Montagu House, London, Wednesday, 19 July 1865
AH, THERE YOU ARE! It’s fast approaching midnight, my dear.”
Lord Rufus Ponsonby, the Earl of Killin, was considered by most to be a presentable-looking man. His tall, rather lean figure was always immaculately dressed. His aquiline profile was suitably haughty, as befitted an earl of the realm. Every aspect of him was austere, repressed, and calculated.
Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott took an involuntary step back as he loomed over her. “I’m all too aware of that.”
As ever, he seemed oblivious to her prickly reaction to him. “Why are you skulking in the shadows? Perhaps you are insecure about your appearance,” he continued, answering his own question. “Allow me to reassure you. Your gown is neither too simple nor too ornate for the occasion. Her Grace, your mother, has excellent taste.”
Surveying the man her mother had helped select to be her husband, Margaret begged to differ. “I would have preferred a turquoise gown, actually.”
“All young ladies in their first Season wear white.”
“Look at me,” Margaret persisted, exasperated beyond words because Killin never did look at her, not properly. “Don’t you think I resemble a ghost at my own betrothal party? I am, quite literally, a spectre at the feast.”
“I think your tendency to be fanciful is coming to the fore.”
“There are so many ruffles and swags on this gown I feel like I’m wearing a set of drapes.”
His lordship, his attention on his watch, didn’t notice the note of suppressed hysteria in her tone. Killin checked his gold timepiece against the ballroom clock, frowned, checked again, made a minor adjustment, then checked it one last time before snapping the case closed and returning it to his waistcoat pocket.
“We had better join your parents for the announcement,” he said. “They will be getting anxious.”
That little vocal tic he had, something between a cough and a snort, as if he were about to clear his throat and decided against it, made Margaret’s toes curl. No-one else seemed to notice, yet every time he opened his mouth to speak she braced herself for it. “I think if anyone has a right to be anxious,” she said, smiling through gritted teeth, “it should be me. My life is about to change forever, after all.”
Though he smiled in return, it was a token effort that failed to be reflected in his eyes. “We are on the brink of a new life together, Lady Margaret. I for one am eager to embrace it.”
The very notion of being embraced by him was repellent. Fortunately, in the month since their match had been arranged, he had made no attempt to do any such thing, allowing Margaret to ignore her own physical revulsion and persuade herself that she would be able to reconcile herself to marrying him. He had never tried to kiss her. If he touched her, it was merely to usher her here or there, and his hands never lingered on her. Was all that about to change? She shuddered inwardly. Was this model of propriety simply a gentleman patiently waiting until his matrimonial rights were formally endorsed? Dear heavens, even trying to imagine his lips on hers made her want to scrub her mouth with her handkerchief.
Once the formal announcement was made, there would be no going back. She would be engaged to be married to a man she loathed and who, she was utterly convinced, didn’t give a damn about her. No, worse than that. The more time she spent in Killin’s company, the more certain Margaret became that he actively disliked her. She had tried to believe otherwise, but she was increasingly aware of his carefully disguised disapproval of everything about her, from her manner to her weight.
The fact that he managed to keep his feelings so well hidden from everyone else was another source of irritation. Although feelings, Margaret reminded herself, were quite irrelevant when it came to matchmaking. Killin was set on marrying her for his own ends, and her parents were even more determined that she marry him. She had resolved to make them all happy by doing her duty, which was undoubtedly the correct course of action, so why were her wretched instincts choosing this highly inconvenient moment to rebel? Was she really going to marry this man? It seemed suddenly, terrifyingly, impossible.
“Lady Margaret! We really must join the duke and duchess. Their patience, like mine, must be wearing thin.”
To speak up now, after weeks of biting her tongue, was unthinkable. And futile. Defeated and dejected, her only option was to brace herself for the inevitable. “I need a moment alone to collect my thoughts. Please, I beg of you,” Margaret added, seeing his resistance forming. “I wish to compose myself, my lord. All eyes will be upon us, and I don’t want to let you down.”
More importantly, she didn’t want to let Mama down. Or Papa. She didn’t want to let anyone down. Not that she was planning to, but she desperately needed a moment of solitude. She had spent the entire evening being assailed by well-wishers.
To her immense relief, Killin conceded. “Very well then, if you must. But don’t be long.”
