I will remain at Drumlanrig at least until September, and hope that you will write to me here. You are much missed, Margaret. I pray you do not forget that.
Mama
P.S. Please tell Lady Powerscourt that I am much obliged for her recommendation that I order some table linen from Mr. Ferguson’s factory in Banbridge. The quality of the sample you sent is superb.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the weeks since her arrival, Margaret tried to put all that had happened behind her, to recapture the spirit of optimism she’d felt on the voyage, but every day dragged painfully, like walking uphill on soft sand, leaving her drained and defeated. Julia made polite conversation at mealtimes, accepting her listless assistance with such mundane tasks as sorting linen, but otherwise making no demands on her. Margaret was perfectly aware that she should be making more of an effort to become acquainted with her hostess. She was being a very poor companion, but Julia seemed in no rush for company, content to maintain her distance whether through tact or a natural reserve. In Margaret’s present maudlin state of mind, she was happy to follow her lead.
She ate too much of the cake Julia served up with tea every day, and made no attempt to resist the puddings, which were served at dinner, or the hot milk Breda brought to her room before bed with bread and honey, comforting food that reminded her of the nursery, though it never filled the aching void inside her.
By day, she took to roaming Powerscourt’s extensive gardens and the deer park beyond, with only Aoife for company. Her hair curled wildly, her face was becoming freckled, her skin tanned. With no need any longer to conform to the rules set down by society for a young lady, she had, shockingly, cast off her crinoline. It was enormously liberating to be free of this article of clothing. At times, when she knew she was safe from observation, Margaret even dispensed with her shoes and stockings to wander barefoot, digging her toes into the velvet-soft lawns, perching on the side of either Juggy’s Pond or the Green Pond to dip her toes in the cool waters. She had twice visited the stables, but the familiar smells of hay and horseflesh made her yearn for Dalkeith and her own beloved pony, Spider. She hadn’t the heart to ride another horse—it felt almost disloyal. She would never again hear the wind whistle through the stands of trees that bordered the River Esk as she walked her dogs, and she would never again taste Mrs. Mac’s peerless clootie dumplings or enjoy the fragrant smell of the peat burning in the kitchen range. If only she could turn the clock back to those innocent days and begin again. She would make a better fist of it the second time around. Would she though?
Mama’s letter had arrived at breakfast time, her first and only correspondence since she came to Powerscourt over a month ago. Margaret had read it while perched on the wrought iron seat on the topmost tier of the Italian garden. The duchess’s words should have provided her with some comfort, but instead the letter shattered the fragile hold she had on her self-control. Her stay here was not an interlude. Her period of exile stretched endlessly in front of her.
Sorrow and regret welled up inside her. The distant trundling of a wheelbarrow reminded her that the gardeners would be here to start work any moment. Jumping to her feet, Margaret hurried towards the seclusion offered by the walled garden, barely noticing that Aoife was bounding after her.
The Bamberg gate, which marked the entrance, had been one of the present viscount’s many contributions to the estate. Originally designed for a cathedral in the German town for which it was named, it was a beautiful affair made of wrought iron painted black and gold. The central panels were fashioned to give the illusion that one was about to step into an aisle bordered by twisted pillars, covered by a domed, starred roof. Today, however, instead of marvelling at the ironwork, or lingering to drink in the scents from the nearby rose garden, Margaret simply pushed the gate open and stepped inside. Loneliness, like a heavy, suffocating blanket, was wrapping itself around her. Sensing her mood, Aoife whimpered.
The lavender border, which had been one of Julia’s innovations, was in full bloom. The fragrance released as the skirts of Margaret’s gown lightly brushed against them made her feel slightly giddy. Though this was primarily a working kitchen garden it was still a creation of great beauty, with symmetrical beds separated by grass so carefully trimmed Margaret sometimes imagined the gardeners must use nail scissors rather than scythes. The fruit bushes on the south-facing wall were beautifully espaliered, the herbs planted out like a floral bouquet. Fresh earth, new-mown grass, and the contented drone of bees ought to have been soporific, but by the time she passed the little fountain at the convergence of the paths, making for the sheltered bench on the farthest wall, tears were already tracking down her cheeks.
She sank onto the bench, crushed by the enormity of all that had passed in the last weeks and months. She had read somewhere that a drowning person saw their life pass before them just before they perished. Hers played backwards in her head now, as if she were rifling through a series of pictures in a photograph album: standing on deck with her hair blowing in the wind as her homeland receded; posing with the other bridesmaids at the royal wedding; saying goodbye to Mama and Louise; saying goodbye to Molly; parting ways with Sebastian; the confrontation with her father; Sebastian proposing; her first meeting with him way back in February; her return to London at the start of the year and her resolution then to marry Killin. All of that, in the space of just over six months.
