“I am not in the least surprised you wish to, but please, for my peace of mind, conduct the meeting in some more salubrious location than here. Talking of which, I had best get you home.”
Disappointed, Margaret gazed skywards. “It’s a miracle. An actual glimpse of blue. We are very near the river here, aren’t we, and just opposite Lambeth, I think, which I have read a good deal about in Mr. Mayhew’s writing. I would very much like to see it for myself. Would you mind terribly, Lochiel, if we took a detour on our way back to Montagu House? It is only just after noon, and for London a positively beautiful winter’s day. I feel as if I’ve been cooped up for months, and Mama won’t be back for hours, for she has gone to call on a friend in Richmond. Please, may we take in a little more of this fascinating and unusual part of the city?”
“An epithet that could well apply to yourself, and before you take that amiss I meant it as a compliment.”
“Did you? Then may I say that is the nicest thing anyone has said to me for months. What’s the quickest way?”
“Your faith in my knowledge of the geography of London is touching.”
“But not misplaced, I hope. Lead on, Macduff!”
“Very well, I know enough to keep us clear of danger, I reckon. Why don’t we cross the river here, then we can walk back past Lambeth Palace and Astley’s Theatre, then cross back over at Westminster Bridge, if that’s not too much for you? Most young women of my acquaintance require smelling-salts to walk farther than the length of themselves.”
After they crossed the toll bridge into the Parish of Lambeth, they were quickly caught up in a steady stream of traffic.
“I can only imagine they are headed for the new station at Waterloo,” Lochiel said, looking dubious.
Margaret’s excitement mounted as they progressed, and the crush increased. Relying on her escort to forge a path and long past caring for the state of either her boots or the hems of her gown and petticoats, she lost herself in the spectacle. Costers with barrows piled high pushed their way through the crowds, calling out their wares as they went. Though she couldn’t make out more than one word in ten, she knew from Lochiel’s face that the air ought to be turning blue.
“Waterloo Road,” Lochiel said, “and as I suspected, we are at the station.”
“But everyone is going that way.” Margaret tugged on his arm. “Look, past this theatre, the Victoria?”
“I believe they put on melodramas.”
“I have been known to perform one myself occasionally,” Margaret quipped. “Oh, do look, Lochiel, the whole street here is lined with food stalls. We’re here now—we might as well explore it, don’t you think?”
“I think I lack the resolve to deny you. You are not carrying a purse, are you?”
“Oh no, I didn’t think—and now I won’t be able to buy anything.”
“I wasn’t concerned about your ability to purchase a few cabbages, but about urchins—what did you call them, gonophs?—picking your pockets.”
“Then it’s fortunate I have nothing to tempt them,” Margaret said, privately thinking that Lochiel was being overly cautious, for the children she could see were all respectably dressed, and most of them were in the company of their mothers.
The stench of the river and of the crowd was overlaid by more appetising aromas as they progressed along the street packed with stalls thronged with customers. Though they attracted the odd curious stare, most people were too intent on their own business to notice them, bartering, bantering, or hurrying home with their packages clutched close. Most of the shoppers were women; the market stalls, however, were run by men; but in between there were any number of boys and girls calling out their wares from barrows and baskets. Despite the fact that it was still daylight, gas lighting and grease lamps were lit to draw attention to the shops behind the stalls—a butcher, a draper, a tea merchant.
“Ripe pears, eight a penny!”
“Hot chestnuts, a penny a score!”
“Yarmouth bloaters, three for tuppence!”
“Pickling cabbages, name your price!”
A man with an open umbrella turned upside down was selling prints. A tailor, posing in the midst of a group of headless dummies, was demanding that passers-by feel the quality of the fustian jackets. A boy was bellowing out the bill for a circus, and a woman was standing on a street corner singing, while a little terrier dressed in a skirt pranced about on hind legs.
“Look, it’s not only food; you can purchase virtually anything here,” Margaret said as they passed a stall stacked high with china plates, beside it one bearing towers of wash-tubs and saucepans which were apparently freshly tinned, and next to that another stacked with handkerchiefs in every colour of the rainbow, and yet another with pairs of second-hand shoes and boots.
