wanted to torture herself, she could imagine almost to the minute what particular festive ritual or custom her family would be following at Drumlanrig. And Louise, too, at Windsor with the assembled royal family, trying to coax the queen into enjoying the day without lapsing into melancholy, a task that was beyond even Lou. Would she take Margaret’s flippant advice to sneak downstairs and join in the fun in the servants’ hall for a little light relief? Of all the royal children, Louise would be the most welcome, for she had that rare talent of being able to adapt herself to and charm whatever company she kept. Molly would have primed the staff to expect Margaret later, but she wasn’t sure she had the heart to brave the unasked questions and awkward silences which might ensue. Christmas Day wasn’t any other day. To be so very alone, so completely shunned on a day which was supposed to be joyful, when families were supposed to be united and loving, was proving difficult to bear. In bustling, crowded London, where the Season revolved around an endless whirl of tea-parties, soirées, and balls, she had often longed for some solitude. Be careful what you wish for, M.
Enough! Unlike the queen, she was not going to fall into a melancholy, lamenting Christmases past. What she needed, taking her cue from Mr. Scrooge, was to make sure that her Christmas future was different. She was tired of feeling that her life was suspended until further notice. She was tired of being abandoned and ignored. It was time to take matters into her own hands and act. She wanted to make amends, to prove that she had changed, that she had grown up and was ready to embrace her fate, though how she was to do that when her father decreed enforced inaction was quite a quandary.
It was becoming stiflingly hot in the orangery, so she decided to visit Spider. Outside, her footprints had already been obliterated by the snow. Wrapping her cloak more tightly around her, Margaret followed the path through the archway that led to the inner courtyard of the stable block. She could hear the whinnying of the horses coming from the boxes which lined two sides of the cobble-stoned square. One of the stable cats brushed past her legs, disappearing into the coach-house where the huge outmoded travelling coach belonging to the previous duke was stored. Margaret had never met her grandfather, who died when Papa was only twelve, but if his coach, embellished with gilt and lined with red velvet, was anything to go by, he had been a man with a very defined sense of his own importance. One summer, when Louise had been permitted pay a rare visit to Dalkeith, the pair of them foolishly tried to harness the coach up to two of the Shire horses. Fortunately they had been caught by Papa’s head groom before they could do any damage either to the coach or the animals. Unfortunately, her elder sister had witnessed their escapade and felt obliged to report the heinous crime to Mama. Louise, she recalled, had put salt in Victoria’s lemonade at dinner that evening, though naturally Margaret got the blame. At this moment in time, Lou would probably be getting changed for dinner at Windsor. Was she thinking of Margaret? If she was, she would be thinking she was feeling far too sorry for herself
!
The fountain in the centre of the stable-yard was frozen over. A burst of raucous male laughter from the buildings opposite the clock tower, where the grooms and stable hands had their quarters, shattered the silence.
Margaret hurried towards her pony’s stall. Spider whinnied a greeting, his muzzle soft on her palm. She rubbed her cheek against his flank, breathing in the familiar, comfortable equine smell. “Here you go, old boy,” she whispered, fishing a carrot from her pocket. “It’s not much, I know, but merry Christmas anyway.” The pony whickered, making her smile. “You’re very welcome.”
Back outside, she followed the carriage-way as it climbed through the woodland to the crown of the hill and Montagu Bridge, built to celebrate the marriage of her great-grandfather, the third duke. There was a portrait of him by Gainsborough at Drumlanrig, which was one of her favourites, for not only did her great-grandfather have the same vivid red hair as she, he held a little dog in his arms that he was clearly very fond of.
Margaret leaned on the parapet, surveying Dalkeith Palace, standing proud on the hill across the narrow but steep valley. The bow windows of the drawing-room and, above it, the library were shuttered. The snow had stopped falling, but the steep-pitched roofs were white. It didn’t look like home at all from here but unwelcoming, cold, rather forbidding. Though in the basement she could see lights glowing from the servants’ hall.
She had been languishing here for five months. She could ride Spider anytime she chose, go for endless walks with the dogs, with no-one to chastise her for coming back late with muddy boots and wind-blown hair. But walking dogs and riding horses did not amount to a life lived.
Resuming her walk, she followed the sweep of the carriage-way past the house, and onwards towards the main entrance gates where St. Mary’s church lay in darkness. Generations of Montagus, Douglases, and Scotts had worshipped here, all of whom had assiduously done their level best to increase the family weal. They had given up their home to King George when he paid his historic state visit to Edinburgh, decamping to a hotel in Edinburgh. More recently, they had played host to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. They had served the county as members of Parliament. Papa served on a hundred committees, gave to a thousand charitable causes. He was responsible for the railway line into Dalkeith from Edinburgh. He had been instrumental in building bridges and roads, parochial schools, and any number of churches. Amo, “I Love,” was the Buccleuch family motto, and as far as Papa was concerned, it meant “I Love to Serve.”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 7