She, too, would love to serve, but as a mere female, her purpose was neither practical nor philanthropic. Buccleuch women made strategic marriages, increasing their power and wealth, before breeding the next generation of dutiful progeny, raising them to do the same. That was what she’d been born to. That was her duty. Why did she find it so difficult to accept? Why couldn’t she simply do as her sister had done, and her mother before her, perform her role with grace and elegance and make the best of it?
Because I’m neither graceful nor elegant! Looking down at her soaked boots, feeling the damp hem of her cloak flapping about her ankles, and knowing that her hair would be a sodden mass of rebellious curls, Margaret couldn’t help but laugh at herself. Could one learn to be both? If she looked to Louise as an example rather than her sister, if she applied herself as she never had before, then surely it could be achieved. Though grace and elegance were not the issue, were they?
She walked down the main street, past the shuttered tollbooth and the busy Cross Keys Hotel, on past the Corn Exchange, shuddering involuntarily at the spot marking the site of the last public hanging there. At the railway station on the outskirts of town, which her father had steered through an Act of Parliament to construct, she huddled for shelter in the doorway of the ticket booth.
If she didn’t marry at all, she was destined to become what Louise feared most, the family hausfrau, as she called it. A maiden aunt, at the beck and call of her brothers and sisters and their offspring, shunted from pillar to post as required. She would be a perpetual guest in others’ homes, expected to be nothing but dutiful and grateful until the end of her days.
Exasperated, she scooped a handful of snow into a ball and hurled it across the tracks. What she wanted was to stop the questions endlessly circling around and around in her head. What she wanted was to prove to her parents that she was indeed fit for purpose, not a selfish, feckless child.
Could she play the role expected of her, as Rufus Ponsonby’s wife? She could never love him, but love wasn’t part of the bargain. You must resist the urge to let your heart steer your actions. Louise’s words had stung, but she was right. Margaret should be asking herself whether she could learn to respect him, to hold him in some sort of affection. Every instinct screamed a resounding no, but look where her instincts had landed her.
Duty involved sacrifice and hard work. Her sister had successfully managed it, albeit, in Victoria’s own words, with a determined effort. If she could find the strength of character to emulate her sister, she would be redeemed in everyone’s eyes. And if she was fortunate, she would be rewarded, as Victoria was about to be, with a family of her own, even if she cringed to think how that family would come about.
If Victoria wasn’t example enough, she could look to Louise. Bored senseless, deprived of her friends, denied a proper debut, forced to listen to the queen’s endless lamentations and outpourings of grief, Louise did so with such grace and restraint that her mother believed she relished the task. Lou vented her feelings in her letters to Margaret, and she enjoyed her own, private little acts of rebellion, but she was otherwise a stoic.
Yes, Louise was the example she would follow. She would accept her place in the world, and she would make the best of it. She would have to wrap her heart in chains, suppress her true self in order to do so, but she would do it.
I can do it, Margaret told herself, as she set off back through the snow towards Dalkeith Palace. Ex adversis dulcis. Ex adversitas felicitas. A favourite quote of her father’s. “From adversity comes strength and happiness.” Something else for her to heed. As soon as she got indoors she would write to her parents, and if they didn’t reply, she would write again and again until they took her seriously.
Turning in through the gates, she was surprised to see Molly rushing towards her, waving something in the air. “It’s a telegram, Lady Margaret,” she said, smiling. “From your father. It looks like they haven’t abandoned you after all.”
Margaret grabbed the envelope with a squeal of delight. It looked like opportunity had knocked sooner than she dared imagine!
Telegram from the Duke of Buccleuch to Lady Margaret
Drumlanrig, 25 December 1865
NOTIFICATION OF URGENT CHANGE OF PLAN. PREPARE TO DEPART FOR LONDON ON THE FIRST AVAILABLE TRAIN. MAID TO ESCORT YOU. MONTAGU HOUSE WILL BE OPENED TO RECEIVE. ON NO ACCOUNT MAKE YOUR RETURN TO THE CAPITAL KNOWN TO ANYONE UNTIL HER GRACE AND I ARE ABLE TO JOIN YOU. ALL WILL BE EXPLAINED AT THAT JUNCTURE.
BUCCLEUCH
The Morning Post, Saturday, 23 December 1865
The Morning Post, Saturday, 23 December 1865
A Cautionary Tale for Our Times
Regular readers will recall our dismay at the sudden departure of Lady M——, second daughter of the Duke and Duchess of B——, from London society back in July. The young lady was taken suddenly ill at a ball given in her honour by her esteemed parents (often acclaimed as the de facto Scottish royal family) at which a most significant announcement was anticipated.
Nothing more had been heard of Lady M—— since her retreat to one of the family homes near Edinburgh until yesterday, when a certain personage closely connected with the Duke of B——’s London household contacted us. We can now reveal the true sequence of events leading to Lady M——’s departure from the capital. Scandalous and shocking in the extreme, we cannot see how the lady in question can ever be redeemed in the eyes of society. We recount the details reluctantly, in the hope that it proves a salutary lesson to our young and still blessedly innocent female readers.
