Breda laughed. “You’ve got his measure, all right. I bet you wrap your own father round your little finger.”
Margaret laughed. “If you only knew the half of it,” she said wryly.
Donald Cameron of Lochiel to Lady Margaret
Berlin, 1 January 1867
Dear Lady Margaret,
I wonder if you are surprised to hear from me, or whether your host has alerted you to my intention to write? As you will no doubt be aware by now, for I understand you have been in Ireland since last summer, Lord Powerscourt is an avid collector of antiquities, and is in the habit of enlisting Her Majesty’s embassy staff to assist in the acquisition process. I have been of service to him several times—as you know from personal experience, I can be an accomplished detective when the occasion demands it! However, it was only when discussing his latest project (yet more stags’ heads, the man is obsessed!), that I discovered you were paying Lady Powerscourt an extended visit. I obtained his permission to write to you, deeming it unnecessary to seek additional authorisation from the duke, your father, since the viscount is, in effect, acting in loco parentis.
I read an excellent account in the Times of your appearance as bridesmaid to Princess Helena, but did not read the announcement which you had assured me, when last we met, was imminent. In fact, there has been no mention of you at all in the press since August, as far as I have been able to ascertain. When I returned to London for a brief visit in October, I took the opportunity to call at Montagu House in order to pay my respects and to inquire after you. I was informed by the duke that you were out of town and not expected back. His manner did not encourage me to question him further.
I hope this letter finds you well at the beginning of the New Year. If it would please you to respond with an update on your well-being, it would be very much appreciated. As you can see from my address, I remain in Berlin, though I am expecting imminently to be transferred to Rome, but a letter to either embassy will find me.
With very best wishes,
Lochiel
Lady Margaret to Donald Cameron of Lochiel
Powerscourt, County Wicklow, 13 January 1867
Dear Lochiel,
What a lovely surprise it was to receive your letter. While Lord and Lady Powerscourt have been inordinately accommodating, I confess it was a real treat to hear from a familiar face, so to speak. Your mention of his lordship as a connoisseur of all things cervine amused me greatly. Powerscourt is a shrine to his obsession, with deceased deer festooning the walls and the park awash with live ones. If he could dress himself entirely in deer-hide he would, and you will not be surprised to learn that his favourite dinner is venison pie, which we are obliged to have every Saturday.
I can assure you that I am in excellent health and good spirits. You remain as tactful as ever but I, as you know, prefer plain dealing. I refused to marry Killin for many reasons which I will not dwell on. My father refused to accept my decision. As a consequence I was cast out into the wilderness, and for a while, I will admit, was in despair. But despair is such a draining emotion, and remorse can only be sustained while one believes oneself entirely to blame. I regret many things, not least my misguided attempts to bow to my father’s will, but my intentions were always pure. Since the duke will never forgive me, I have decided to forgive myself. What will you make of this confession? I wonder. I am tempted to score it out, but will let it stand. If we are to be correspondents friends, then let us be true and honest ones.
You do not ask me how I occupy myself, but I will tell you, for I think you will approve. I have been helping out at the Enniskerry village school, and at the school for infants, which is nearby, both being largely funded by Lord Powerscourt. His grandfather built the school—not, I hasten to add, with his own hands. I am not an actual teacher, of course, but act as assistant to Mr. and Mrs. Doherty, who are the schoolmaster and -mistress. I do a great deal of wiping of noses and drying of tears. I help those who are a little behind with their arithmetic and their handwriting. Oh yes, and I tell stories, Lochiel—but then you know that! I am writing them down and collating them in a little book. There! You are the first and only person I have dared to trust with that secret. Another in our list of shared confidences. The stories are modest efforts, but the children here like them, and I am informed by Susannah Elmhirst, who tells them to the Lambeth children, that they are popular there, too.
