Her Heart for a Compass

by Sarah Ferguson

  Louise was always at her most brittle and superficial when she was most unhappy. Margaret’s instincts told her that all was not well. She longed for the chance to speak to her, to comfort her, even if she had no sage advice to offer. But that would be impossible for the foreseeable future, and there was nothing to be gained by writing a letter that might not even be read or, worse, fall into the wrong hands. Whether their friendship would ever be rekindled was a question for the future. For now, their paths were heading in very different directions. Ha! If going round in ever-decreasing circles could be called a direction.

  Her steps slowed, her booted feet kicking up the mulch of dried leaves and soft Irish soil of the woodland floor. She was sick of her endless, purposeless daily wandering. She had been at Powerscourt for three months now. The days trickled past, one much like another, like grains of sand in a bottomless hour-glass, as she sank more and more into a lethargic acceptance of her fate. Even the press seemed to have forgotten all about her—for Louise would surely have mentioned it, if there had been any adverse comment. She had taken to avoiding her reflection, fearing seeing a dumpy ugly duckling staring back at her, one who looked as if she had swallowed her own crinoline.

  Kicking up another heap of leaves, she caught one as it fluttered down like a crinkly, mottled butterfly. Was she to pay for her refusal to do what was expected of her with a lifetime of listless inertia? She crumpled the leaf and dropped it onto the ground.

  “No, I will not!” she shouted aloud, the sound reverberating through the trees. The time had come for her to take Julia’s advice and make the best of things. She was going to forgive herself for her mistakes and stop lamenting what might have been. Tomorrow was her twentieth birthday. As a gift to herself she would finally take up Julia’s offer to borrow a horse and go for a ride. Why should she continue to deny herself one of the great pleasures of her life!

  Viscount Powerscourt was due home imminently. For the last two weeks, Julia had been a whirlwind of activity, preparing the house and gardens for her husband’s arrival. It was almost as if she thought that by proving to be the perfect chatelaine she would be rewarded with a child. Margaret hoped fervently that she got what she wished for. Julia’s situation was heartbreaking, though she endured it stoically; and whenever Margaret tried to raise the subject, she demurred. It must have cost her very dear to mention it in the first place.

  Poor Julia was another person that Margaret was powerless to help. Though it might be a good idea, now she considered it, to make herself scarce while she and her husband tried to remedy their childless state. The very notion of playing gooseberry—no! In fact, the viscount’s arrival would be the perfect excuse for her to explore the country that was currently her home. Dublin was supposed to be beautiful, and then there was the seaside town of Bray nearby. As long as she took Breda with her, it would be perfectly in order. It was a very small step, but at least she was finally looking forward.

  Entering the house through one of the side doors, Margaret was about to take the backstairs to her bedchamber with the intentions of sprucing herself up, when Aoife gave a loud, joyful bark and galloped for the main staircase. Exasperated and laughing, she gave chase all the way up to the first floor, where the dog, to her horror, bounded into the main saloon.

  This was Powerscourt’s largest and most formal room. It had been used to entertain George the Fourth when he visited Ireland after his coronation, and was therefore considered sacrosanct. The armchair covered in red velvet, made specifically for His Majesty and known as the Throne, still stood in pride of place. Julia said the ornate saloon with its classical pillars and arched balcony made her feel as if she was visiting an art gallery, and Margaret couldn’t disagree. A series of niches boasted scenes painted by Wingfield’s apparently loathed younger brother, Lewis, who was, among other things, an artist. Full-size statues of semi-naked Greek and Roman goddesses stood sentinel between the pillars. In the far corner, incongruously, was a depiction of Lady Londonderry, the current viscount’s mother, whose presence was also marked by the large ebony sofa in the saloon, the coverings of which she had embroidered with Egyptian designs while on a sailing trip with her husband on the family cutter, according to the family mythology—of which there was a great deal.

  Julia, whose only sewing ambition was to one day embroider a christening robe, never used this room, but today she was taking tea with a gentleman. It was not hard to deduce, from Aoife’s furiously wagging tail, that he was Lord Powerscourt, arrived two days early. His luxuriant beard covered most of his face and some of his shirt front, so bushy as to appear part of a stage costume. Suddenly remembering her dishevelled state, Margaret was on the point of retreat when Julia spotted her.

