The bridegroom had his own procession of notables to precede him. Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg was shorter than his name. Middle-aged, balding, and bewhiskered, he was a very unlikely beau for the energetic Lenchen, but according to Louise, the princess was very happy with her mother’s choice of future husband. The couple were to make their home at Frogmore Cottage, right on Her Majesty’s doorstep, which would allow Helena to continue to serve as the queen’s scribe, so Louise was also very happy to welcome Prince Christian into the family.
Finally, when Margaret wondered if the little chapel could possibly hold any more people, Her Majesty and the Prince of Wales stepped forward to lead Lenchen to the altar, and Margaret and the other bridesmaids, followed by stragglers of minor royal household members, finally filed into the chapel to the strains of Handel’s march from Scipio.
The pews of the quirky, oddly shaped chapel were crammed full, with yet more guests and dignitaries packed into the small balcony above, and standing in the porch by the doorway. Sun streamed in through the tall blue and gold stained-glass windows above the altar, adding to the already stifling heat. Margaret’s nose twitched at warring scents of perfume, sweat, dust, beeswax, and orange blossoms, but with a heroic effort she managed to suppress a sneeze.
The Archbishop of Canterbury performed the ceremony. Charles Longley did not look in the least like Sebastian’s nemesis. Square-faced, clean-shaven, and bald, he had the appearance of one of Mr. Dickens’s more genial characters. She could not imagine him hauling Sebastian over the coals, never mind dispatching him to Africa. Which reminded her that it was she who was to be cast into the wilderness.
As the queen rose to give her daughter away, and Lenchen smiled shyly up at her bridegroom, Margaret’s eyes strayed to the assembled guests, seeking out her parents. Her mother’s head was bowed, as if in prayer, but her father’s face was set, his gaze fixed firmly on the couple at the altar. He had not spoken a word to her since that frightful final confrontation. If she was dining at home, he ate at his club. On the rare occasions when he had been forced to attend a function in her company, he had travelled in a separate carriage. If he did happen to enter a room where she was present, he looked straight through her.
After today, she would be eradicated from the family history. In years to come, when the wedding photographs were being studied by Lenchen’s grandchildren, she would be a forgotten, peripheral figure. “Oh, that was a friend of Louise’s,” Lenchen might say. “I have no idea what became of her.”
Today, as far as her father was concerned, was Margaret’s last day on earth. She would see it through without breaking down. She had not once done so in his presence, nor come close to begging for a reprieve. Her dignity was all she had, and she would cling to it come what may.
The final blessing was administered. Princess Helena and Prince Christian were now man and wife. At least she had been spared Killin, Margaret reminded herself. And if her father was to consign her to history as the daughter-who-never-was, didn’t that give her carte blanche to suit herself?
Courage, M.! As a march struck up, Margaret picked up the bride’s train, and prepared to discharge what might be her final duty in society.
Later, at the reception, Margaret grabbed Louise by the arm. “Finally! I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
Louise’s pretty mouth pursed. “Come with me.” Casting a glance over her shoulder, she led them over to the window, pulling the curtain over a little to conceal them. “The fact is, I am not supposed to be fraternising with you. The queen has only tolerated your presence as Helena’s attendant because she doesn’t want any bad publicity associated with the wedding, which might arise, were she to drop you at this late stage.”
Margaret had guessed as much, for the other bridesmaids had been pointedly distant with her, but it was like a slap in the face to have it confirmed. “It was that piece in the Morning Post, I suppose.”
Louise sighed. “Amongst other things.”
“I wish the press would leave me alone.”
“Then you should stop providing them with ammunition. The queen was furious when it was brought to her attention—and don’t look at me like that, M., it wasn’t my doing. You know what these blasted courtiers who surround her are like—they seem to positively relish delivering bad news. Is it true?”
“That I’m not going to marry Killin? Yes, it is true.”
“I sincerely hope you are not now about to inform me that you are instead going to marry the priest.”