Dropping her face into her hands, she surrendered to her grief, letting her tears trickle through her fingers, making no attempt to quiet her sobs. She cried for the loss of her friendship with Susannah and the camaraderie of the days spent with the Lambeth ladies. She cried for the pain and the worry she had caused Mama, and the rift she had created between her parents. She cried for Louise, her best friend, who had retreated into silence at a time when they needed each other more than anything. She cried for the loss of her sisters, whom she had never really known or appreciated, and now would not. She cried for Sebastian, whose face was already growing hazy in her memory and who seemed now more like a figment of her imagination than the man she had once dreamed of marrying.
But most of all she cried because she had never felt so completely alone and so utterly wretched. She had spent her life trying to mould herself into the unquestioning daughter her father wanted her to be. Having failed to meekly obey and having compounded her felony by challenging his decisions, she was going to have to come to terms with the fact that nothing would alter his jaundiced opinion of her.
Mama, however, was another matter. Mama had been forced to write to her own daughter in secret, flouting her husband’s authority, and for that, too, Margaret was responsible. She was racked with guilt, thinking of how often she had questioned Mama’s love over the years without realizing that she was also a victim of dutiful obedience.
You are much missed, Mama had written. I pray you do not forget that.
Her head was thumping. Rubbing her eyes with her sleeve, Margaret gave herself a shake. Rather than continually berating herself over the mistakes she had made, what she needed to do was learn from them. Easier said than done, but it wasn’t as if she was short on time! Aoife whined, licking her salty fingers before giving a sharp, welcoming bark. With a sinking heart, Margaret spied Julia coming towards her.
“Am I disturbing you? I was hoping that your letter brought good news.” Julia’s small smile faltered as she neared. “Oh dear.”
To Margaret’s dismay, she seemed not to have run out of tears, for a fresh reservoir began to roll down her face. “Sorry,” she said, scrubbing frantically at her cheeks. “I don’t seem to have a handkerchief.”
“Here.” Julia produced one from her pocket and sat down on the bench by her side.
“My letter was from Mama. She has decided to write to me, even though it is against my father’s wishes, and . . .”
“There, take your time,” Julia said, patting her hand awkwardly.
Margaret drew a shaky breath. “I’ve been an appalling gu
est, and you’ve been very patient with me. I was supposed to be keeping you company.”
“There is nothing worse than being forced to keep someone company when all you want is to be left alone to wallow in misery,” Julia said.
Margaret laughed weakly. “Was it so obvious?”
“Yes,” Julia replied simply. “I worried that you might think me indifferent, but I did not wish you to feel obliged to confide in me. If you want to talk now, though, I am happy to listen. Though only if you choose to.”
Margaret blew her nose. “I don’t want to take up your valuable time.”
“Time,” Julia said with a wry smile, “is one asset I have in abundance.”
“So there you have it,” Margaret concluded. “I am dead to my father, and I have no idea when I’ll ever see Mama or any of my family again.” The relief of unburdening herself was already giving way to doubt about the wisdom of her confession. “I am afraid I have shocked you.”
“I won’t lie,” Julia said, “I am shocked. I had suspected it was a doomed love affair which brought you here, but I did not for one second imagine a secret betrothal to a parish priest. It’s a romantic notion, but only within the pages of a novel.”
Margaret shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “I never truly believed we could marry, but it took my father’s threats to force me to put an end to the dream that we might.”
Julia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
“What is it? Please, I want you to be frank with me.”
“Very well then. In all honesty, I think you have behaved very foolishly, but the situation is not nearly as bleak as you imagine it to be.”
“I fail to see how it could get much worse. I’m very grateful that you took me in, but I don’t have the means to leave, and nowhere to go even if I had.”
“Your father is understandably angry with you. You have publicly flouted his authority not once but twice. But you are far too valuable an asset to be written off completely. You’re not even twenty years old, Margaret. Your mother sounds like a very sensible woman. She’ll find a way to bring you back into the fold, I guarantee it.”
“And then my father will find someone else to marry me off to.”
“Naturally, it is his duty as your father. Would you prefer he did not? You would become the spinster aunt then, little better than a glorified servant.”
“I won’t marry simply to please him.”
Julia frowned. “Then do it to please your mother. Think how relieved she would be to have you established. You would be able to forge the new relationship with her that you claim to want.”
“I do want to, very much.”
“Then bear in mind that it will be impossible if your father continues to disown you.” Julia got to her feet. “It’s a trifle cold sitting here. Shall we stroll down to the Green Pond?”
“So what you’re saying, in a nutshell, is that you think everyone would be happy if I married, except me.”
Julia drew her a level look as she opened the gate that led to the Green Pond. “Why are you so sure that marriage will make you miserable?”
They reached the edge of the pond. Margaret stared down at the water, where a shoal of tiny fish darted among the reeds. “What would you do, if you found yourself in my situation?”
“Is your situation any different from that of every other young women of our class? We are raised with the sole purpose of making a good marriage. The only choice we have is whether or not to make the best of it, or not marry at all, which is hardly a palatable option. You are fortunate to be the Duke of Buccleuch’s daughter—”
“That is highly debatable!”