They made their way slowly from one end of the market to the other. When the stalls petered out at a crossroads at the far end, Lochiel steered her firmly around. “It’s getting late; best I get you home.”
If truth be told, Margaret was tired, and very much aware that he was far less entranced by the place than she. As they retraced their steps the aroma from a stall selling roast chestnuts caught her attention. Though she had never tasted them, the smell made her mouth water. It had been an age since breakfast, which she had barely eaten anyway, for Mama’s eyes were upon her and she had been nervous about meeting Mr. Scott again after all this time.
Her tummy rumbled. Letting go of her hold on Lochiel’s arm, Margaret pushed her way in, ignoring his shout of alarm, for the stall was only a few feet away. Heat belched from the stove where the nuts were roasting in a brazier, the stall-holder turning them with long tongs to stop them burning.
It all happened so fast. Desperate to sample for herself whether the taste lived up to the aroma, Margaret was about to ask for tuppence worth, hoping that Lochiel would lend her the funds, when a shout of alarm made her turn, and at the same time a woman clutching what looked like a skinned rabbit barged straight into her, knocking her to her knees on the muddy cobble-stones.
No-one seemed to notice Margaret’s plight as she scrabbled to get up, caught in the stampede of men, women, and children calling, “Stop, thief,” after the woman. Terrified, she was about to scream when a pair of hands caught her from behind, lifting her clear of the milling crowd.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”
Expecting to hear Lochiel’s distinctive Scottish tones, the cultured English voice came as a shock. Margaret whirled around as he set her down and came face-to-face with a young man of about twenty-five. Beneath his hat, hair the colour of the chestnuts she’d been drooling over flopped endearingly over his brow. He was clean-shaven, his mouth curved into a gentle smile that was reflected in his warm brown eyes.
“Reverend Beckwith, at your service.”
“Reverend?” Lady Margaret exclaimed, eyeing his plain black coat and trousers.
“Fortunately, we Anglicans are permitted to reserve our cassocks for Sundays,” he said. “It’s not the most practical of garments.”
“Ha! That’s nothing, you should try wearing a—” Margaret broke off, reddening. “Gown,” she substituted for crinoline. “Though I suppose a cassock is a kind of dress.”
“Lady Margaret! Thank goodness you’re unhurt.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Lochiel. Reverend Beckwith here gallantly came to my rescue.”
“You are a priest?”
“Reverend Sebastian Beckwith. Priest, parson, or rector, I answer to all, though I am more commonly known as Father Sebastian, of the Parish of St. George’s. You don’t look like members of my flock, if you’ll forgive me saying so. Are you lost?”
“We’re not lost, though you’re right: we’re not exactly in familiar territory.” Lochiel’s brow cleared and he held out his hand. “Cameron of Lochiel. How do you do?”
“And I am Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott, to give me my full Sunday name. How do you do?” Margaret dropped a slight curtsy. “It was my idea tha
t we visit Lambeth. We were intending walking back across Westminster Bridge, but then we got caught up in the crowds heading to the market. I’ve never tasted roast chestnuts before, and it was the lure of that which led me to abandon Lochiel’s protection. And then that thief bowled me over. Did they catch her? The woman with the— Was it a rabbit?”
“Peggy is well-known to the stall-holders here. They’re usually happy to give her any leftovers at the end of the day, for they know she’s often left a bit short.”
“So the rabbit was for her dinner?”
“No, most likely to be sold to pay a debt, or more accurately someone else’s, knowing her husband. It’s not like her to steal, though. I’ll call on her later.”
“She won’t go to gaol, will she? I am woefully ignorant of such matters.”
“I was woefully ignorant myself when I first arrived here two years ago. I was earmarked for what you might describe as a well-heeled parish in Cheltenham, but I found that a comfortable sinecure didn’t sit well with me.”
“And how do you find being uncomfortable instead?”
“The church provides perfectly adequate accommodation, and my widowed sister Susannah—Mrs. Elmhirst—keeps house for me.” Father Sebastian’s smile faded. “Compared to my parishioners, my lady, I live in the lap of luxury.”