Goodness, how I have run on, and all you wanted to know was whether I was alive and well or not! I hope it will not embarrass you when I tell you that your concern made me shed a little tear. If it pleases you to continue our correspondence, I would be delighted to do so. If my loquacity (isn’t that a wonderful word!) has frightened you off, I will understand. If it has not, I would love to hear some tales of your time on the Continent. Being away from England has made me realise that there is a big world out there. Now I really must stop wittering on!
Yours most sincerely and with very best wishes,
Lady Margaret
Chapter Twenty-Five
March 1867
As Margaret, astride her favourite chestnut mare, headed out through the main gates of the estate, Pennygael was champing at the bit. “You can have your head in a moment,” she said, keeping a tight rein. “Patience, girl.”
The day was overcast with what in Scotland would be called a smur of rain, and Breda would call a tear of mist coming in from the bog, but Margaret’s spirits were in direct contrast to the lowering sky. Heading through the deer park in the direction of the famous Powerscourt waterfall, she relaxed her grip on the reins and Pennygael’s stride lengthened. The ground was soft, the mare’s hooves drummed a muffled, rhythmic beat as Margaret leaned in, the wind catching at her hair and the skirts of her riding habit. The sweet scent of damp bracken and mulched leaves filled her nose, mingling with the smell of leather and horse sweat. A hawthorn hedge loomed, but Pennygael soared over it, her grey fetlocks just brushing the top, galloping on without missing a beat, slowing reluctantly only as the viscount’s newly planted woods loomed into view.
At the waterfall Margaret dismounted, leaving the horse to drink, while she took her favourite seat on a rock by the pool. The water was grey blue today, the weed on the boulders glinting brown and gold, mimicking the colours of the surrounding heavily wooded hills. The cascade pounded down a sheer rock escarpment, the central flume a powerful torrent of white water with many smaller rivulets tumbling over the jagged rocks on either side. A huge cloud of mist hung in the air and a thunderous roar drowned out all other sounds. This was by far her favourite place on the estate. The exhilarating power of the falls, the contrasting tranquillity of the pool, and the ever-changing beauty of the forested slopes never failed to entrance her, or to lift her spirits.
She could not claim to be happy, but she was busy, and that was enough. She had found a niche here at Powerscourt, and a purpose, which was so much more than she’d ever imagined possible. She had stopped railing at her exiled state, stopped questioning the rights and the wrongs of it, stopped asking herself when and how it would end, or if it ever would. Was that burying her head in the sand? Perhaps. But what was the alternative when she was powerless to influence the outcome? Unlike so many she had encountered, she was safe and well-fed, with a roof over her head. She was resolved to be patient, and in the meantime to continue to follow Julia’s lead in making the best of her lot.
It was a Saturday, so the school was closed. Lord Powerscourt had left yesterday for London and the sale rooms, which meant that Margaret could safely ensconce herself in the octagon library and scribble away at her stories without fear of interruption. Julia would probably be indoors, too, working on her chair covers, since the weather had deteriorated markedly by the time Margaret stabled Pennygael. What his lordship insisted on referring to as Lady Powerscourt’s sitting room was one of the few stag-free chambers. Instead, two pairs of large and particularly ugly Sèvres pug dogs squatting on gold cushions sat on opposite ends of the mantelpiece, ga
zing out belligerently at all comers. When Margaret entered, Julia was sitting at the window beside her embroidery frame, the canvas for her latest work-in-progress chair cover stretched taut, the coloured wools laid out in a row on top of her sewing box.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Margaret said. The Berlin work cover on the frame was embroidered in a trellis pattern of diamond shapes in muted tones, with a violet, scallop-like flower in the centre of each. “This is so pretty. And the colours are very restful. How many have you completed so far?”
“This is only the third. I have another twenty-one to make. My legacy to Powerscourt,” Julia said. “Most likely my only one.”
Her tone was morose. Looking at her more closely, Margaret saw that her eyes were red-rimmed. “What is the matter?” she asked, sitting down on the sofa beside her and taking her hand.