Without giving him a chance to change his mind, Margaret hurried away. The atmosphere in the crowded ballroom was stifling. She was so hot and flustered she couldn’t think straight. The blend of expensive perfume, pomade, and perspiration made her nose twitch. She wanted to sneeze. Oh, for a lungful of pure, fresh air, or better still, for the familiar, comforting smells of the stable block back home in Dalkeith. Spider, her beloved pony, obeyed her every command unquestioningly. If only she were as well schooled. If only, as Mama opined all too often, she could be more like Victoria. Killin would probably have preferred her paragon of an older sister, too, but Victoria had been destined from the cradle to marry Lord Schomberg Kerr, the son of Mama’s best friend. Victoria, the beau ideal Margaret couldn’t bring herself to emulate, had been married in February, forcing Killin to settle for the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch’s second and second-best daughter.
Biddable Victoria had seemed happy to accept her fate. Margaret had endeavoured to believe Mama when she told her that she knew best, to persuade herself that her visceral dislike of the man intended for her would lessen as she came to know him. Might familiarity make him more amenable? At this moment, she simply could not believe it. Why couldn’t she see Killin as others did? She had tried; no-one could fault her for lack of effort. But she had failed dismally. If only she wasn’t so utterly certain that his feelings reflected hers. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in her, only her family connections. Behind the suave, gentlemanly carapace Killin presented to the world lurked a decidedly cold fish. Yet no-one else seemed to realise this. Could she be wrong? In her heart, she knew she was not, but it was far too late to do anything about it.
Margaret slipped out through the French doors, her senses assaulted by the acrid stench of the Thames, for the gardens of Montagu House faced directly onto the river. Putting her hand over her nose, she edged backwards to the darkest recess of the terrace. She wouldn’t linger long. She’d face the music momentarily.
Uncovering her nose, she tried inhaling through her mouth, blowing the taste of the Thames away with each exhale, like a pipe smoker using cheap tobacco, but the stench caught the back of her throat. Her skin itched under the dusting of pearl powder meant to mask her freckles. Her eyes smarted from the revolting mixture prescribed by Mama to tint her naturally auburn lashes and brows fashionably black. Though her maid Molly swore otherwise, she was convinced it consisted almost entirely of coal dust.
How much longer dare she procrastinate?
Five minutes wasn’t nearly enough.
She needed five hours.
Five weeks.
Or better still, five more years.
And even then?
Her heart was racing. The cage of her enormous formal crinoline seemed to have a life of its own, despite the straps which were meant to control it. In the last few weeks, she had had little appetite for food, and Mama’s constantly deployed measuring tape showed her waist had shrunk to just nineteen inches, yet she still felt breathless, as if Molly had laced her corset too tightly.
Edging farther away from the hubbub of the ballroom, she came smack up against the balustrade, snatching at it just in time to prevent herself from stumbling down the steps and into the darkened gardens. The smell from the river was overpowering, but as usual she had mislaid the fan which should have been attached to her wrist. Her hair would be frizzing in the damp air, ruining all poor Molly’s hard work. What she’d give to pull every pin from her rebellious red mop and let it tumble wild and loose down her back. At least then one part of her would be free.
The notion made her laugh. Her laughter had a manic edge. Her feet took another cautious step backwards, down the first of the steps leading to the garden.
She wasn’t running away.
She could not possibly run away.
She really ought to return to the ballroom and get on with it. Yet somehow she found herself at the bottom of the steps.
Inside, the orchestra struck the last chords of the waltz. She had three or four minutes at most. The dancers would be making their sedate bows and curtsies. She could picture the scene with jaw-clenching clarity. The ballroom would be a blaze of light reflected in the mirrors, for the candles in the three huge crystal chandeliers were all lit, along with the gas sconces. The crush of guests, the women in their colourful gowns and the men in their black dinner suits, would be turning to face the dais. The ladies would be plying their fans, the gentlemen dabbing discreetly at their faces with their handkerchiefs. The huge displays of roses would be starting to droop. Hers was not the only coiffure that would be starting to frizz.
Of their own accord, her feet began to back her slowly away from the house, along the path that wound its way through the garden to the wall bordering the Thames. Inside, an army of footmen garbed in formal livery, their hair moulded into a wig-like coiffure with flour-and-water paste, would be lining up under the butler’s gimlet eye, ready to distribute glasses of iced champagne in anticipation of the celebratory toast to come.
The press had been speculating about the announcement for weeks. The highest born and most illustrious and influential members of society were present to witness it. Everyone who was anyone had come to Montagu House, for an invitation from the Duke of Buccleuch was second only to a royal summons. Not Princess Louise, though. Margaret’s oldest friend, who counselled her to accept her fate gracefully, was chained to the queen’s side at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, and would not be present to witness her compliance.
