Her Heart for a Compass

by Sarah Ferguson

  Powerscourt was located just south of Dublin. Lady Londonderry’s son had inherited it when he was a child and had devoted much of his adult life to restoring and enhancing the massive house and gardens, according to Mama. He had married Lady Julia Coke two years ago, but spent most of his time abroad, leaving his young wife alone to come to terms with her new position. Lady Julia was twenty-two, just over two years older than Margaret. Lady Londonderry, Mama had confided, had for some months been concerned that her daughter-in-law was feeling neglected and rather lonely. Unable to deter her son from travelling, she had leapt at Mama’s suggestion that Margaret provide her with some much-needed company. Or so Mama claimed.

  Margaret wasn’t convinced. If she was an abandoned bride stuck on a vast estate in a foreign country, would she welcome a complete stranger into her home? There was no guarantee they would be compatible. Yet it could have been so much worse, she supposed, reading between the lines of all Mama had not said in the weeks since her father’s ultimatum. If it had been left to the duke, she could have ended up in Timbuctoo.

  The breeze which had been ruffling her skirts and tugging her hair free from its loose chignon became a stiff gust of wind as the steamship reached the open sea. Clutching her hat to her head, Margaret watched as the mainland disappeared from sight, and the waters churning below turned from green to iron-grey. If she cast herself into the briny depths, her father would be spared the embarrassment of having to explain her absence away. She would be remembered not as the black sheep but as the tragically drowned daughter.

  An echo from the past made her reconsider. Almost a year ago, she had thought the exact same thing regarding the Thames when fleeing from her betrothal ball. Back then, she’d still believed her father cared for her, that his actions were motivated by a genuine desire to do his best by her. His behaviour since had proved her misguided. It was time that she started trying to learn not to care about him. A lifetime of subservience, of trying to please, would be a difficult habit to break, but she had all the time in the world to manage it.

  The salty air stung her cheeks. The wind made her eyes stream. She would survive this. She was, in Molly’s words, tougher than she looked. And it was time, as Louise had pointed out, for her to look out for herself. A gust of wind tugged at her hat, snatching it from her head and sending it tumbling into the seething waves below. Her hair unfurled like a scarlet flag, wild curls whipping across her face. The sun peeked through a break in the grey, lowering clouds overhead. Her spirits lifted. She had no idea what lay ahead, but it couldn’t be worse than the mess she had left behind. For the first time in a while, Margaret smiled, taking pleasure in simply being alive.

  But as the steamer berthed in Kingstown, her optimism gave way to trepidation. The crowded harbour-side; the flags which fluttered along the long, covered walkway that led from the quay to the custom house; the calls from the crew to the dockside; and the crush of people pushing and shoving in their eagerness to disembark made her feel as if she was physically shrinking. RMS Munster was one of two steamships berthed in the large harbour. A traditional sailing ship was docked over on the other side. Countless little boats filled the gaps between, bobbing at anchor.

  Her knees shook as she descended the gangplank and set foot on Irish soil for the first time. She was happy to defer to the much-refreshed Breda, who ushered her safely through the throng and found a quiet place for her to wait while their luggage was collected, leaving Margaret to clutch her carpet-bag close and try not to surrender to panic. Almost all the voices around her were Irish, from thick brogues to a soft lilt that reminded her a little of Molly. Though most spoke English, she caught the occasional phrase that she presumed was the Gaelic language, lyrical and oddly comforting.

  Lady Powerscourt had sent her landau to meet them. The elegant, beautifully sprung carriage was painted yellow and trimmed with gold. Under normal circumstances, Margaret would have been charmed by the perfectly matched team of four bays harnessed to the traces, but seeing the Powerscourt crest emblazoned on the doors reminded her that she was about to embark on a life in an unfamiliar house with a complete stranger for company.

  What if Lady Powerscourt took an instant dislike to her? Even if she did not, Margaret would be at the mercy of her hostess’s goodwill, an uninvited guest who would be expected to entertain, to smile and make pleasant small talk, no matter how she felt. Tolerated, but not wanted.