“The usual. Another month, and still no sign of me being with child, and now Wingfield has gone off to London and heaven knows when he’ll be back.” A tear trickled down Julia’s cheek. Snatching her hand back, she found her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “We have been married for three years come April, and I have signally failed to find myself in an interesting condition. The matter wasn’t so urgent while Maurice was alive, but now he is gone, and Mervyn is becoming increasingly agitated at the thought of Lewis inheriting.” Julia sighed wearily. “Wingfield married me to produce an heir. It is the one thing he required of me, and I have let him down.”
“It takes two people to make a child, Julia, and Lord Powerscourt was away from home for six months.”
“He has been home since October. Four months! You’d think that would be time enough. The truth is, even when he is here he pays more attention to his collections,” Julia said bitterly. “His gardens are flourishing, his precious deer are breeding, but his wife is barren.”
“You don’t know that!” Margaret exclaimed, appalled. But as she slid a glance at Julia, sitting rigidly erect, gazing blankly out of the window where the rain was falling so heavily it all but obliterated the view, Margaret struggled to think of any practical advice to offer. The matter was so delicate, and Julia so very reserved. Yet she was obviously wretched; something had to be said. “When he is at home, does he— what I mean is, does your husband come to your bed?”
Julia’s cheeks flooded with colour. “Yes.”
“And does he . . .” Margaret flinched. Her own cheeks were blazing. “Does he perform the act? Adequately, I mean?” she asked, realising as she did so that she wasn’t at all sure what she meant.
“I think so,” Julia whispered, keeping her gaze fixed on the window. “As far as I am aware, he does what is necessary, but to no avail. Every month I have to endure the embarrassment of my maid removing the evidence of my failure, knowing that the bad news will be all over the servants’ hall in five minutes.”
“Oh, Julia . . .”
“And it’s not only the servants. The whole county are watching and waiting. When Wingfield brought me here as his bride, Margaret, there were such celebrations, and I was so filled with hope. He was more conscientious then, when we were first married, but I think my continued failure to conceive has put him off.” Julia shuddered. “It is mortifying. I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. You are not even married.”
“You must talk to someone. Couldn’t you write to your mama?”
“And say what, exactly? She has had twelve children; nine of us survived. She won’t understand. She’ll tell me to be patient, to wait, but I’m sick to death of waiting. I want a child! What am I to do?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said, feeling utterly helpless in the face of such raw pain and anger. “Have you consulted a doctor?”
Julia recoiled. “It is bad enough exposing myself to my husband.”
“Then have you a married friend you could consult?”
“I could not.”
“Well, what about a midwife?” Margaret suggested, acutely aware that she had reached the limit of her own knowledge.
But Julia shrank still farther away from her. “Can you imagine the gossip, if it were known I had done so? If Wingfield found out, he would be furious.”
“I can’t help but think that if you discussed the matter with him—”
“No!” Julia covered her face with her hands. “My husband is clearly not one of those men who relish the—the intimate side of married life.” Tears seeped through her fingers. “But he does at least try to do his marital duty. Forget I said that. It would be wrong of me to imply that the fault was somehow his.”
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said. “I’m being worse than useless.”
Julia sniffed, tucking her handkerchief away. “Please don’t apologise. I was at a low ebb, but I should not have discussed such a very personal subject with you. You are an unmarried young lady—it is not a fit topic for your ears.” Julia picked up her needle and selected a strand of lilac wool. “I appreciate your sympathy and your willingness to hear me out, but I’m afraid there are some things which cannot be fixed, no matter how much you want them to be.”
“You’re not a failure, Julia. You mustn’t think that.”
“No? It’s how the world views a childless woman.”
There was no disputing this. No matter how unjust, it was the truth. “You don’t need to pretend that it doesn’t matter, though. You shouldn’t bottle it all up.”
