Whatever the truth, Margaret would in all likelihood never know. All she did know from Mama, was that Louise was still keeping the queen constant company both in public and in private. She had been at the State Opening of Parliament in February. In May, she was one of the godparents to Bertie and Alix’s daughter, her new niece bearing her own name. And in August she and the queen had visited Floors Castle, where Margaret’s father had been one of the guests, though Mama had not been present. If there had been any hint of scandal, surely Louise would, like Margaret, have been hidden from public scrutiny? Then again, perhaps she had learned from Margaret’s painful lesson that to do so would heighten speculation to fever pitch.
Margaret sighed impatiently. Wherever Louise was, whatever her state of mind, she wasn’t thinking of her former friend on this, her birthday. Nor, it seemed, was Donald, which did surprise her, though it could be that his letter was still in the post. By far the biggest surprise, however, was the letter from her father.
She stared incredulously at the single sheet of paper bearing the Buccleuch crest. She had given up hope of receiving a reply to the proposal she had sent her father back in August. She had agonised for weeks over the precise wording. Donald had cautioned her not to expect a response, and as the weeks passed, she had reconciled herself to having failed. The urge to write again had been strong, but she had nothing to add to what she had already said, and she would not weaken her case by pleading. She had resisted the temptation to ask Mama for the duke’s reaction, warning her in advance that she had written and going so far as to ask her not to intervene.
Margaret read the letter again to make sure she had not misunderstood, but the contents, written in her father’s familiar scrawl, were unambiguous. I have carefully considered your proposal, and have reluctantly decided to accede to your request.
Her father had granted her wish to live independently, awarding her the full settlement she requested, the equivalent of the dowry which he would no longer be required to offer. She would be able to live well, to travel without scrimping, and she would certainly not be required to hide away in a little cottage subsisting on bacon fat and dry bread. There were strict terms and conditions attached, of course. Wherever she chose to live, it could not be in England or Scotland or, as he put it in his usual grandiose terms, on the same sovereign soil as any of my residences. Any hint of a public scandal, and her annuity would be instantly revoked. The duke had finally accepted that she would never do his bidding, acknowledging her right to choose a different life for herself, but he would continue to judge her.
Let him! His opinion of her no longer mattered. She was free. Standing in front of the mirror, Margaret watched a slow smile spread across her face. Today she was twenty-one years old, and she really had come of age. Her gift to herself was to wipe the slate clean. She was going to take Lewis’s advice and start being herself.
The question was, what sort of life did she envisage? And just as important, where? The obvious choice was to travel to the Continent. There was a big world, as Lewis had said, beyond Powerscourt’s gates. She could visit the canals of Venice, the boulevards of Paris, the Acropolis, the Colosseum. Though Lewis had actually suggested that she travel further afield, to America perhaps. The shared language was an attraction, but it seemed too big a first step to seriously contemplate.
Ought she to contemplate it nevertheless? Was crossing the Channel too tentative a step? Her father’s reach was long, the tentacles of her family connections extensive. On the Continent she would still be Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott, the second daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch, with her scandalous history trailing behind her in a cloud of half-remembered gossip. Eyebrows would be raised at her purposeless meanderings without family or a husband in tow. Which raised another question: Who would accompany her, for she couldn’t travel on her own. She would have to find a chaperone of some description for the sake of propriety.
But there was no need to make such a momentous decision rashly or on a whim. She had only just discovered she was a woman of independent means. There was time enough to think about what that meant.
Margaret gave a little skip of delight. She would tell Julia her news later, but the sun was coming out for the first time in days, and Pennygael was overdue an outing. Hurrying to her wardrobe, unbuttoning her gown as she did, she pulled out her riding habit and began to change.
As she jammed her hat onto her head and swept the long skirt of her riding habit over her arm, there was a tap on her bedchamber door. “You’re wanted in the morning room, Lady Margaret,” the maid informed her.
It would most likely be something to do with the school. With her husband once again absent, Julia had started taking a much more active interest. Now that Enniskerry had been accepted into the national school system, she was overseeing all the necessary work to ensure that it would be the best equipped in the system. A gift to each child of a copy of Margaret’s stories was one of Julia’s aims, and so she had been harrying the printer into producing the first proofs as soon as he had received the last of Billy’s illustrations. Perhaps the volume had arrived!
Margaret hurried to the morning room, only to stop short in the doorway. The sole occupant of the room was a tall man with his back to her, gazing out the window. Thinking the maid must have been mistaken, she was about to leave when he turned and smiled. “Good morning, Margaret.”
She stared blankly at the stranger who was crossing the room towards her. He was tall and well-built, plainly dressed, clean-shaven, and rather handsome. He looked oddly familiar. “Donald? Good heavens, is it really you? Oh my goodness, I barely recognised you without the beard.”
“Does it really make such a difference?” he asked, smiling.
“Yes, it really does.” He had a decidedly square jaw, which had been completely obscured before, and there was a dimple in his chin. He wore his hair shorter than she recalled, neatly and most unfashionably trimmed around his ears without any side-whiskers. “You are much improved,” Margaret said. Realising that this was a rather a back-handed compliment, she hastily added, “I mean transformed.”