  “Sean will follow us with the luggage,” Breda said, ushering Margaret into the forward-facing seat and arranging herself opposite. “It’s ten miles to Powerscourt, over the border in County Wicklow. We’ll be there in plenty of time for tea, my lady. I’m right sorry to have abandoned you on the steamship. I hope you took no harm?”

  “None, I promise. I’m terribly sorry, Breda, I must have appeared dreadfully rude. I’ve barely spoken a word to you. Tell me about yourself—have you worked at Powerscourt for long?”

  “Two years, my lady.” Breda smiled tentatively. “I was one of the staff brought in when his lordship married.”

  “And are you a local girl?”

  “Ah no, not at all. My family are from County Mayo, which is in the west, though we’ve been in Dublin sixteen years now.”

  “Have you a large family?”

  Breda shrugged. “I’ve five sisters and three brothers, last count. I’m the eldest.”

  “I am number six of seven,” Margaret said, ignoring the thought that none of her siblings would own to her now. “Do you like working at Powerscourt, Breda?”

  “Oh yes, it’s grand. Lady Powerscourt is young and pretty, like yourself, though she keeps herself to herself, as they say. A bit shy of company. Not that we have much. His lordship has not been home since he lost his brother back in February.”

  “Goodness, how tragic. Is Lady Powerscourt in mourning, then?”

  “She’s put off her blacks, but she doesn’t entertain. It will be just the two of you, I reckon, for much of the time.”

  Which, Margaret thought, would be more than acceptable if Lady Powerscourt didn’t take her in dislike, and torture if she did.

  “This road is known as the Scalp,” Breda informed Margaret some few miles later. “It passes through the Wicklow Mountains. I was terrified the first time I made the journey.”

  Looking out of the window, Margaret could understand why. Huge granite boulders protruded from the steep sides of the chasm, some of them leaning at such precarious angles that they looked as if they might crash to the ground at any moment. It was a relief when they reached a small village with a large square clock tower at its centre.

  “Enniskerry,” Breda said, as the road began to rise steeply. “That’s St. Patrick’s church on the left. It won’t be long now, till we reach Powerscourt.”

  Almost as soon as she finished speaking, the carriage began to slow, and a huge pair of gates came into view. It was too late for Margaret to worry about her tangled hair and lack of bonnet, for the gates were already being opened and the landau drove through, providing her with her first glimpse of her new home.

  The classical Palladian façade of Powerscourt House was clad in grey granite. Three stories high, it had a balustraded roof and central pediment featuring what was presumably the Wingfield family crest, and what looked like a carved eagle. Beneath the pediment, five busts peered imperiously out of the five round windows. The main house was book-ended by two low-terraced service wings, each with a circular sweep of wall terminating in an obelisk, though the towers with their copper cupolas peeping out from behind each wing hinted at a very different, hidden aspect.

  “You get no sense of how grand it is from this approach,” Breda confirmed. “It looks like a foreign palace from the other side, where all the gardens are being landscaped.”

  The door of the landau was opened by a liveried footman, the steps folded down, and Margaret’s travelling companion disembarked. “Here is her ladyship to greet you.” Breda smiled tentatively up at her. “I hope you enjoy your stay h
ere, my lady.”

  “Thank you for your company,” Margaret replied, but the maid, having dropped a quick curtsy, was already hurrying away.

  Gathering her skirts and the tapes of her crinoline, Margaret pasted a smile to her face and descended from the carriage, only to be almost bowled over by a huge hound which came lolloping forwards and with a joyful bark threw itself at her, its massive front paws on her chest. Laughing, she staggered, pulling off her gloves to caress the beautiful animal’s head. The hound’s fur was dark grey flecked with white, the tips of its ears a much darker colour. “Well, that was quite a welcome,” Margaret said. The dog whimpered, licking her fingertips, its graceful, feathered tail wagging furiously.

  “Sorry, her manners are atrocious. She was meant to say a polite hello, not knock you over like a skittle. How do you do, Lady Margaret?”

  Lady Powerscourt was wearing a day dress of dove grey with pagoda sleeves, the bodice cut away over a white lace blouson with a high lace collar. She was slim and delicately pretty, with big brown eyes and chestnut hair worn in an elegantly braided chignon. “Welcome to Powerscourt.”