Here then, is our eyewitness account. On the night in question, Lady M—— was seen to be in perfect health. As the clock approached midnight and the announcement of her planned change of name, the lady was spotted exiting the ballroom. Contrary to the tale told at the time, she was headed not in the direction of her bedchamber, but into the garden which forms the border between the family home in Whitehall and the docklands, where the new Victoria Embankment is being built. Our eyewitness was busy dispensing the champagne toast, but some moments later as he circulated the room he heard an altercation in the grounds, the sound of a man’s voice and of his young mistress’s muffled response. Applying himself assiduously to his duties, he had no time to think any more of it. It was almost two hours later, as the guests were departing and the kitchens were a hive of industry clearing up, that the servants’ door was thrown open and Lady M—— made a dramatic entrance, her gown torn and her hair unravelled. Shocked to the core, our eyewitness and every other person present reached the only and inevitable conclusion: Innocence had been Abused!
Lady M—— was whisked north in the company of her maid on the Scotch Express the very next morning. No word or sighting of her has there been in the five months which have elapsed since, nor is there any expectation of her return to London for at least another four months, at which time we might well anticipate an Easter present for the B—— family.
Lady M—— was born, as the adage goes, with a silver spoon in her mouth. We rightly look to such young women to set an example to those less fortunate, to provide them with a model to which they can aspire. When such persons fall from grace, they therefore fall spectacularly and completely. Though it pains us to say this, it taints all in their orbit. For her family and especially a certain Scotch earl, Lord R——, insult has been added to injury. Lady M——’s parents are part of the queen’s inner circle. Lady M—— includes, amongst her intimates, the most comely of the Royal Princesses. We must assume that Her Majesty’s excellent moral compass will ensure that friendship has been terminated. Our informant, his public duty discharged and suitably rewarded, has quit the service of the family.
Chapter Nine
Montagu House, London, Sunday, 31 December 1865
Six months and what seemed like a lifetime ago, Margaret had stood in front of this very desk in her father’s oak-panelled study, quaking in her torn ball gown. It was the last time she had seen her parents. They had arrived half
an hour ago, and neither of them had greeted her, inquired after her well-being, nor even looked her directly in the eye. At least this time she was permitted to sit.
Her father pushed a copy of the Morning Post across the desk with the tip of his finger. “This unwanted gift arrived at Drumlanrig on Christmas Eve.”
The pendulum of the case clock made a metallic clicking sound as it swung to and fro, emphasising the tense silence as she read the proffered article. The newly lit fire sparked in the grate, the damp coals causing smoke to billow into the room. Across from her, her father sat stony-faced, drumming his fingers on the blotting-pad. Reading the piece again, Margaret’s stomach churned as she struggled to make sense of the vile insinuations, the way the facts had been twisted to concoct a scurrilous, vulgar story that was untrue in all but the bare bones of it.
Though she had concluded, from the tone of the telegram summoning her, that her reunion with her parents was unlikely be a joyous occasion, Margaret had worked determinedly to keep her spirits up as she waited, rehearsing and refining her apologies, her explanation for her behaviour, and most of all her heartfelt resolve to embrace her fate. Never in a hundred years had she imagined she would be confronted with this. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, feeling sick to the pit of her stomach, “except that it is obviously a pack of lies.”
“Damned footman!” Her father hurled a brass paperweight in the form of a lion rampant at the fireplace. “Felt obliged to quit our service for the sake of his civic duty, indeed! The wretch was a sot with a taste for my burgundy! We should have had him clapped in irons when the extent of his pilfering was discovered, but instead we let him go on the understanding—as with all our staff—that he would keep his counsel about his time here. I’ve a good mind to have him tracked down and brought to book.”
“Walter, my love, calm yourself.” Mama picked up the paperweight and returned it to its rightful place, taking the chair beside Margaret. “To do so would only serve to generate yet more salacious gossip. What’s done is done. We must focus our thoughts on how best to repair the damage.”
Her father, however, was far from finished. “To have the Buccleuch name dragged through the mud like this is bad enough, but to add insult to injury, we received that rag in the Christmas post—from a concerned well-wisher! Ha!”
“Indeed, my dear,” Mama intervened, “but really, when you think about it rationally, this nameless person has done us a favour. If we had remained unaware—”
“Little chance of that! I’m told that blasted paper sells thousands of copies. What have we come to, that our press is permitted to make such unfounded allegations? This should cost the guttersnipe editor his job.”
“My dear, we agreed we would strive to remain calm. For heavens’ sake, Walter, you know that would be quite the wrong approach. To engage in any way with the press is simply not done.”
“Why not?” Margaret dared to ask. “Why would it be so very wrong to contradict what amounts to libel? I don’t understand why that is so beyond the pale.”
Uttering an impatient oath, the duke pushed his chair back, striding over to the bookcase to pour himself a glass of his favourite Glenlivet whisky. He almost never swore. Margaret had never in her life seen him partake of strong spirits until after dinner, never mind before noon. “You explain, Charlotte, though why an explanation is needed—does the girl know nothing?”
