Her Heart for a Compass

by Sarah Ferguson

“Lambeth! If it is to visit the Archbishop of Canterbury at Lambeth Palace, then I fail to see how anyone could dare find fault with that.”

  “You are on the right lines, but about half a mile and a world away.” Margaret reached across the table for her friend’s hand but stopped midway when Louise shrank away. “There is no need to start distancing yourself. Mama knows all about it—well, some of it. It is my reward for my exemplary behaviour; though when she agreed, I don’t think she had any notion my visits would prove so life-changing. To be honest, I didn’t either but—oh, it has been! In the last five weeks I have learned so much, experienced so much, I am a different person entirely.”

  “Five weeks, and you have said nothing to me.”

  “Don’t you dare take offence. What I’m about to tell you, I’ve told not another soul. If you will pour me another cup of tea and cut me just a tiny sliver of cake, I will reveal all.”

  To her relief, Louise smiled, albeit reluctantly, and reached for the tea-pot. “Go on, then.”

  “And there you have it,” Margaret concluded, sometime later, her tea cold and her cake untouched. “I’m sorry. I’ve not let you get a word in.”

  “My goodness, M., but you are a dark horse. I had not an inkling of any of this. To think that you have been spending every spare minute rubbing shoulders with heaven knows who and catching heaven knows what—” Louise broke off, shaking her head. “I sincerely hope that you douse yourself in vinegar when you return home. And the smells! You have a nose like a bloodhound, too. How do you cope?”

  “At first I carried a lavender sachet around. Susannah makes them for Sebastian—Father Sebastian, that is. But I barely notice now.”

  “It is all so very extreme. If you must do good, couldn’t you have contented yourself with—oh, I don’t know, knitting stockings for the poor?”

  “It’s not about doing good, Louise. It’s about learning what real life is like. It’s about being part of something and feeling useful. The women there take me at face value. They tease me for my unworldliness, and they laugh at me for my ignorance, but I don’t mind at all. They are rough and vulgar, but they are kind, too. I feel valued there, more than I do at home, frankly.”

  “I’m astonished,” Louise said, “that you prefer a den of iniquity to Montagu House.”

  “It’s not a den of iniquity! There is a great deal of industry in the parish. There’s a gasworks, pottery works, any number of breweries, and a vinegar works, too, but it is very poorly paid work; and people marry young there, so they tend to have large families. It is a hard-working community of decent people struggling to survive.”

  “So says the saintly Father Sebastian, I presume?”

  Margaret stiffened at her mocking tone. “Sebastian is dedicated and extremely hard-working. He listens to people, Lou, and he doesn’t judge or preach. He doesn’t wear a halo; he simply tries to make the small corner of the world he inhabits a better place. I think he is truly admirable.”

  Aware that her defence of Sebastian had been rather too impassioned, Margaret made a pretence of drinking her cold tea. She had said far too much already. Dear as she may be to Louise, her friend made no bones about the fact that she valued her reputation above everything. Besides, the kiss she and Sebastian had shared last week was their secret, too precious for her to disclose to anyone, not even Louise.

  She had given up trying to regret that kiss. When she lay awake at night, the memory of the giddy feeling, the rush of blood to her head, the soft pressure of Sebastian’s lips on hers made her want to swoon. It would be beyond shocking of her to kiss him again, but she couldn’t stop imagining that either. Did he lie awake thinking of kissing her? Did he think about her when she wasn’t with him, wonder where she was, what she was doing? Or when she left Lambeth, did she cease to exist for him?

  “You look positively moonstruck,” Louise said. “What on earth are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing. Oh, I nearly forgot,” Margaret said, feeling a flush creep up her throat. Anxious to head off any awkward questions, she reached under the table for her reticule. “I brought you a small gift. Here.”

  Louise took the pencil drawing, her brows rising in surprise as she studied the scene. “It is by an amateur hand, but it is really rather accomplished.”

  “That is a self-portrait of Billy and his dog, Muffin. Here is another he did, of me.”