  Her smile was rather frosty. Margaret scrambled to her feet to make her curtsy. “Lady Powerscourt. I am very much obliged to you for having me to stay.”

  “Since you are to make your home with us for the time being, I think it would be best if you called me Julia. And this is Aoife.”

  “Eeefa?”

  “Eva, is the closest in English. She is named for the warrior princess of Irish legend. Aoife, however, is the gentlest of hounds. Your mother told me that you are very fond of dogs.”

  “Did she? I am, and Aoife is a very beautiful creature.”

  “I can see she’s taken to you, too. She will dog your every footstep, if you will forgive the pun, but please don’t feel obliged to put up with her.”

  “Oh no, I’m delighted to have her company. And yours, too, Lady Julia—Julia. I hope I will not prove too much of an inconvenience.”

  “This is a very large house with any number of rooms. I am sure we won’t get under each other’s feet. Come in, and I will show you to your bedchamber, and then we will take tea.”

  Margaret followed her hostess, her heart sinking in the face of this rather tepid welcome. The reception hall was a vast square space with double arcades on each side. The cornicing was bright unadulterated white, as were the walls. The simplicity would have been dazzling, were it not for the massive stags’ heads which were mounted at intervals, their widespread antlers almost reaching the cornicing, giving the room a very Gothic feel.

  “There are twenty-eight,” Julia said dryly, seeing Margaret’s expression. “My husband collects them. I believe these are mostly from Germany. There are a great many more in the other rooms, too, herds of them. As you will discover if he ever returns home, deer, both alive and stuffed, are something of an obsession with him. Don’t worry though—your bedchamber is mercifully free of them.”

  Julia led the way up a wide staircase to the first floor, then a second, white-painted staircase to the next floor. “I’ve given you one of the turret rooms since it has the best view. It has been very recently decorated, but if you’d prefer something more traditional, I can show you the Pink Room or the Ivy Room or even the Tent Room, though the bed there is so large I fear you would be lost in it.”

  “I am sure this will be perfect.”

  Margaret stepped into a room that was semicircular and flooded with light from three arched windows. The half panelling was painted a soft cream, giving way to cream wallpaper with a gold trellised design. A modern bed was positioned on the central wall facing the windows, which were hung with cream and gold damask, the chaise-longue at the foot of the bed upholstered in the same fabric. A pretty marquetry desk stood by the window, on which a bowl of white and yellow freesias were letting off their delicate scent, while a larger display of mixed white blooms sat in the empty hearth.

  “Oh, but it’s lovely,” she said. To her delight, a window seat spanned the whole length of the embrasure. Margaret treaded over the soft rugs, which were scattered over the polished boards, to the window, where she got her first glimpse of Powerscourt’s gardens. “Oh, my goodness!”

  An amphitheatre with a series of wide terraces was cut into the steeply sloping ground. At the centre, the foundations of a stone staircase were being laid, sweeping down to a pond. The grass terraces were a brilliant emerald green under the grey-blue of the sky, their manicured perfection enhanced by the series of raised flower-beds laid out at regular intervals. The pond was framed by newly planted trees, the sensual, natural movement of the water in direct contrast to the regimented order of the raking terraces. Beyond the glinting blue of the pond the eye was drawn to the pale outline of the Wicklow Mountains, the purple-blue hues of a conical hill, and above it all the sky scattered with puffy clouds.

  “That is Sugar Loaf Mountain,” Julia said, joining her.

  “What an absolutely spectacular view. It is simply breath-taking.”

  “The garden is very much a work in progress, but, I agree, it is a wonderful vista. Your mother also mentioned that you love the outdoors. Please treat the grounds as if they were your own. It was the late viscount and his gardener who dreamed up most of what you see before you. Mervyn, my husband, is determined to see his father’s vision fully realised. He’s in Bavaria at present. I track his progress by the crates of purchases which arrive every month or so. There are a stack of them now, waiting on his return.”

  “Bavaria! Wouldn’t you have liked to accompany him?”

  The question, which seemed perfectly natural to Margaret, was clearly not a welcome one. “My husband prefers to devote his time while abroad to enhancing his collection.”

