“I lose track of them myself sometimes. Perhaps I shall write a book about my travels to Algeria.”
“Good heavens! You are a traveller, too?”
“Everyone should see the world, including you, dear Margaret.”
“I would, if I had the means. Would I like Algeria?”
He shook his head decisively. “You must go to a country where your being a female is not a barrier. America, for example. My friend Ira—the actor, you know—he is an American. It is the land of the free, he tells me, though I am not precisely sure I know what that means.”
“What would I do in America?” Margaret asked doubtfully. “I don’t know anyone there.”
“But that is the whole point about travel, whether to America or Algeria or Timbuctoo.”
“I nearly went there once,” Margaret said, laughing at Lewis’s bewildered expression. “Ignore me, do carry on.”
“As I was saying, the point about going abroad—and I don’t mean Europe, that is too close to home. The point is, Margaret, that you don’t know anyone and more importantly, no-one knows you. You have no past, and the future is yours to write. I thought of going to America myself actually, and of acting on Broadway which is where all the theatres are, so Ira tells me, but now I have given up that career.”
“Perhaps you will become an explorer. Like Dr. Livingstone.”
“And disappear forever? Mervyn would like that.”
“I still don’t understand why your brother dislikes you so much. I like you very much.”
Lewis pressed her hand. “Because, like me, you are a maverick, though being a female, you are forced to disguise it more.” He was silent for a few moments, and when they reached Bray Head, turned towards the sea, leaning on the spray-damp railing of the promenade. “It’s not so much what I do that makes Mervyn dislike me, it’s the fact that I won’t settle to anything. He thinks I’m capricious, and he’s probably right, but I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“You like to test yourself, that’s all.”
“Ah, Margaret, you have a generous soul.”
“Your brother is worried that if you inherit Powerscourt, you will not be interested enough to maintain it—is that it?”
Lewis shrugged. “I suppose, and I expect he is right about that, too.”
“Do you like him?”
“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself that question. Not particularly, is the answer. Mervyn is extremely worthy. But so very boring. I mean, deer, honestly? Shall we change the subject?” Lewis took her arm again, and they began to retrace their steps. “What does Julia make of our friendship?”
“Julia doesn’t judge.”
“Don’t bristle. I admire Julia, I’ll have you know. I admire anyone who puts up with my brother.”
“She is reserved, but just because she doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve doesn’t mean she is cold. And she’s been very good to me, Lewis. I don’t know what she thinks of our friendship. I don’t even know what I think of it. Will it last beyond this visit?”
“You mean, will I forget all about you when I am gone from here? Out of sight, out of mind? No, I am generally thought to be a loyal friend, though the chances of my paying another visit here are low. I don’t like to stay where I am not welcome. Mervyn would never deny me my right to come to Powerscourt, but he much prefers if I don’t. And Julia—oh, poor Julia, I am afraid I am a constant reminder of her failure to produce an heir.”
“Don’t say that,” Margaret snapped. “It is not Julia’s fault that she has not yet had a child.”
“Don’t bite my head off. As it happens, I agree with you that it is in all likelihood not Julia’s fault.”
“What do you mean by that, Lewis?”
He opened his mouth to answer her, then clearly changed his mind. “Shall we see if they serve tea at the Turkish baths? I had planned to take you to the International Hotel, but I heard that the baths have reopened as some sort of assembly rooms. When they were first built, the staff wore scarlet dressing gowns and Turkish slippers. It would be fun if they still did. What do you think, Margaret?”
She thought his attempt to distract her glaringly obvious. What was it he had decided against telling her about Lord Powerscourt? But though Lewis had a vicious streak, and though there was clearly no love lost between the two brothers, he had refrained. She respected him for that. “It sounds fun,” Margaret answered. “Will I be permitted to smoke a Turkish pipe?”
He pressed her arm, smiling down warmly at her. “Back in the day, one could loll about on velvet divans and smoke. I was never there in its heyday, but I’m told there were fountains and palm trees and domed ceilings set with glass stars. Let us hope the new owners have not stripped it of all its ambiance.”
“And let us hope they serve tea. The sea air has made me very hungry.”
A week later, Margaret was ensconced in the octagon library, at the desk which she had claimed for her own. The door to the room was decorated to look like one of the bookshelves, complete with imitation books. The Key to Paradise was the tome covering the lock, hinting at a sense of humour, which ruled out the current viscount being responsible. She was staring into space when it opened, and Lewis entered.
“I thought I’d find you here. I came to tell you that I’ve decided to leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! That’s rather sudden, isn’t it? You’ve been here for less than a fortnight.”
He began to pull books at random from the shelves, pursing his lips at each one before replacing it. “Mervyn is due back soon.”
“Not until next week. Can’t you stay a few more days?”
“My mind is made up. I won’t risk being here if he decides to arrive early. Does Julia always turn the house upside down and inside out when her husband is due home?”