And comply she must! Margaret willed herself to reverse her progress, to return to the ballroom, and join what amounted to a victory parade, with herself the trophy to be displayed. But she couldn’t do it.
Not yet.
Not ever.
The truth brought her to an abrupt halt. From the very moment she had allowed Mama to persuade her to accept Killin’s proposal, she had been deluding herself. No matter how much her parents wanted it, she could not sacrifice herself on the altar of duty by marrying a man she knew in her heart would make her miserable. She simply couldn’t go through with it. Not even if it meant committing what amounted to social suicide, as it surely would.
Back in the ballroom, Mama would be standing on the dais, looking as fragrantly beautiful as ever. Beside her would be Papa, tall and ramrod-straight, his black evening clothes in stark contrast to his distinctive flame of red hair, which was almost as vibrant as Margaret’s own. He would be frowning, in all likelihood impatiently consulting his watch. Victoria would be standing just behind Mama along with Kerr. And Killin would be standing at the forefront of the family group, anxious to confirm his place within the prestigious firmament of the Buccleuch dynasty.
Even as her mind raced, trying desperately to reason one last time with her rebellious instincts, Margaret’s feet inexorably resumed their backwards journey.
Go back in, she urged herself. She was, almost uniquely in her nearly nineteen years on this earth, about to make her parents happy and proud. But at what cost? She would become, in the eyes of the law and society, Killin’s property.
Margaret took a few more backwards steps. As long as she had the ballroom in sight, she could persuade herself that she might return there at any moment. She was keeping them waiting, that was all. Wasn’t that the bride’s prerogative? Though it must already be past midnight. Any moment now, Mama would send Victoria out to usher her back inside like a sheep-dog rounding up a panicked ewe.
That thought sent Margaret backwards still farther into the gloom. She tried valiantly one last time to persuade herself to do the right thing. She pictured herself on the dais, placing her hand compliantly in Killin’s. He’d clear his throat before chiding her for keeping him waiting.
It was that, the thought of that incredibly annoying little habit he had and surely the most preposterous reason in history for calling off a betrothal, which decided her. If she returned to the ballroom, she knew she would be lost. Her courage would desert her, and before she knew it, the announcement would be made. On the other hand, if she stayed here hidden in the garden long enough, then her parents would have no choice but to finally put an end to her suffering. They would never forgive her, but on the bright side, neither would Killin. More importantly, if she went through with this engagement, she’d never forgive herself.
Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry.
Repeating that one heartfelt phrase to herself over and over, Margaret hoisted up her crinoline, turned her back on the ballroom, and hurried towards the shrubs at the very edge of her father’s property.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the sooty concoction that blackened her lashes, blinding her. The scent of expensive tobacco filled her nostrils just before she collided full tilt into a man idly puffing on a cigar. She would have fallen, set off balance by the contact with his solid bulk, had he not put his arms around her to steady her. The collision overset her shattered nerves completely. Margaret screamed, flailing wildly at him, attempting to kick his shins and stubbing her slippered toes in the process.
He let her go immediately. “Lady Margaret?”
She recognised the cultured Highland lilt as belonging to Donald Cameron of Lochiel, an acquaintance of her father and some sort of diplomat. “Leave me alone. Please, forget you saw me.”
Needless to say, he ignored her plea. “What in God’s name are you doing out here on your own in the dark? Your engagement is about to be announced.”
“I thought I’d just pop out for a smoke first,” Margaret replied witheringly, well beyond any attempt to be polite.
Startled, he eyed the lit cigar in his own hand, before dropping it and stamping it out. “You’re nervous and no wonder. It must be a daunting prospect, especially in front of the great and the good. Let me lend you my arm.”
He spoke to her as if to a child. Lochiel was very tall and sombrely dressed, the type of man commonly referred to as handsome or distinguished. However, like most men, handsome, distinguished or otherwise, he sported a beard, and one of the most objectionable types, too, known as the Newgate frill, which framed his face like a wiry ruff. “I don’t need your support,” Margaret snapped. “For pity’s sake, just leave me be.”
For one glorious moment, she thought he was about to do as she asked. “You need a little time to compose yourself, that’s all. I can understand that, but really, Lady Margaret, it will not do to keep everyone waiting indefinitely, you know.”
Lochiel reached for her arm, trying to usher her towards the ballroom. “Come with me. Your parents and Killin will be—”
“No!” She pushed him violently away. Snatching up the folds of her gown, Margaret ran the last few yards to the garden gate. Heaving it open, she stumbled through, pulling it closed behind her, and fled into the night.