“No, I’m not. You were right, I was living in a fool’s paradise even thinking that I might.”
“Then why on earth have you spurned Killin? I wish you had not, Margaret, for now I don’t even have you to turn to.”
“You can always turn to me, Lou.”
“At the moment, it’s more important than ever that my reputation is spotless and you, I am sorry to say, are currently tarnished goods.”
“Louise!”
But her friend shrugged petulantly. “There are too many eyes upon me to risk any contact with you. Perhaps in time, but not now. I must go.”
“Don’t you dare leave without telling me how you are.”
“Faring better than you, by the looks of it.” Louise narrowed her eyes. “Underneath that rouge you are dreadfully pale. And you are as slender as a willow. It doesn’t suit you at all.”
“Never mind my figure,” Margaret snapped, hurt and exasperated. “I have been so worried about you, and your letters from Balmoral, if you could call them such, said next to nothing. Please, tell me how you are, honestly? I have been so worried about you.”
For a moment she thought that Louise would brush her away, but then her shoulders slumped. “With good reason, I fear.”
Shocked, Margaret immediately forgot her own cares. No wonder Louise was brittle and waspish. “Dear God, do you mean . . .”
“Don’t say it aloud,” Louise hissed, looking over her shoulder. “Do not even think it. I could still be wrong. I know next to nothing of such matters.”
“You look as well as ever,” Margaret said uncertainly, for she knew that looks could be deceiving. “How do you feel?”
“I exist in a constant state of terror lest my mother find out,” Louise said, looking close to tears. “I have to keep it from her at all costs.”
A hope born of desperation if ever there was one, Margaret thought, for the queen was bound to find out. “And what of Lieutenant Stirling? You said that you were in love with him.”
Louise shuddered. “If I was, it was a very fleeting infatuation and long over now. I am like my brother Bertie in temperament. A voluptuary, and a fickle one at that—which is very like Bertie, now I come to think of it.”
“Louise! For heaven’s sake.”
“Oh, don’t be such a prude. Are you saying it is different for you and your priest? Is he terribly proper?”
“Not terribly,” Margaret retorted, stung, “but he did exercise restraint.”
“Meaning that I did not?”
“Stop sniping at me just to make yourself feel better and tell me what in heaven’s name you are going to do.”
“I really don’t know. What I absolutely must not do is cry.” Louise dabbed furiously at her eyes. “I shall get through it somehow. Her Majesty will never forgive me, but she won’t risk any sort of public scandal. I will tell you something, M. For the first time in my life, I am glad that my father is not alive.”
If her own mother was a widow, Margaret wondered, would her fate be different? No, no, that was a dreadful way to think. “Before you go, Lou . . .”
“I must get back to the queen. What is it? Out with it, you have that look, as if you are bracing yourself to tell me something awful. I hope you have not been as lax as I have. The queen can’t disown me, but your father is perfectly capable of doing just that. After all, he’s done it before.”
Margaret laughed bitterly. “And he’s doing it again. I’m bei
ng sent away for good. As far away as possible, as far as he is concerned.”
Louise’s eyes widened. “So he found out about the priest?”
“No, no, it has nothing to do with Sebastian—at least not directly. It’s because I told him I won’t marry Killin.”
“I still don’t understand why you will not, when you’ve been girding your loins to do just that for the last six months. So, you are to be sent back to Dalkeith again, are you?”
“No, Powerscourt in Ireland, actually!” Margaret said, stung by her friend’s selfishness and lack of sympathy.
“Goodness, your father really is coming down hard on you. In that case I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to risk even writing to you. When are you going?”
“Tonight, as soon as Lenchen and her prince depart.”
“But they are leaving any minute now!” A tear escaped Louise’s eye, but she wiped it viciously away. “Very well then, I must cope as best as I can without you.”
“I’ll be with you in spirit. And you’ll be with me, too, won’t you?”