Donald laughed, taking her hands in his. “As refreshingly candid as ever. No need to ask if you are well. I can see you are glowing with health. I thought I would surprise you, and congratulate you on your coming of age in person.”
His smile made her feel oddly breathless. This was the man who had been her regular correspondent for almost a year now. A man she called her dear friend, in whom she confided, who she thought she had come to know well, but whom she had not thought to actually meet in person. Seeing him in this new, attractive guise unsettled her.
“When I had no letter from you,” Margaret said, “I thought you had forgotten.”
“Never! Happy birthday, Margaret.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips.
Blushing wildly, she snatched her hand away. “It’s so strange,” she said, her thoughts jangling. “I have come to know you so well from your letters, but I feel almost shy seeing you in person. No, don’t take that amiss. I’m delighted to see you. Does Julia know you are here?”
“No. I wanted to surprise you.”
“You have certainly succeeded. Are you planning to stay?”
“That very much depends on you.”
What did he mean? She didn’t want to ask, for she had the feeling that it would change everything between them and she had no idea how she felt about that. First the letter from her father, and now this. “I was just about to go out riding,” Margaret said. “Will you join me?”
“An excellent idea. It’s a lovely day, and I am sure that Wingfield won’t mind my borrowing one of his mounts. The fresh air will clear my head. Then we can talk.”
Donald, astride a strapping grey, slowed from a gallop to a canter as they entered the woodland. He rode well, handling the stallion with a quiet mastery without being showy about it. Beside him, Margaret’s surprised delight at his sudden appearance out of the blue had given wa
y to a definite apprehension. This was Donald, her friend, she reminded herself, but he didn’t look like the man she imagined when she read his letters. It wasn’t only the loss of the beard; it was his smile, she decided, which had not been the chaste smile of an old friend. And the way he had kissed her hand. More perturbingly the effect that kiss had had on her senses.
As they neared the waterfall she slanted him another glance, only to find that he was doing the same. Their gazes met and the world tilted and realigned itself, for in that brief moment there was no mistaking what had passed between them.
Donald dismounted. Nervously, Margaret slid off Pennygael, who led the way to the pool, the grey following her. The fresh-fallen leaves were gold, chestnut, and burnished amber underfoot. The sun glinted down on the cascade, making diamonds of the curtain of water as it crashed into the pool. “Isn’t it entrancing?” she asked, joining him.
“Breath-taking,” he agreed, turning towards her. “But I personally prefer this view.”
She read his intention clearly in his eyes as he reached for her, and she made no attempt to evade him as he pulled her into his arms. He was going to kiss her, and she wanted him to. Alarm bells were clanging, but only faintly as she tilted her face to his. He smelled of shaving soap and wet wool, and his coat was damp with the spray from the waterfall. She lifted her hand to his cheek and felt his sharp intake of breath at her touch.
“Margaret,” he said, his voice both rough and gentle at the same time.
The roaring of the waterfall became a roaring in her ears as their lips met. There was no slow, tender preliminary to this kiss, only a clamouring need. Donald’s arms tightened around her, and heat flooded her body as she clung to him, urging him to deepen the kiss, though he needed little encouragement, muttering her name and pulling her closer. They kissed. Deep, starving kisses, adult kisses, their tongues tangling, hands clutching and clinging. Only as they stumbled, precariously close to the edge of the pool, did they stop, coming shakily to their senses.
Donald swore under his breath, an odd smile on his face. “I had intended the kiss to follow the speech, not the other way around.”
Too late, far too late, Margaret realised what he meant. No matter what she felt for him, no matter that she had already made her feelings very clear, she wasn’t ready for that. “Donald . . .”
“No, please, let me speak.” He clasped her hands in his, smiling at her so tenderly she caught her breath. “It must be obvious to you how I feel about you, but I know how much you like plain dealing. I love you. There you have it.”
Her fingers tightened involuntarily in his. There was no doubting his sincerity, nor any point in denying her own feelings, but it would be wrong. She had no idea how she knew this, but she did. She dare not speak, lest the words he was so patently desperate to hear escape her mouth.
“You look surprised,” Donald prompted when she remained silent. “Surely you must have been aware of the growing affection in my letters? Ever since that fateful night, when I found you conversing with Mr. Scott, I have been drawn to you. Love has crept up on me slowly, as we became firm friends through our correspondence. I have never sought love, or a wife, but now that I’ve found you, I know you are my journey’s end. Will you marry me, Margaret, and be my companion in life?”
She had never in her life longed to say yes more. Yes, she loved him. Yes, she would marry him. Yes, she would share his life. But the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t breathe. “I’m so sorry.” As his tender smile faltered, she almost changed her mind, but she had learned many lessons in the last two years. She could not risk having her entire future decided by one passionate kiss. Carefully, Margaret disengaged her hands.
“I don’t understand,” Donald said. “Have I misjudged your feelings?”
“No. Yes. It’s not that I don’t—though I hadn’t realised until now.”