“Lady Margaret, we really should be going. I think we’d better get a hackney, if one is to be had.”
“There is a stand at the station,” Father Sebastian said. “The quickest way across is by Waterloo Bridge, though most people use Westminster to avoid the toll. You are going across the river, I take it?”
“Whitehall. Montagu House, to be exact,” Margaret said. “If we had a boat we could be there in five minutes.”
“A cab will suffice,” Lochiel said firmly. “I think I can run to paying the toll. Good day to you, Father.”
“Goodbye, Father,” Margaret said, holding out her hand. “And thank you again for coming to my rescue. Why,” she hissed, as she was shepherded away, “are you glowering, Lochiel?”
“You oughtn’t to have given him your name and address.”
“He’s a man of the cloth, and well-connected, too, if he had a living in Cheltenham. He is obviously a man with a calling. One cannot help but admire . . .”
“Thank heavens.” Lochiel hailed a passing hackney carriage, helping her in before giving directions and climbing in after her. “That was a stroke of luck. I am sure there is much to admire about the fellow, but I am still of the opinion that you should not have given him your details. He might come calling, begging for alms or whatnot, at Montagu House.”
Margaret turned towards her escort, whose smile was somewhat strained. “If he does, he will not leave empty-handed. Thank you for your forbearance today, it is most appreciated.”
“I wasn’t bored, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I doubt anyone could be bored in your company.”
“My father might disagree. What time is it, if you please? My boots and my gown are filthy. I don’t want Mama to see me like this. I led her to believe we would be taking a stroll in the park.”
“It is only just after three. We will be there in another ten minutes. Lady Margaret, I must tell you that I return to Berlin tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! Why didn’t you mention that before? I have taken up almost all of your last day, when you should have been packing and saying goodbye to your friends.”
“I wouldn’t have missed today for the world.” Lochiel cleared his throat. “Before I go, I must ask you—forgive me, I know that it is none of my business, but do you intend to marry Killin? It seems to me, you see, that your feelings for him have not changed significantly from those you confided in me that night.”
“How do you know that?”
His cheeks coloured. “I should not have touched on such a personal matter.”
Margaret hesitated. “I thought no-one noticed how I felt.”
“You keep it very well-disguised in public.”
“I am most grateful for your concern, but you need not worry. My heart may be insubordinate, but it no longer rules my head. If Killin renews his suit, then I shall accept him.”
Lochiel opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind as the carriage came to a halt. “Here we are, Montagu House,” he said, looking out of the dusty window before turning back to her, to her surprise catching her hands between his. “I wish you the very best for your future happiness.”
“Thank you. I suspect I’m going to need it. Won’t you come in?”
He shook his head. “As you pointed out, I have a great deal to do.”
“When will I see you again?”
“Some months. A year or so, perhaps. I expect I’ll receive my next posting direct from Berlin.”
“So this is goodbye, then?”
His gloved fingers tightened around hers. “I’m afraid so. Goodbye, Lady Margaret.”
“Lochiel, I hope . . .”
But the cabbie, grown bored with waiting, opened the door, cutting her short, and Lochiel let go his hold on her hand, giving her no option but to descend. “On to King Charles Street,” he instructed as the door closed.
Margaret lifted a hand to wave, but Lochiel had already turned away, his thoughts presumably preoccupied with his own future prospects now that he had finally rid himself of her. She picked up her skirts and hurried to the door which the footman was holding open, anxious to change her clothes before her mother could ask her any awkward questions.
The Illustrated Times, Friday, 16 February 1866
The Illustrated Times, Friday, 16 February 1866
What Truly Ails Lady M.?