“I am not the weeping and wailing sort,” Julia said primly, pulling her embroidery frame towards her. “I have never seen the point in bemoaning my fate. It doesn’t make me feel any better, for there is nothing I can do save wait for my husband to return, and hope that when he does, fate will look more kindly upon me. When you are married, you will understand.”
Margaret sighed. “Speaking for myself, I think there are more than enough children in the world anyway. I would rather do what I can to help those already here than add to the numbers.”
“What an odd way you have of looking at things.”
“I am aware of that,” Margaret said, grimacing, “but I am coming to the conclusion I can’t look at it any other way.”
“You are enjoying working at the school, aren’t you?”
“I adore it. You should come with me one day. They are always in need of another pair of hands, and you might—”
“No,” Julia said flatly. “I know you’re thinking it might take my mind off things, but it would simply make me more conscious that I have no child of my own.”
“Oh, Julia.”
“I pray you will not pity me. If you feel that Mr. and Mrs. Doherty require more help, why not take Breda with you? Didn’t you tell me that her mother had aspirations to be a schoolmistress? I would happily excuse her from some of her duties, if it does not inconvenience you.”
“Really? That is a marvellous idea. Breda will be thrilled.”
“Now if you don’t mind, I need to concentrate on my Berlin work. It requires very intricate stitching and any mistake requires laborious unpicking.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
But as she prepared to rise, Julia stayed her. “I know that what you say is right. There are too many children in this world, and far too many of them are unwanted, too. I take my hat off to you.”
“It’s a modest enough contribution, but I love it.”
“I know. But one day, when you are married, you’ll understand that it’s simply no substitute. It’s not only that I wish to give Wingfield an heir, I want a child of my own. A child who will love me, and whom I can love back. That’s all I want, Margaret, a child of my own to love. Is it too much to ask?”
A lump rose in Margaret’s throat. “No, it shouldn’t be too much to ask,” she said in a small voice. But as she left the room she couldn’t help thinking sadly that it was too much to expect.
Lady Victoria Kerr to Lady Margaret
Vienna, 14 April 1867
Dear Margaret,
You will perhaps be surprised to hear from me after all this ti
me. Mama has been keeping me abreast of your progress by sending me copies of all your letters to her. Can you believe me when I tell you that it gives me great pleasure to read them? Perhaps you are asking yourself why, then, I have not written to you myself? The short answer is that Kerr forbad it. This does not reflect his opinion of your behaviour but his belief that we should honour our father’s edict.
And so what has changed? Life, and almost death, is responsible. Are you raising those questioning brows of yours and thinking, how unlike Victoria to be melodramatic? You are right, but I do not exaggerate. My son, Walter William Schomberg Kerr, Earl of Ancram (what a mouthful for such a little scrap of a baby!) was delivered just over two weeks ago. He was early and his journey into the world was not only unexpected but extremely protracted and painful for both of us. For several days afterwards the pair of us had a very fragile hold on life. Thankfully, we are both now much more robust, but confronting one’s possible demise makes one reassess one’s priorities somewhat. Hovering on the edge of one world, I resolved to write to you if I was spared, no matter what Kerr thought. As it turned out, he did not argue with me at all—though I cannot say whether this was due to relief that I survived or gratitude for my having produced his much longed-for heir. A mixture of both, I suspect. What matters is that he consented, and so I am free to write to you at last, and am determined to take a leaf from your book and speak more candidly.
You have always thought that Mama preferred me to you. Second daughter, second best, to borrow one of your phrases. I will tell you now, Margaret, that I have often resented the burden of being held up as a model and envied you the freedom to rebel—though I wish you had not rebelled in quite such a flamboyant manner. And since I am fessing up, to use yet another of your inimitable turns of phrase, I envy you your ease with people, your ability to mix with anyone and everyone. We have not been close, there is no denying that, but I hope that through our correspondence we can forge a new, sisterly bond. It is asking a great deal, I know, but you have a generous heart and I am confident you will indulge me by trying.
Her Heart for a Compass Page 23