  “Margaret, as you can see, my husband has arrived home earlier than expected. Come and meet him. Mervyn, this is Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott. Margaret, my husband.”

  “How do you do, Lord Powerscourt?” Mortified, for her hair was hanging down her back and her gown was mud-spattered, Margaret dropped a curtsy.

  Lord Powerscourt’s eyebrows were as bushy as his beard, yet his hair, which had receded though not yet entirely retreated from his head, sat in soft curls, like a baby’s. He had a good nose, neither delicate nor forceful, and his brown eyes reminded her of a spaniel. “It’s very good to meet you, Lady Margaret. I am indebted to you for keeping my wife company.”

  “It has been a pleasure, my lord,” Margaret replied, feeling guiltily undeserving of any praise in that regard.

  “Well now, sit down and join us.”

  “Margaret will wish to get changed, won’t you, Margaret?”

  “Oh, yes.” Responding to Julia’s plea, she started backing away. “I can’t sit here caked in mud.”

  “Nonsense,” Lord Powerscourt exclaimed, “a sod of good Irish soil never hurt anybody.”

  “But you will wish to catch up with Lady Julia, after being apart for so long.”

  “There’s nothing urgent, is there?” Lord Powerscourt said. Then, when Julia shrugged defeatedly, he turned back to Margaret, indicating the chair next to him. “Please sit down. Your father owns many estates, I believe. I would value your opinion on my own humble abode.”

  Susannah Elmhirst to Lady Margaret

  The Rectory, Lambeth, 28 October 1866

  Dear Lady Margaret,

  I obtained your forwarding address from Her Grace, your mother, who reluctantly granted me permission to write to you, with certain caveats, which I am sure I need not spell out. I understand your stay at Powerscourt is likely to be a lengthy one. I hope that you are in good health and spirits, and able to make the most of the fresh country air—how I envy you that!

  I have not written until now because I believed that a clean break would be best for all concerned, most particularly you. Be assured, though, that you are often in my thoughts. I write now in the hope that time has healed the scars and that you are able to take comfort from knowing that life in Lambeth goes on as usual, with all its highs and lows.

  There have been a few changes in our household since you last visited us. My brother was finally persuaded to approach the bishop about a curate, and to his astonishment, the bishop agreed. Mr. Glass is young but extremely enthusiastic, and his presence has greatly cheered Sebastian. I, however, am still missing dear Esther, whom I have not been able to replace. As a result I am forced to spend a great deal more of my time on household management than I would like, especially now that I have two men to run after! Esther and Molly seem very happy in their new life together, and that is something not to be sneezed at, as the saying goes. Sebastian says we are all equal in the eyes of God, which is typical of him.

  Our ladies continue to meet, and your name comes up in conversation every now and then. The children in particular miss your stories, and are scathing, in the way only children can be, of my feeble attempts to replace you. We had a cholera outbreak during the summer which put a great strain on the infirmary as you can imagine. I am sorry to have
to inform you that Sally lost her little Alfie to it. It is a cruel and indiscriminate disease.

  It is Sunday afternoon, and I can hear my brother making those harrumphing noises that tell me his sermon is not going well Sebastian is preparing for evensong. He will be expecting the kitchen fairy to have prepared tea before then, so I must end now and go and assume her duties!

  I pray you find contentment and fulfilment in the fullness of time.

  God bless you, Lady Margaret.

  With kindest regards,

  Susannah Elmhirst

  Lady Margaret to Susannah Elmhirst

  Powerscourt, County Wicklow, 2 November 1866

  Dearest Susannah,

  Thank you for your kind letter, which I assure you warmed my heart to read. I will not insult you by pretending that the last few months have been sunshine and roses, but there are fresh buds of hope which I trust will bloom. (The natural beauty of my surroundings has not only been a tonic, it seems to have pollinated my letter writing!) My own dear Molly has written confirming how happy she is in her new life, which is another great comfort to me, though I am saddened to hear that Esther’s departure has forced you into the kitchen, when your time could more usefully be spent easing the domestic woes of women. But alas! I cannot deny that we live in a man’s world.