“And to have a dowry to match your lineage,” Julia finished coolly, disposing herself with her usual quiet elegance on the wooden bench. “When Wingfield offered for me, I was not exactly enthusiastic. My husband is rather staid, his manner reserved, and it doesn’t help that he sports a very long beard, which makes him look a great deal older than his years.”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “If we must spend hours every day pinning up our hair and lacing ourselves into corsets and crinolines, I don’t see why men can’t spend a few minutes every day shaving.”
“It is the fashion for a man to sport a beard, just as it is the fashion for a woman to wear a crinoline.”
“Then I must be extremely unfashionable,” Margaret retorted, “for I like neither.”
“What you like or don’t like is entirely beside the point,” Julia said, sighing impatiently. “If you are asking for my advice, then I suggest that you do as I have, and make the best of it. Despite my initial reservations about Wingfield, I came to see that it was an excellent match. My mother approved of him, and my father was particularly pleased with the connection. Like my husband, my father is rather obsessed with restoring the family seat to its former glory and as we speak is furiously planting trees. But what mattered most to me was that Wingfield provided me with the opportunity to have a family of my own. It is what I have always wanted, and Wingfield needs an heir. Thus, we have a joint ambition, even if we have little else in common.”
“So you think I was wrong to reject Killin? Even though I could not, to use an old friend’s words, abide him?”
“I think you could have overcome your initial distaste for him if you had put your mind to it. I think that if—or rather when—another gentleman offers his hand in marriage, you would be wise to consider it seriously, whether you like him or not.”
“You make it sound so cold. As if marriage is a commercial transaction.”
“In essence, that’s exactly what it is, and a lifetime’s commitment, too. A similar background, a satisfactory financial arrangement, and the support of one’s family make it more likely to succeed, but without the will to do so, it is bound to founder.”
“You don’t think that love has any role to play?”
“I believe that respect is vital. I expect in time I will come to care for Wingfield, as the father of my children.”
And yet there was no child, nor any prospect of one while her husband trailed around the Continent spending a fortune on antiques and antlers, Margaret thought sadly.
“I can see what you are thinking,” Julia said, getting to her feet, “but life is what you make it.”
Margaret smiled. “That sounds like something Molly, my former maid, would say.”
“It is one of my mother’s mottos, too, and her most valuable advice to me. She also says that patience is a virtue, and that all things come to those who wait. I hope she is right on that score.”
“You have only been married two years,” Margaret said tentatively.
But Julia shook her head, turning away. “We had better get back—it looks like it is about to rain. I actually sought you out to tell you that I, too, had a letter this morning, from my husband. He will be home at the beginning of October. He asks after you and says he is looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
“Does he plan to remain here long?”
“He generally goes deer stalking in Scotland towards the end of the year, but he made no mention of that. Perhaps your presence will persuade him to prolong his stay. With luck,” Julia added, with a twisted smile, “I will be the beneficiary.”
Princess Louise to Lady Margaret
Balmoral Castle, 30 September
Dear Margaret,
This will perforce be no more than a brief scrawl, for I am about to head to Dunkeld with the queen to visit the Duchess of Athol. I have been much occupied since the wedding. We travelled to Osborne with Lenchen and her new husband straight after the celebrations. The happy couple had only just left for the Continent when Lieutenant Stirling also departed the Isle of Wight—for good. He has been replaced by a Mr. Legg. A poor substitute indeed!
In August I attended the queen in Balmoral for the usual family gathering which even included Bertie, much to Her Majesty’s delight. There was a ball at Abergeldie where I wore the most delicious new gown, and then L
enchen and her prince returned from their wedding trip looking suitably content. The queen will host a ball in their honour later this month, when Her Majesty and I return from Dunkeld. I have designed my own gown for that prestigious occasion—and made an excellent fist of it, if I do say so myself.
I am summoned! My days are not my own now that Lenchen is married, but I find my new role as Her Majesty’s scribe bearable. Alas, it leaves very little time for my sculpting and no time at all for my own correspondence.
Louise
P.S. Leo not only has a new governor in Mr. Legg, but a new tutor, too. The Reverend Duckworth is a most charming man.
Chapter Twenty-Three
October 1866
The day was considerably advanced when Margaret headed back to Powerscourt with Aoife dutifully padding along in her wake. She had walked farther than she had originally intended, tempted by the warm autumn sunshine to wander out to the deer park which Julia’s husband had established as a home for his rare Japanese sika breed.
She had read Louise’s letter several times now and still could not decide how to interpret it. Was her friend so concerned that her correspondence was being monitored by the queen’s overvigilant courtiers that she couldn’t comment on the concerns which had been at the forefront of her mind when they last met? Or was it simply the missive of a young, flighty woman with nothing more to worry about than party dresses and handsome new tutors, and no time for absent friends who had fallen from grace?
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