The Lounger at the Club, with his ear planted as firmly to the ground as ever, has a friendly word of advice for a certain, most esteemed gentleman. The Duke of B——, who is currently busy in the House of Lords supporting an Act intended to protect farmers from contracting cattle-plague, would do well to concern himself more with the well-being of a person much closer to his heart. We fear that all is not well with His Grace’s second daughter. Titian-haired Lady M——, our readers may recall, left the Capital last summer on the eve of a Significant Announcement in order to recuperate from a sudden unexplained illness. The lady re-entered society some weeks ago, but while the Lounger can vouch for her seeming to be in excellent physical health, he cannot in all honesty claim the same for her spirits. Though fashionably slim, she has little to say in company and even less, alas, to make her smile.
What has become of Lady M——? Has the “illness” she rid herself of while in seclusion in Scotland come back to haunt her, along with a certain Scottish peer, who has been observed acting sentinel at almost every party she attends? Is the Earl of K—— afraid that his sought-after prize will once again be snatched from his grasp? Or are his assiduous attentions an effort to save the lady from a relapse? To prevent lightning striking twice, so to speak! The next few months will surely tell. I shall endeavour, as always, to keep you posted regarding any interesting developments.
Chapter Twelve
The heat in the crowded drawing-room was stifling. Charlotte abhorred musical soirées such as this. As the latest tone-deaf young lady brought her demolition of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” to an abrupt close, the duchess joined in with the round of applause. Unfortunately, relief made her, along with the rest of the audience, overenthusiastic in their acclamation. Her heart sank when the young lady resumed her seat and began to rustle through her sheets of music.
Flicking open her fan, Charlotte leaned towards her daughter, seated next to her. “I have a theory,” she whispered, “that the less talent a young lady possesses, the more protracted her performance.”
Margaret gave a snort of laughter. “I think it just feels that way. If it were indeed the case, I would be obliged to perform from dawn till dusk.”
In fact, Margaret had a rather charming singing voice but a horror of public performance. It was ironic that Walter thought his second daughter
someone perpetually seeking attention, when she was a wallflower by inclination.
“Are you feeling the heat, Mama? Shall I see if I can secure you a glass of lemonade?”
Thoughtful, too, Charlotte thought guiltily, shaking her head. “Louise was right—turquoise is your colour,” she said, eyeing Margaret’s new ball gown with some satisfaction. It was a deceptively simple creation worked up from the sketch made by the princess, the fabric of the skirt falling in deep pleats, lacking the swags and ruffles her daughter detested, a bertha collar of cream lace the only adornment. “Your friend has an excellent eye for what suits you.”
“Thank you, Mama. Molly had to adjust it a little, for my waist is now a mere eighteen inches, the smallest it has ever been.”
As was Margaret’s appetite, which had all but disappeared. “I think eighteen is svelte enough,” Charlotte said, adding, “Oh, dear heavens!” as, to her horror, a violinist stepped up to join the pianist.
The pair scraped and tinkled into action. Beside her, Margaret rolled her eyes, but as she leaned in to comment, her face fell and she stiffened. “Here comes Killin,” she said. “Again.”
Charlotte watched her daughter transform into a rigid effigy, her hands clasped tightly together, quite literally bracing herself. She could not understand this visceral reaction to the man, but it was painful to witness. As Killin manoeuvred himself carefully into the empty chair beside Margaret, Charlotte felt the girl shrink towards her. The movement was instinctive; she doubted that Margaret herself was even aware of it.
The performing duo launched into something utterly unrecognisable and she tried to catch her daughter’s eye; but Margaret, her gaze fixed determinedly to the front, was no longer listening. Looking at her fixed smile and tense shoulders made Charlotte’s own jaw clench in sympathy.
Killin was taking the opportunity to study his prize, his mouth pursed into a disapproving line. He had most likely read that vile piece in the Illustrated Times. The press really were beastly when they had some poor soul in their sights. There could be no denying that she and Walter were partly to blame for the remorseless hounding, however, though the duke would dispute that fact. Margaret’s exile last year, coupled with her father’s tight-lipped response when anyone asked after her health, had signalled to everyone that the Duke of Buccleuch’s daughter had committed some heinous crime. Margaret had committed a major faux pas, but with the benefit of hindsight, their reaction had been ill-judged. They ought to have brazened it out. At least if Margaret had remained in public view, the vilest of the allegations would have been proved demonstrably to be false.
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