  “Goodness, he’s captured your likeness very well,” Louise said, diverted as Margaret had hoped she would be.

  “I thought I might purchase a selection to send as Christmas presents. Billy would be grateful for the custom.”

  “It’s a little early to be thinking of Christmas, but they would make rather nice gifts. Who is the artist?”

  “A young boy, no more than twelve or thirteen. He sells his sketches at the market. No-one knows where he lives or whether he has a family.”

  “Not even your Father Sebastian?”

  “He is not my Father Sebastian. He is very much his own man, and his sister Susannah is very independent of spirit, too. If I could have a tenth of her strength of purpose, I would be a significantly better person.”

  “You are certainly a very changed person. What does Killin make of your philanthropic endeavours?”

  “He doesn’t know. It’s none of his business what I do with my free time.”

  “Yet.”

  Margaret’s mouth went dry. She was not officially betrothed to Killin; therefore his opinion was irrelevant. And if you say that often enough, M., you might eventually believe it!

  “That’s quite enough about me,” she said firmly. “Tell me your news. Mama showed me the piece in the Times praising the bust you made of Lady Jane. You must be very pleased.”

  Louise, always happy to talk about her artistic endeavours, beamed. “It is the first piece I have completed without an ounce of help. I confess, I am very proud of it. It has been discussed widely in the press, so Lady Jane tells me.”

  “How flattering.”

  “One must not pay any attention when one is lauded in the press, any more than when one is being castigated.” Meeting Margaret’s gaze, she laughed. “Yes, I was flattered, and so, too, was the queen. I think she is finally taking me seriously as an artist, M. Tomorrow we are to visit Baron Marochetti’s studio.”

  “How exciting.”

  Louise chuckled. “Well I think so. I have such hopes now that the queen will listen to Mrs. Thorneycroft’s pleas for me to have some formal training.”

  “Does that mean Her Majesty has no plans to marry you off next? You are turned eighteen now, and . . .”

  “Good heavens, no. Mama will need me to act as her scribe when Lenchen is married, and, though that is something I dread, at least it will allow me some time to myself, while a husband would demand all of it. Besides, there is dear Leo to be cared for. I have news on that front, too.”

  “Oh no, poor Leopold—has he been ill again?”

  “Quite the contrary. He is in excellent spirits. My brother has a new governor.” Louise leaned even closer. “Lieutenant Walter Stirling of the Horse Artillery. A most handsome young man, and the most good-natured of fellows. Leo adores him.”

  “By the sound of it, Leo is not the only one who adores him,” Margaret said, completely taken aback.

  To her further astonishment, her friend blushed. “I confess, I find him most attractive.”

  “Louise!”

  “I know, I know, it is a bit rich after all my advice to you, but I swear, M., I’ve never felt so alive as when I am in Lieutenant Stirling’s company. He has the sweetest smile, it makes me quite dizzy; and when he stands next to me, my heart simply pounds. I know, it sounds so extreme and so unlike me, and I barely know the man. Oh, M., do you think I could be developing a passion?”

  Without waiting for an answer, which was as well because Margaret was speechless, Louise continued breathlessly. “He has said not one word regarding his feelings, naturally—he is such a gentleman—but I know h
e senses it, too. You won’t understand, but there is a—a connection when we look into each other’s eyes. Oh, M., your face! You are thinking that your sensible friend sounds utterly foolish.”

  I’m thinking that I know exactly how you feel, Margaret thought, before saying, “I think you must listen to your own advice. You are a royal princess; your reputation must be spotless.”

  “It is, and shall remain so.”

  “If you ensure that this attraction doesn’t develop any further. For heaven’s sake, what would Her Majesty say if she knew you had set your cap at a mere lieutenant?”