  I was touched to hear that the children ask after me, and sorry, if somewhat amused, to hear that your storytelling skills have been derided. I have dashed off a little tale for you to tell them in the hope of sparing your blushes further, which you may happily claim as your own. It is called “The House in the Middle of the Wood.” I have left it to the children to provide the ending, something which I discovered they take much pleasure in doing. If my small contribution is a success, then I would be delighted to write more and send them to you.

  I will not ask you to pass on my best wishes to your brother, though he has them regardless, and will, as you do, always occupy a special place in my heart.

  Your friend,

  Margaret

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Viscount Powerscourt had been home for three weeks now, and Margaret had as yet failed to effect her planned escape. She had mooted the notion several times, and though Julia had been enthusiastic, the viscount had effectively vetoed any trip, preferring instead to bestow on Margaret the benefit of his wisdom.

  These delights had included a master class on the difficulties of cross-breeding Japanese sambur deer with German roe deer, and the problems of keeping Sardinian mouflon sheep, accustomed to their dry and rocky native terrain, healthy in the damp Irish climate. Margaret had been treated to several lectures on the origin of the myriad stags’ heads which adorned the walls of the viscount’s abode, and had now heard his favourite anecdote, of how his father had nearly accidentally drowned King George at the waterfall, at least three times. She had inspected his latest acquisitions and feigned interest in his plans for creating a fountain in Juggy’s Pond and the technical obstacles to be overcome in doing so. Which was riveting compared to the subject of ornamental trees and their planting and drainage.

  Night after night, Lord Powerscourt proudly described his plans for remodelling his farms; draining his fields; rebuilding his house; and peppering his lands with bridges, gates, and roads. There was no doubting his enthusiasm, his genuine regard for his tenants, his pride in his estates, or even the scope of his vision for his various improvements. But his prodigious ability to make the most interesting subject bottom-numbingly tedious, combined with his utter lack of humour, made his company an endurance test. Last night, in despair, Margaret had suggested that it might be a good idea to move the whole of County Wicklow slightly to the east. Though Julia had let out a snort of laughter, quickly muffled, her husband, after looking slightly perplexed, had patiently explained at great length just why the county borders could not be adjusted willy-nilly without a political outcry.

  Lord Powerscourt could speak, without seeming to stop for breath, for an hour at a time. He would ask for an opinion, and then provide it himself, at great length. On the rare occasions when Margaret had observed Julia persisting in positing an alternative view, he listened patiently and then ignored what she had said. He was never rude, never overtly condescending, but he had an earnest air about him that put Margaret’s hackles up. He had several times commented on the serendipity of Margaret’s stay providing Julia with company, not seeming to imagine that she might prefer her husband’s.

  Would this have been what marriage to Killin would have been like? Were all the men her father would consider marriageable cast from the same mould? And were women any less uniform? Reluctantly, Margaret had concluded that she and Julia would never be close. Julia’s reserve was almost impossible to penetrate. Though she knew, from their single heart-to-heart, that Julia had feelings, she almost never betrayed them. She reminded Margaret of Victoria, which made her wonder if her sister’s outward compliance and stoic forbearance hid a more emotional, and therefore much more interesting, person. It might well be so, but now Margaret would never know. One thing she had concluded, from her forced close observation of Julia’s marriage, was that she could never bring herself to replicate it. Witnessing Julia’s polite suffering while her husband relentlessly held forth made her scream silently with frustration. Speak up, Margaret wanted to shout. Remind him that you actually have a voice! She knew now with utter certainty that she had been absolutely right to reject Killin.

  On just one occasion had the viscount’s volubility deserted him. A chance mention of his deceased brother, Maurice, had set his beard trembling and had him first scrubbing furiously at his eyes, then clenching his fists. “A good man,” he muttered. “An officer decorated by the queen herself, by God. A real man, unlike that—that frivolous fop!”