Mama sighed. “It is not libel, Margaret, because our names are not actually printed; but even if they were, one simply cannot respond. To acknowledge that one has even read the piece grants it credibility. To defend oneself implies that there is an element of truth in what has been alleged. If you don’t understand that, at least accept that those in the public eye have no other option. If only the press had not taken you so much to their hearts last year . . .”
“That isn’t my fault! You asked me to endeavour to make a good impression. It’s not as if I deliberately courted—”
“‘A breath of fresh Scotch air,’” her father quoted bitterly. “And now you are most decidedly an ill wind that blows no-one any good.”
Clasping her hands tightly together in her lap, Margaret strove for a conciliatory tone, determined to say her piece. “When I was at Dalkeith I had more than enough time to reflect on my actions, just as you hoped I would. I can see now that my behaviour was selfish, that I should have put my duty to the family before everything else, and I am determined to prove that I am capable of doing so from now on. I am quite resolved to accept Killin, if you still wish the match to proceed.”
Though her mother looked gratified by this homily, her father was quite unmoved. “That horse has well and truly bolted.” He slammed his empty glass down on the silver drinks tray before throwing himself back into his chair. “Killin is an eminently respectable man placed in an impossible position. If the press decides the child is his, he is a lascivious cad. If not, he is a cuckold.”
“For pity’s sake, there is no child! That should be obvious to even you!” Hurt and angry in equal measure, Margaret jumped to her feet, determined to be heard. “Your Grace, it has been six months since you saw me last, here in this very room. I have had ample time to reflect upon my position in this family and my future.” Her father’s dispassionate gaze, still pitched at a point over her shoulder, made her confidence wither, but she held firm. “If I am still required to marry Killin, I will do so willingly.”
“Too little and very much too late,” the duke responded icily. “While you have been languishing at Dalkeith examining your conscience, I have been expending a great deal of time and effort pouring oil on troubled waters. And until that damned footman sold his story, I was pretty sure we had weathered the storm. Despite the very public insult of your jilting him, Killin had been willing to forgive and forget, but I cannot see him taking you on after this.
“As a matter of fact,” the duke continued, his voice rising, “I have no idea how I’ll find any man willing to have you, let alone one of note. You’ve put a stain that may very well prove indelible on the family name. Can you imagine the nods and winks I will have to endure now?”
“What about the nods and winks I will have to endure?” Margaret interjected. “Thanks to that horrible rag, everyone in London will be fixated on my figure. For all the wrong reasons, I hasten to add.”
Finally, the duke met her gaze and she wished with all her heart that he had not. His deep-set eyes, so very like her own, were like shards of ice. “You cannot possibly imagine that your feelings are of any relevance whatsoever. I leave you to deal with her as you see fit, Charlotte,” he said, getting to his feet. “I will play my part in public for the sake of our family, but in private, I want nothing more to do with her, and beg you will keep her out of my sight.”
The contempt in his voice was too much for Margaret. Though she tried desperately, the tears which stung her eyes leaked down her cheeks as the door slammed shut. “Why won’t he listen to me? It’s not my fault the footman blabbed and the newspaper chose to publish vile innuendo.”
“The duke values his good name and his hard-earned reputation above all else.” Sighing, her mother picked up the Morning Post, shredded it neatly, and threw it into the smouldering fire. “I have never in my life seen him so upset as when he read this. To have it arrive as it did, in the last post on Christmas Eve, too, when we had a houseful of guests. Have you any idea how difficult it was for us to continue with the celebrations as normal? Some of your cousins look forward to the occasion all year long, you know. Our little family traditions and ceremonies mean a great deal to everyone.”
Including her! And yet she had been excluded and forced to spend a solitary and miserable Christmas alone at Dalkeith. But she was resolved not to look back, only forward. “How can we repair the damage done, Mama? Whatever it takes, I promise I will do my utmost. Ex adversis dulcis. Ex adversitas felicitas.”
She was rewarded with a very small smile. “There is certainly no shortage of adversity for you to t
ake strength from. Do you mean it, when you say that you are resolved?”
“With all my heart. If it is in the family’s best interests for me to marry Killin, then so be it.”
“You sound as if you are about to step into the tumbrel and head for the guillotine.”
“I assure you I am wholly reconciled to the situation.”
He mother narrowed her eyes. “That is a significant volte-face.”
“Yes, it is, but it is a genuine one.”
“I don’t doubt your intentions, Margaret, only your resolve. Can you truly curb this habit you have of questioning every decision your father and I take with regards your well-being, and simply heed our wishes?”
Before her exile, Margaret would have assured her mother that she could do exactly that, because she would have desperately wanted to avoid disappointing her. But the new Margaret tried very hard to think before she spoke, and was set upon trying to be scrupulously honest. “I understand where my duty lies and I am eager to discharge it. Even if it means marrying Killin.” Despite her best intentions, his name made her shudder slightly. She straightened her shoulders. “If he will have me.”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 8