“She likes everything to be perfect. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No, I suppose not. What are you doing? Are you working on that little book of stories?” He pulled the notebook from her and began to flick through it. “I agree with your friend Lochiel: you should have them published, they are quite out of the ordinary. And, of course, your name on the cover will ensure that they will receive lots of attention in the press.”
Margaret shuddered. “One of the best things about being here is that the press have forgotten all about me. I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to have my name in the newspapers again, for any reason.”
“Understandable, though I think you could use it to your advantage if you wished.” He rifled through the pages, frowning. “You need illustrations to go with these. I could dash them off for you.”
“Oh, would you?”
“I could, but they would be too good. Now, don’t give me one of your haughty looks, I mean that the stories have a childlike quality to them. They need drawings in a similar vein. Perhaps one of your star pupils?” Lewis set the book down again. “Just a thought. Come for a walk with me, will you? I want to talk to you.”
“That sounds very serious.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I do have a serious side; I simply keep it well hidden. Come on, let’s get out into the sunshine or the rain—I have no idea what the weather is doing. Let’s stick to the gardens as a precaution. I am in the mood for a little introspection.”
“I really will miss you,” Margaret said, a few moments later as they walked arm-in-arm through the walled garden. “Have you decided what you are going to do when you get back to London—assuming that London is your destination?”
“For the moment. I have itchy feet, the one trait I share with Mervyn. I am thinking I might voyage to China.”
“China! Good heavens.”
“Or perhaps not. Perhaps I’ll get married, if I can find a female who understands me as you do, my dear.”
“If this is the prelude to a proposal, Lewis, I should warn you—”
He burst into a peal of laughter. “You deserve better than me, Margaret, and I need someone—oh,
I need someone like Julia. A nice understanding woman who will make no demands and who will be waiting patiently for me when I come home from my travels. No,” he added, patting her hand, “don’t subject me to one of your reprimands. I admire Julia, I really do, but I did not ask you to come for a walk with me to talk about Julia or even myself, believe it or not. Let us talk about you. What are you going to do when I am gone?”
“It will be very dull here without you. I shall carry on at the school, I suppose.”
“But they have Breda now, don’t they?”
“They will still need me at the school for story time.”
“When you publish your book, the children will be able to read the stories for themselves.”
“That’s a lovely thought. I wish that I could give every child a copy, but books are so expensive unless I—oh my goodness, you have just given me the most wonderful idea. Lewis Strange Wingfield, I do believe you are a genius.”
He preened. “I know. What was my wonderful idea exactly?”
“I could have the stories published as chap-books—you know, like the lesson books they have in the school. They are very cheap to make.” Margaret’s smile faded. “Though probably not cheap enough. I don’t really have any money.”
“Speak to Julia. I know for a fact that Mervyn gives her an allowance for charitable purposes. I would think your books qualify.”
“I didn’t know that. Do you think she will help me?”
“I am sure she will be delighted to. She’s not very happy, is she? She covers it up well, but her smile is sometimes quite pained.”
“All she wants is a baby. It seems so tragic that people like Breda’s mother get more children than they can cope with, while people like Julia . . .”
“Perhaps this time when my brother is home he will—they will—oh, you know. I hope they do resolve the matter. Aside from my not wanting to inherit Powerscourt, it would be wrong.”
“In what way?”
Lewis paused to open the gate that led to the Green Pond. “I was only two when the Sixth Viscount died, and my mother married Londonderry two years later—or Castlereagh, as he was then. But there is a rumour, a persistent rumour, that my mother and he were lovers before she was widowed. That I am not a Wingfield at all, but Londonderry’s bastard.”
“Lewis! That is shocking!”
“Is it?” He frowned down at the pond, then shrugged, heading for the path once more. “The man whose name I bear died when I was an infant. The man whose blood in all likelihood runs in my veins has been locked up in an asylum for the last five years. Which would I choose as my father? Does it change who I am?”
Lewis led the way to a wooden bench. “Sit with me a moment, Margaret, I’m going to be that rare thing for me, deadly serious. You are wasting away here. I know you are busy making yourself useful—and though Julia doesn’t say much, she appreciates your company—but don’t you think you’ve been hiding away long enough? There is a big world beyond Powerscourt’s gates.”
“I know there is, and I would love to see it, but how? I have no means to support myself. . . .”
“Never mind that for now. Do you agree or not?”
“Yes, I do. I admire Julia, but I could never be like her. Every time I try to do what is expected of me, I fail.”
“Then stop trying. That is my advice to you.”
She laughed. “Is it really that simple? I don’t want to do what someone else tells me, I want to please myself. I know that is a frightfully selfish thing to say. . . .”
“It is music to my ears. If you don’t stand up for who you are, then no-one else will.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“And here endeth the lesson. Be yourself, Margaret. You are different. Find a way to embrace that.”
“But how?”
“Now that, I’m afraid, I can’t help you with. We each need to follow our own path. I have chosen mine; you must forge your own. What is stopping you from leaving here?”
“Who, you mean. My father.”
“There you are, then; that is the obstacle you must overcome.”
“That is easier said than done.”