  As opposed to devoting his time to his wife of only two years? Poor Julia. Then again, perhaps she preferred to be alone, in which case she must be ecstatic to have had Margaret foisted upon her. “When do you expect him home?” she asked, rather at a loss.

  Julia shrugged. “In September or October at the latest. I presume you are aware that he lost his brother in February?”

  “Please accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you. To be honest, I hardly knew Maurice, but Mervyn was very fond of him and took his loss badly. I hope when he comes home he will be over the worst of his grief.”

  Margaret was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. “I am sorry to have been foisted on you at such an awkward time.”

  “My mother-in-law, Lady Londonderry, believes I am in need of female company.”

  “I expect you’d have preferred to choose your own company, all the same.”

  Julia frowned, fussing with one of the large tassels that tied back the curtains. “My sister Anne, who is next to me in age, does not wish to interrupt her London Season. Gertrude, my next sister, was married in April, and Mary, my next, is planning to make her debut. Besides, she’s five years younger than me. You, I believe, are twenty, so we are more of age.”

  “I’ll be twenty in October.”

  “Lady Londonderry speaks highly of the duchess, your mother.”

  Which begged the question of what Lady Londonderry had said about her. Margaret braced herself. “I don’t know if you are aware of my circumstances, but—”

  “I know nothing,” Julia interrupted, abandoning the tassel, “save that you are in need of a period of rustication. Pray do not feel the need to elaborate. I am happy to oblige Lady Londonderry, and hope you will feel at home here. Apparently you are a keen horsewoman. Please feel free to make use of the stables.”

  “You are very kind,” Margaret said, mortified to find her eyes smarting.

  “Your bags will be sent up as soon as they arrive, and I’ll have some hot water brought straightaway. If there’s anything else you need, you only have to ask. The bell is by the fireplace. Now, I’ll leave you to get settled, and we’ll have tea in half an hour, if that suits? Don’t worry about getting lost, I’ll come back and fetch you. There
’s chocolate cake. A favourite of yours, I believe.”

  The door closed behind her with a soft click. Margaret unbuttoned her paletot and sat down on the window seat, opening the casement to inhale the sweet, lush scent of the gardens. Powerscourt was beautiful. Thanks to Mama, she had a dog and horses for company, and she was free to walk these lovely grounds, but the one thing she wasn’t free to do was leave. Her prison was a luxurious one, but it was still a prison. And Julia? Margaret’s instincts told her that there was more to her hostess than a very natural reserve, but at this moment, she had no energy to conjure up some empathy. She had never felt so alone. What she wanted more than anything in the world right now was to lie on that comfortable-looking bed and pull the covers over her head, shutting out the world.

  A tap on the door forced her to abandon that tempting thought.

  “Your hot water, my lady.”

  “Breda!”

  “I’m to be your maid, my lady, if you are happy to have me?”

  “More than happy,” Margaret replied. A friendly face. And chocolate cake for tea. That was a great deal more than she had any right to expect under the circumstances.

  Charlotte, Duchess of Buccleuch, to Lady Margaret

  Drumlanrig Castle, 12 August 1867

  My dear Margaret,

  It is the Glorious Twelfth, but as you can see from my address I have eschewed grouse-shooting this year. Your father has once again accepted the Duke of Sutherland’s invitation to Dunrobin Castle, but I find myself rather disinclined to socialise at present.

  I have your sister Mary with me for company. We have been spending time walking in the grounds getting to know each other a little better. A strange phrase to use regarding one’s daughter, perhaps, but long overdue as far as I am concerned. Mary lacks your impetuousness, but neither has she Victoria’s reserve. After long consideration I decided to explain your situation to her—though not, I hasten to add, anything concerning Lambeth! In doing so I have contradicted your father’s instructions, but I find myself quite unable to ignore Mary’s questions. She begged my leave to write to you herself. I reluctantly refused. While your father did not expressly forbid communication, I have no doubt that is what he intended. It would be wrong of me to encourage my youngest daughter to follow the example set by her elder sister, in disobeying her father’s wishes. As for myself, however, I have learned, Margaret, that a mother has a duty to her daughters which can sometimes subvert her duty to her husband. I intend to continue our correspondence if it pleases you.