  “From past experience, she would pack him off to the ends of the earth and confine me to my room until I had learned my lesson. My sister Lenchen had an affaire de coeur,” Louise clarified in answer to Margaret’s baffled look. “When she was about fifteen or sixteen, Helena fell in love with the librarian. I have no intentions of repeating her mistakes, however, and absolutely no desire to be the cause of Lieutenant Stirling losing his post. I am perfectly capable of keeping my feelings to myself. And I know my secret is safe with you.”

  “But what will you do about it? You cannot possibly think you have any sort of future with Leopold’s governor?”

  “Of course not.” Louise’s expression softened once again. “Right at this moment, M., I’m not interested in the future. I long to feel his embrace. Are you shocked?”

  Shocked, but on the other hand secretly reassured to discover that her friend was mortal, and that she was not alone in experiencing such longings. Not that she would say so to Louise. “Compared to what I have been regaled with in Lambeth, that is tame,” Margaret couldn’t resist teasing. “If you had informed me that you longed to feel some other part of him, then I might have been shocked.”

  “Margaret! What on earth—my goodness, do the women actually discuss such intimacies in front of you?”

  “They take great delight in doing so. You would not believe how well-informed I am in matters pertaining to the bedchamber and its consequences.”

  “Really?” Eyes wide, Louise leaned closer. “Do tell.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “That is positively cruel of you. I shall have to discover for myself what you mean, then.”

  “Lou, you don’t mean that,” Margaret said, brought abruptly back down to earth. A kiss was one thing, but to contemplate more than that would not only be very wrong, it would be courting danger. “You won’t do anything silly, will you?”

  But her friend treated her to a sphinx-like smile. “Lieutenant Stirling is to accompany us to Osborne in April. We shall be incarcerated there, in our own little world. Just like you and your little surrogate family in Lambeth. I intend to make the most of it while I can.”

  “What do you mean, make the most of it?”

  But Louise simply widened her eyes and shrugged. “I am not sure how long the queen plans to remain at Osborne, though of course we’ll be back for Lenchen’s wedding in July. I am not supposed to tell you yet, but even as we speak, my mother is informing your mother that you have been chosen to be one of the eight bridesmaids.”

  “No!”

  “You should be delighted—it is the ultimate seal of approval. It means that you are fully restored to society’s good graces, M. Of course you will have to pay for it by wearing a dreadful gown because Helena has appalling taste in clothes as well as in bridegrooms. Have you seen a photograph of Prince Christian? He has many good qualities, I am sure, not least his being amenable to making Windsor his home, but he is hardly the handsomest of men. He is prematurely bald, for one thing.”

  “Oh no, Lou,” Margaret said, suppressing a giggle, “it would be kinder to say that he has an extremely high forehead.”

  “So high that it looks as if his hair has migrated south to his chin,” Louise quipped, adding, “Oh dear, it looks as if the queen is getting ready to leave.”

  “Already!” Margaret jumped to her feet. “Lenchen’s wedding is more than two months away. Surely I will see you before that.”

  “I will do my best, but you know what my mother is like. Once she is installed in Osborne she has to be prised out like a winkle. When my sister’s wedding is out of the way, you would be well advised to start preparing yourself for your own.”

  “Don’t say that. Killin has not yet renewed his suit.”

  “Not yet.” Louise drew her into a rare, brief embrace. “But provided you continue to behave yourself, he undoubtedly will.”

  Illustrated London News, Saturday, 21 April 1866

  Illustrated London News, Saturday, 21 April 1866

  A Second Chance for a Second-Season Deb

  A ball was held last Saturday hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch at their Westminster residence to mark the reopening of Parliament after the Easter recess. Though it was one of several society events held on that particular evening, it was noted that the ballroom of Montagu House was packed to capacity. Such is the prestige of the Buccleuch name, it would be easier to name the illustrious members of the Ton who did not attend. Alas, though we have it on excellent authority that Their Royal Highnesses Princess Helena and Princess Louise were invited, both remain at Her Majesty the queen’s side at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight.