“I never said it would be easy. I do believe it’s starting to rain. Come on.” Lewis pulled her to her feet, shaking his head at the tears which filled her eyes. “What are those for?”
“Embrace being different. No-one has ever said that to me before. I will try, though I don’t know how.”
He kissed her cheek. “You’ll find a way. As I said, it won’t be easy. There will be tears, and times when you will ask yourself, is it worth it? But take it from one who knows. Ultimately, it is.”
Susannah Elmhirst to Lady Margaret
The Rectory, Lambeth, 26 July 1867
Dear Lady Margaret,
What a lovely surprise to hear from you after all this time, and for such an unexpected and exciting reason. Yes, Billy does still sell his drawings at the market and, yes, he still has Muffin with him and of course he remembers you. When I asked him if he would be interested in doing some drawings to illustrate your stories, I thought he would burst with pride. He can’t read, as you suspected, but I have arranged for Verity’s little girl Nellie to read the stories to him. In fact, they began this morning, working at a table in the church hall. The money you sent was more than enough for pencils, paints, and paper. I have given Billy an advance of a quarter of the fee you so generously offer, and will take the precaution of paying him the rest over a number of weeks.
I hope you will excuse me if I take the liberty of saying that you sound in much better spirits, and I am both glad and relieved if that is the case. All is well here. I have finally managed to recruit someone to help with the housework, thank goodness. And as for my brother—time is a great healer.
I look forward very much to seeing your work and Billy’s drawings in print. A chap-book is an excellent idea. I am sure we will be able to find the funds to buy some as Christmas gifts from the parish if it is published by then. I will send you the first of Billy’s artistic endeavours very soon.
With very best wishes,
Susannah Elmhirst
Donald Cameron of Lochiel to Lady Margaret
Rome, 28 August 1867
Dear Margaret,
What times we live in! I know you are not much interested in politics, but the passing of the Second Reform Act is such a momentous event, I felt I must mention it. The number of people who can vote in the next election will be more than doubled—and, yes, I know that they are all men, for Mr. Mill’s amendment to include the female sex failed dismally, but still it represents significant progress. At the risk of sounding like the rather staid gentleman you once assumed me to be, I find myself increasingly drawn to the idea of taking a more active role in politics, and am contemplating standing as a member of Parliament. At the grand old age of thirty-two, I have a hankering to end my sojourn on the Continent and return home to settle down.
My home is the Achnacarry Estate in Invernesshire, near the little village of Spean Bridge, and just north of the town of Fort William. The land is rugged, with some fine woods, and the castle itself sits low on the terrain, not far from Loch Arkaig, where I am thinking of building a new pier to allow a steamer to berth. The lands were forfeited after the ’45 was lost at Culloden, for my family fought for the Young Pretender. It was my grandfather and my namesake who had them restored, and who laid the foundations of the “New Achnacarry.” Alas, he was profligate, and when he died he left my father with a half-finished home and a mountain of debts. My father completed the house but continued the tradition of spending beyond his means, which is why I have had to make my own way in life. But I have prospered, enough to turn my mind to improving the estate and making a home of it. The castle is in the Scots baronial style. I think you would like it, Margaret. I know that I would very much like to show it to you one day.
With regard to your latest letter, I am delighted to learn that Lady Julia has been so fo
rthcoming with the charitable funds for your children’s book. As to your decision to write to your father—we promised always to be honest with each other, did we not? While I admire the sentiment that lies behind the approach, I confess that I think you are acting prematurely. I assumed that you were content at Powerscourt. I know that Lewis Wingfield’s visit gave you pause for thought, but Mervyn considers his brother to be a somewhat erratic and unreliable character. Is he the reason you are suddenly impatient for change? What would be the harm in waiting until October, for example, when you come of age? Writing directly to the duke, and not through the intermediary of your mother, also seems unnecessarily risky.
I will say no more on this for the present. Do not take this mild censure amiss, I beg of you. Please believe that I have, above all, your interests at heart. You say that you are indifferent to your father, but I fear you will discover, in his rejection or his silence, that you are mistaken. I know how deeply hurt you have been by his actions in the past. I only wish to spare you being hurt further.
With very best wishes always,
Donald
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thursday, 10 October 1867
Margaret sat in the window seat of her bedchamber, her birthday letters spread out in front of her. Mama, Victoria, and Mary had all written to congratulate her on her coming of age.
There was nothing from Louise. Margaret had braced herself for this, for the two brief, bland missives she had written to Louise had remained unanswered or may never have been read. All the same, the continuing silence hurt. She and Louise had marked so many milestones in each other’s lives, she could not believe Louise had forgotten this one. Unless the fears she had expressed at Helena’s wedding had been realised? What exactly had she been afraid of? Frowning as she tried to recall the conversation, Margaret began to doubt her own assumptions. Had Louise been exaggerating the situation, or even made it up entirely, wishing in a perverse way to trump Margaret’s romance with one of her own? Despite the fact that she was younger, she always liked to think of herself as the more worldly, the more sophisticated of the two of them.
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