“Yes. Of course.” But Louise was already straightening her back and looking over her shoulder. “You must swear not to breathe a word of what I told you to anyone. Do you promise?”
“You shouldn’t have to ask,” Margaret said sadly. “Of course I promise.”
“Good,” Louise said briskly, patting her hair. “I’m afraid we are obliged to look out for ourselves from now on, you and I.”
“I will miss you, Lou. Whatever happens, I will always be your best and true friend.”
Louise brushed her cheek with the briefest of kisses. “Let us not prolong this, my dear, I can’t bear sad goodbyes. Good luck, Margaret.”
“Good luck, Lou.” But she was speaking to thin air. The curtain flicked behind her friend, and she was gone, leaving Margaret alone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Friday, 6 July 1866
The next twenty-four hours flew past in a blur. As soon as the royal newly-weds departed, Margaret, with her mother’s assistance, changed out of her bridesmaid’s dress and into her newly purchased travelling garb. Mama was brusque and businesslike up until the moment arrived for her to take her leave. There were no tender words of farewell, only a long, protracted embrace.
“No tears,” Mama said, pressing a small leather pouch into her hand, her own eyes swimming. “Be brave, Margaret.”
And then her mother fled, a handkerchief pressed to her face. The leather pouch contained a miniature portrait of Lix, Margaret’s favourite terrier. There was barely time for her to kiss the protective glass, before she was shepherded into the waiting carriage and on to Windsor station. Waiting for her there were a rather earnest-looking maid and a manservant, who had travelled all the way from Ireland to escort her back. At Euston Station the trio boarded the London and North Western Railway service bound for Holyhead.
They arrived at the port too late to catch the night mail boat, and so were obliged to spend the night at the Royal Hotel. Lying awake in the cramped, unfamiliar room, staring blankly at the ceiling, Margaret felt numb, too tired to sleep, drained of all emotion. Only a few hours ago she had been a bridesmaid at the royal wedding. Her participation would be extensively reported in the press in the coming days, her photograph pasted into the commemorative album, perhaps by Queen Victoria herself. Would she ever see Mama again, or Louise? How long would she remain in exile at Powerscourt, the grand Irish estate belonging to Mervyn Wingfield, the seventh viscount, and Mama’s friend Lady Londonderry’s son? What would Lady Powerscourt, his wife, make of her? What would she make of Lady Powerscourt? Would she be expected to earn her keep, perhaps as a lady’s companion? As the hours ticked by and the noise of the awakening docks filtered in through the open window, she couldn’t even bring herself to speculate.
Very early the next morning, after reluctantly eating the bread and butter and drinking the weak tea which was delivered to her door by a harried chambermaid, Margaret dressed herself for the first time in her adult life without any help. She fumbled with the many tapes, strings and ribbons, her various petticoats and her crinoline, poking herself with the buttonhook, tying knots where there should be neat bows. Her dress and matching paletot were tobacco brown. Bundling her hair under the drab straw bonnet, she carefully avoided looking at her ghostlike reflection in the mirror. The dark circles Molly had so carefully disguised with powder yesterday would be even more evident today, giving her deep-set eyes a sunken, cadaverous look.
Sean, the taciturn Irish manservant, had gone ahead to see to the baggage. Making her way with Breda Murphy, the Irish maid, Margaret was roused from her lethargy by the hustle and bustle. They were to sail for Kingstown on the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company Paddle Steamer, RMS Munster. Passing through the Admiralty Arch onto the pier, they joined a throng of people making their way towards the huge steamship, already belching black smoke from her funnels.