  As always, the Duchess of Buccleuch was most elegantly attired in a ball gown of silver and grey silk with a scalloped hemline, trimmed with silver lace. Her daughter, Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott, wore a gown of apple-green satin with an overdress of cream crêpe trimmed with green ribbons, in stark contrast to the demure hues that marked her first, truncated Season. Despite assurances that she is fully restored to health after her prolonged sojourn in Scotland, the Duke of Buccleuch’s formerly exuberant second daughter’s temperament is notably subdued this Season. Indeed, she now more closely resembles her more restrained and circumspect elder sister, Lady Victoria Kerr. A lasting legacy of the illness which brought her previous Season to a premature end, perhaps?

  Lady Margaret’s return to society initially received a muted response, but her dance card was much sought after at the Buccleuch ball. A certain Scottish earl, who has been observed paying close attention to the lady for the second year running, was rewarded with a march. Could it be that the announcement we were deprived of last July has merely been postponed, and not cancelled? Will the earl’s persistence bear fruit? (And is that fruit ready to be plucked?)

  We eagerly await developments in what is turning into a riveting saga.

  Chapter Sixteen

  May 1866

  The hackney jolted its way onto the bridge and Margaret, as always, felt as if she was crossing the border between one world and another. Since the Easter break, her time in Lambeth had been constrained by the daily influx of invitations arriving at Montagu House, to picnics and garden parties, dinners, balls, and soirées. Derby Day and Ascot Week were now looming. Rushing from one engagement to the next in a flutter of silk and lace and ribbons, she had become adept at smiling and making small talk while her mind and her heart were on the other side of the Thames.

  She had not seen Louise since their tea at Marlborough House, and her friend’s letters since then had been sporadic, little more than brief notes containing nothing of a personal nature. Louise could be fickle, making a person feel as if they were the centre of her world before snubbing them completely for no apparent reason, but Margaret knew better than to imagine she was the latest victim. Louise was preoccupied by something. Or someone.

  As you are yourself, M., and not only by one person but two. In truth, she was happy to leave Louise to fend for herself for the time being. Margaret had pressing issues of her own to deal with.

  The familiar feeling of impending doom settled over her like a dark cloud. Killin made a point of asking her to dance at least once at every ball. It was nearly always a march, rarely a galop, which was far too undignified for him, and thankfully it was never a waltz or a polka, which would require him to put his arm around her. His proprietorial air ensured she ha
d no other suitors, the one positive Margaret clung to as she endured his company. His continuous surveillance of her every time they met made her feel like a criminal whose claim to have reformed the judge didn’t quite believe. And yet, he persisted. The only thing constant about him was his determination to get his own way. It was but a matter of time before he claimed her.

  And then there was Sebastian. The man she loved, and who she was almost certain loved her in return, even though they had stuck to their resolution never to mention, far less repeat, that one blissful kiss. Their feelings for each other were acknowledged silently every time their eyes met or their hands brushed. Their love could never flourish given the harsh reality of their respective circumstances, but that didn’t stop Margaret from imagining how it might. She spent half her nights lost in an unhinged, romantic fantasy of being with him forever, and the remainder trying to reconcile herself to the marriage which she feared would be announced within a few short weeks. She desperately wanted to live up to the expectations she had worked so hard to cultivate since the start of the year. If she reneged on her betrothal again, she would never be forgiven, and rightly so.

  Not that she was planning to renege, she truly wasn’t. In her heart, she knew it was wrong to marry one man while she was in love with another, but she had resolved, back at Dalkeith on Christmas Day, to steel herself to do her duty. So her feelings for Sebastian, no matter how deep they ran, were irrelevant. She was set on a path to marry Killin, and that was what she was going to do. Lenchen’s wedding was to be held on the fifth of July. By the end of that month at the very latest, she would be betrothed to Killin. Her new life as the Countess of Killin was fast approaching.

  No, it was hurtling towards her at breakneck speed!

  The cab slowed to a halt, and as Molly jumped down to pay the fare Margaret’s heart lifted. Instead of bemoaning what she would come to miss, she would follow Louise’s example and concentrate on making the most of what she had, while she still had it.