  “Lewis,” Julia had explained as her husband stormed out of the room. “My husband held Maurice in such high esteem, his younger brother is bound to suffer in comparison. That Lewis is so very determined to be different doesn’t help.”

  “Different in what way?”

  Julia pursed her lips. “He has a penchant for low company and no respect for either the Wingfield name or his elder brother. Fortunately, the feeling is mutual. We rarely see him.”

  Margaret pondered the paradox of a viscount who loathed his current heir but took a very lax approach to the task of replacing him with a son of his own. She could see no evidence of intimacy in the everyday behaviour of the married couple. Wingfield held the door open for his wife, he held her chair out at dinner, but that seemed to be the extent of their contact. A more physical dimension must exist behind the closed doors of Julia’s bedchamber, Margaret thought as she studied the pair of them over the breakfast table, but her toes curled trying to imagine what form it might take. Would the viscount have himself announced by his valet? Would he ask for Julia’s permission in advance, in writing? Would he initiate proceedings with a kiss or simply proceed to—ah, but, no, she was putting herself off her coddled eggs.

  “What is it, Margaret? Are you choking on something?”

  She pushed her half-eaten plate of food aside. “No, not at all. I was wondering, Julia, if I might borrow the carriage to visit Dublin tomorrow, or the next day.”

  “Dublin? What is there to see in Dublin . . . ?”

  “Margaret has been cooped up here for three months now, my dear,” Julia intervened. “I think a change of scenery would do her the world of good. I could accompany you, Margaret. We could take tea, and—”

  “I’ve a consignment arriving from Germany tomorrow, of new stags’ heads,” Lord Powerscourt said. “They are very delicate as they are made from papier mâché. I purchased them from Count Arco-Zinneberg, where they form part of his collection at his house in the Wittelsbacherplatz in Munich. I shall need your assistance in positioning them, Julia. The entrance hall is the obvious choice, but I was thinking . . .”

  “Naturally I would be delighted to assist you,” Julia said with a pained expression. “I will order
the carriage for first thing tomorrow, Margaret. Take Breda with you, spend the day seeing the sights, and take tea. I had better remain here.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Powerscourt said. “There’s far too much to be done here. I’ve a lot of lost time to make up for.”

  “You have,” Julia agreed. “You have indeed.”

  The following morning, Margaret dressed with care in a day dress of copper silk patterned with a geometric border in contrasting chocolate brown. The combination was most unusual for an unmarried young lady, but it had been her choice, and Mama had indulged her. The bodice had a white lace collar and cuffs, and fastened with a row of tiny jet buttons. A matching paletot jacket with a short front and a long tail, a small hat with a very wide bow on her carefully braided coiffure, which Breda had taken an age over, completed the ensemble. With her full quota of corset, crinoline, and petticoats and a pair of kid gloves in hand, Margaret was finally ready to face the outside world.

  Though before she did, she must face the mirror. The first surprise was that the ensemble fitted. Breda had not laced her as tightly as Molly, and doubtless she would have failed Mama’s measuring tape test. She was curvaceous rather than willowy, but she decided she preferred that. What was more, the effect had been achieved without any effort on her part. Over the last few weeks, her cravings for cake and pudding had disappeared. She enjoyed her food but was content with an elegant sufficiency.

  The next surprise was her face. The features were still hers, the deep-set blue eyes, the straight Montagu nose, the mouth which was slightly too generous to be fashionable, yet the woman she saw reflected back at her was virtually a stranger. She looked older than her twenty years. There was a determined tilt to her chin, a wariness in her expression. Her skin was tanned and freckled; her brows were their natural dark-auburn, as were her lashes. Was it the copper of her gown that made her hair look like the colour of burnished autumn leaves and not the gingery-red she had always thought it? A tiny furrow had been etched into her forehead, testament to her sleepless nights and permanently dark mood, no doubt. She tried to smooth it away, but it was obviously a new fixture. This was Margaret au naturel, and she decided that she rather approved of this new incarnation. She essayed a smile. “What do you think?” she asked, turning to Breda and twirling around, making her crinoline bounce and herself laugh.