“You need time. I thought I had prepared the ground, but I see now I have been too opaque. This is a momentous decision, I will not rush you.”
It was so tempting to agree, to delay the inevitable, but she had learned the hard way to trust her instincts. She had only just obtained her independence. She could not immediately surrender it. She wanted to do what Lewis had urged her to do: to become herself, whatever that might entail. She wanted to make her own mistakes, to live without having to accommodate someone else’s wishes. Given that, she couldn’t in all conscience agree to marry Donald. It would be dishonest and cruel, and she loved him too much to do that. Though she would have to cause him pain.
“I’m sorry, Donald.” Was she really doing this? She gazed at him, the man she had only just fallen in love with, knowing that she might be throwing away her one and only chance for happiness. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and there was a steely resolution in her tone that made his smile fade. “I don’t need time to consider. I simply can’t marry you.”
He did not speak for a moment, and when he did, his tone was gruff. “May I ask why?”
It would be so much easier if he would be furious with her, or even blame her just a little. But then he wouldn’t be Donald, and she wouldn’t find this so heartbreakingly difficult. No matter what it cost her, she owed him the truth. “Until today, I’ve thought of you only as a very dear friend, and one of the few people—perhaps even the only one—who has always accepted me as I am.”
“Why would I change you? I love you as you are.”
“With all my numerous imperfections.” Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Which are far outweighed by your many, many excellent qualities.”
She knew he meant it. Donald never said anything he didn’t mean, and once again she was swayed. But it would be wrong. “Before I met you I thought I lacked any admirable qualities, but thanks to you, my dear friend, I know that to be untrue. You like me, warts and all, and have given me the encouragement and the confidence to believe in myself. I owe you a great deal. I trust your judgement more than anyone’s save my own. Whenever I am in a quandary I ask myself, what would Donald think?” Margaret drew a shaky breath, for she knew now what she had to say, and knew that it would put an end to everything between them. “And now you honour me by asking me to be so much more than a friend and I am so very tempted, because though I had no idea until we—until today that my feelings for you are real and run deep. But I am not ready to be a wife, far less a mother. In all honesty, I’ve no idea whether I will ever be ready. I am so very, very sorry.”
Still he said nothing. Margaret took another steadying breath, acutely aware of his hurt, confused gaze. “I had a letter from my father this morning.” Briefly, she explained the terms of her annuity. “So you see, I now have the means to live my own life, to make my own decisions without having to consult anyone else. I’ve never had that privilege before. I’ve never been free. If I agreed to marry you . . .”
“You think that marriage to me would enslave you?”
“No!” She made to touch his arm, but he jerked away. “Of course not, but I would be your wife, Donald, and as your wife I would inevitably be changed. I couldn’t simply be me; I would be part of something else.”
“You would be one half of us. Isn’t that the best of both worlds?”
Her mother would think so. Most women would think so. It would be the safe solution, the conventionally acceptable one, undoubtedly an attractive one, but that was not enough. “I know you can’t understand. I struggle to explain it myself, but it would be the wrong choice for me, Donald. I cannot marry you.”
“Would your answer have been different had your father’s letter not arrived this morning? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want you to marry me because I’m your best option. I want you to marry me because . . .” He shook his head despondently. “Oh, what’s the use? I won’t beg. May I ask what you plan to do now that you are no longer obliged to remain here?”
It came to her then that she had to remove herself far from temptation for both their sakes. She had to make
her decision irrevocable. “I’m considering going to America.”
“America! What the devil! Why? Who do you know there?”
“Not a soul. That’s the whole point.”
“Can you honestly be thinking of embarking on a journey to the other side of the world to a country you know nothing about in order to be, what—anonymous?”
“No-one will be able to tell me what to do and when. They won’t make their minds up about me before they meet me. I won’t be stifled by expectations.”
“You have no idea what such a drastic upheaval would entail. The practicalities of it for one thing. Where would you stay? Dear God, Margaret, what you are suggesting is terrifying. If you must travel, why not go to the Continent and take the Grand Tour like everyone else?”
“It’s not far enough away from you, from my family, from the world I know and which thinks it knows me. I know it won’t be easy, I know that I might fail spectacularly, but I will regret not having the courage of my convictions if I don’t try.”
“So you must go to America,” Donald said with a twisted smile. “A new world fit for a new Margaret, is that it?”
Finally, at this evidence of his understanding, a tear escaped her. She nodded. “Whatever that means. I’m so sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am. I wish you all the luck in the world. You will need it.” He stooped to pick up his hat. “If you will excuse me, I will ride back alone.”
“Donald . . .”
“Don’t say you’re sorry again. I’m not prepared to settle for second best either.” He pulled her to him, hugging her tightly, briefly, then let her go. “Goodbye, Margaret.”
She watched him in stricken silence as he mounted the grey stallion and rode off, before her legs gave way and she slumped to the ground. If she had glanced up, she would have seen him pull up to look back with a wistful expression, but instead she dropped her head into her hands. She had just made either the best or the worst decision of her entire life.
Her Heart for a Compass Page 26