Organised chaos reigned at the dockside. The cargo was being hoisted aboard in nets. Crates stood stacked on the quay beside trunks of leather and tin, portmanteaus, tea-chests, and sacks of mail. The noise of the ship’s engines turning, of the stevedores shouting, of children shouting and wailing, of mothers calling anxiously and fathers grumbling made Margaret want to cover her ears. The black, sulphurous smoke tickled her nose, but the stench from the crowds of unwashed bodies, rather than make her retch, reminded her of Lambeth, bringing such a gust of longing as to stop her in her tracks. The crowd surged around her, and Breda urged her towards the gangplank reserved for first-class passengers. Clutching her carpet-bag which contained her jewellery box, her precious miniature of Lix, and a few necessities, Margaret boarded the steamship.
Immediately upon setting foot on the deck, her travelling companion’s face took on a greenish hue. “I’m very sorry, my lady, but I’m not so good on the water,” Breda confessed. “It was the same on the way over. If you don’t mind, I’ll see you safely to your cabin, and then I’ll find somewhere to sit out the crossing in the fresh air.”
Looking at her properly, Margaret saw that she was much younger than she had assumed. Cursing her own self-absorption, she took her by the arm. “You look dreadful. Let’s get you to the cabin and make you comfortable, and I will find somewhere else to pass the journey.”
“Oh no, my lady, I’m supposed to look after you and see you safely back. If you were accosted . . .”
“That’s highly unlikely in first class, don’t you think?” Margaret said, tightening her grip as Breda staggered. “Is this the cabin? In you go. Shall I have water fetched for you, or tea? Here, let me take your cloak. And here is a basin, just in case.”
Breda sank onto the bunk. “I really shouldn’t, my lady. Lady Powerscourt . . .”
“Will never know. It will be our little secret.” Backing out of the cabin, guiltily relieved to be alone, Margaret closed the door softly behind her.
RMS Munster, which would take five hours to cross the Irish Sea, offered its first-class patrons a choice of opulent saloons in which to relax and chat with fellow passengers, but Margaret had no desire to do either. Noting that all the sofas, chairs, and tables were bolted to the floor, which did not bode well for poor Breda, she returned to the deck. Chairs with warm blankets had been set out at intervals, though most of the passengers were standing in family groups, making their farewells, or waving at those still on the dock.
A low wooden guardrail separated the first-class passengers from the other, more significantly crowded decks. She found a space at the ship’s rail to watch the last of the passengers come aboard via the gangplanks, including an elderly priest in a dusty black cassock.
On the quay, a group of four balladeers were singing to entertain the crowds. One of the quartet stepped forward and launched into a plaintive song that squeezed her heart.
For Annachie Gordon he’s bonnie and he’s rough,
He’d entice any woman that ever he saw;
He’d entice any woman and so he
has done me;
Oh, I never will forget me love Annachie.
The words were slightly different from “Lord Saltoun and Auchanachie,” the Scots ballad that Molly used to sing to her, but the tune and the theme of the song were the same. Margaret listened intently to the all-too-prescient tale of a young girl, Jeannie, who is to be married off to the wealthy Lord Saltoun. Alas, poor Jeannie is in love with the highly unsuitable Annachie Gordon, and refuses the man her father has chosen for her.
As the ballad drew to its heart-wrenching close with Jeannie dying on her wedding day, a huge blast from the ship’s horn rent the air. A cheer went up from the passengers and those on the quay waving them off. Pennies rained down on the singers, who launched into a rousing anthem that sounded vaguely rebellious. Handkerchiefs were raised. Children were hoisted onto their father’s shoulders to wave. The ropes that tethered the steamship to the quay began to strain before they were untied from the bollards and thrown adroitly to the waiting crew on the fore and aft decks. And with a second loud blast from her horn and a huge billow of black smoke, the RMS Munster began to edge her way out of the protective arm of Holyhead Harbour headed for Kingstown, near Dublin.
Margaret clung to the railings, ignoring the tears which mingled with soot from the funnels, stinging her eyes. It was her first sea voyage and, though Ireland was part of the United Kingdom, she felt as if she were travelling abroad. Under different circumstances she would have been excited beyond belief, but instead she felt numb, her only emotion a vague sense of dread about what lay ahead when she landed.
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