Montagu House, London, Thursday, 6 April 1865
THE DAY OF MARGARET’S FORMAL presentation at court started very early when Molly roused her at some ungodly time to herald several hours of primping and titivating. First there had been her bath, a daily ritual made considerably easier in Montagu House, which had running water. Usually Margaret enjoyed this luxury, lying back with the rose-scented water washing over her, closing her eyes, and imagining she was at home in Dalkeith, but today she was not permitted to bathe alone.
Celeste, Mama’s formidable French maid, was in charge, insisting that Molly apply the pumice stone vigorously to Margaret’s feet while she combed oils into her hair. More emollients were rubbed into her skin when she emerged like a boiled lobster from the tub, until she glistened like an eel and her nose twitched from the warring scents, and her protests that none of this was in the least necessary since her entire person would be covered with a court dress predictably fell on deaf ears.
Draped in a cotton shift which clung to her slick body, Margaret was next placed in front of the dressing table, where the triple mirror gave her far too much insight into Celeste’s machinations. The first layer applied to her face was a cold cream that Mama had insisted she use daily since coming to London in the vain hope it would fade her freckles. Though it was scented with rose water, Margaret was convinced she could smell the spermaceti, a substance taken from a poor whale’s head, every time it was applied. It had made no difference to her stubborn freckles, which meant that next Celeste dusted her face with pearl powder, and then dusted it again when Margaret sneezed violently. She lost track of the different preparations that then followed from the Celeste’s mahogany box of tricks. Her brows were plucked and coloured. Her lashes and cheeks were tinted. There were drops to make her eyes sparkle, and a beeswax pomade to make her lips shine.
Her hair took an age to tame into submission, by which time her neck and shoulders were stiff and sore with the effort of keeping still and her scalp prickled with pins. Next came the trussing up in the steel-boned cage of her corset, a painful and mortifying process supervised by Mama wielding her dreaded measuring tape. Another cage was donned next in the form of her crinoline; and finally it took both Celeste and Molly to manoeuvre her into the confection of lace, silk, and satin that was her court dress, with its prescribed short puffed sleeves and low-cut neckline. The long lace train was then fixed to her shoulders, and finally the lace veil was fixed to the back of her head with a painful assortment of combs and pins, topped with the two white feathers that all unmarried ladies being presented to the queen must wear. Her long white gloves were fastened tightly, which meant, she realised with dismay, that she would be able to eat absolutely nothing until her return for fear of spotting them. The white ostrich feather fan was attached to one wrist, her simple pearl necklace and matching bracelet fixed. Then she stood for an age while Mama and Celeste inspected, adjusted, consulted, and primped and Molly watched, her smile pained. Finally, with a flourish, Mama presented her first with a lace handkerchief, and then with an enormous bouquet.
Margaret barely recognised the carefully packaged young woman staring back at her from the mirror, no doubt indistinguishable from the bevy of other debutantes to be presented that day. Even her hair managed to appear colourless. Panic made her heart beat faster, making her breathless. The whole point of this absurd, antiquated ceremony was to establish her as a member of an elite club she didn’t want to join. After her presentation she would be officially, inescapably up for auction in the matrimonial mart. This wasn’t the beginning of her life as an eligible young lady—it marked the end of her freedom.
“Mama . . .”
“Excellent. You look quite the part,” the duchess said, unaware that this was exactly what Margaret wanted to avoid. “Now, let us go downstairs and have your likeness taken before you manage to spoil it.”
She was to be captured for posterity by Mr. Jabez Hughes, as recommended by Louise. With a growing sense of unreality, Margaret watched the photographer fussing over his camera and all its associated paraphernalia on the orchestra dais of the ballroom. The spot where she was to pose was marked by a huge chalked cross, and the man had measured the distance between this and the camera equipment obsessively, several times making the most minuscule of adjustments. The backdrop consisted of several screens depicting what looked like rather tasteless dark-green curtains, and the obligatory cardboard pillar to support her supposedly fragile feminine form.
Ha! She’d like to see a man spending the day carting about a ton of crinolines and petticoats, squashed into a corset that barely let him breathe, never mind eat. Unable to rest his legs properly for fear of exposing his delicate ankles, and being forced to glide rather than totter, while keeping his head up and shoulders back at all times, he would need more than a flimsy paper pillar to lean on. One hour, never mind a day, of this would force any man to reconsider his use of the epithet the weaker sex!
It seemed to Margaret to take only slightly less time to have her photograph taken than it would have to have her portrait painted. It was gone twelve when she and Mama were assisted into their coach for the short drive to Buckingham Palace, ridiculously premature for a reception that did not commence until three, especially since they were forbidden entry before half past one. But in this, as in every other aspect of the day, Mama was proved right. The carriages containing that day’s quota of debutantes and assorted female relatives who would present them were so numerous as to have almost stopped the traffic in the Mall. To add to the mayhem, crowds of onlookers, in a wonderful assortment of equipages from drover’s carts to sporting carriages, occupied the space on either side of the main procession, their passengers peering at the debutantes as if they were animals in a zoo. Several bold pedestrians even pressed their noses against the carriage windows to get a closer look.
Margaret’s relief when they finally arrived at Buckingham Palace was short-lived. Their progress through the series of hot, stifling antechambers towards the Presence Chamber was tortuous. The atmosphere was hushed, expectant, crackling with tension as mamas fussed over gowns and feathers and trains and veils, and daughters stood rigid and flushed but unable to use their fans for fear of disturbing their coiffure or dropping their wilting bouquets. When her tummy rumbled, the noise seemed like a thunder-clap, drawing the horrified attention of everyone around her.
“Margaret!” her mother hissed. “Have you no self-control?”
“It is precisely because I have exercised self-control that my tummy is complaining. I have eaten precisely nothing all day.”
“For a very good reason. There are no facilities of any sort here,” Mama said pointedly.
Was a debutante expected to have rigid control of her waterworks as well as her demeanour? Margaret thought better of inquiring. In truth, as the hour of her debut approached, she was fighting a very strong urge to flee. Casting a critical eye over the other debutantes confirmed that she did indeed look exactly like them. Were any of them feeling as she did? She tried to tell herself that it was simply a ceremony to be got through, but she knew it was much more significant than that.
“It is almost three,” Mama said, twitching at the lace of Margaret’s gown. “The Lord Chamberlain has informed me that we will be among the first to be called. I hope I don’t need to remind you of the need to deliver an impeccable performance.”
Like one of those dogs which jumped through burning hoops, Margaret thought. Only she was wearing her hoops. “All this effort, just so that I can curtsy to the queen, which I have done any number of times before.”
“You know perfectly well that it is about much more than that.”
“Before I make my entrance in this absurd outfit, I’m not out. After I’ve minced my way along the Presence Chamber and been kissed by Her Majesty, I am out,” Margaret said, in a futile attempt to quell her nerves with sarcasm. “Does the queen have some magical powers that I am as yet unaware of?”
“Don’t be so absurd. It’s a rite of passage, marking your transition from carefree girl to young lady of substance. The carte-de-visite with your photograph from this morning is quite literally your passport into society. I thought you understood that.”
“I do, all too horribly well.” If she made some sort of faux pas, would it make the ceremony null and void? As she waited for one of the many lords in waiting to summon her into the royal presence, the rebellious little voice in her head that forever accompanied her, urged Margaret to do just that. But that would reflect badly on Mama, and in any case, she didn’t really believe that failing to curtsy low enough or stepping on her train would damage her as a matrimonial prize.
A ripple of excitement coursed through the waiting throng as the two doors to the Presence Chamber were opened. The proceedings were about to commence. It was too late for anything now, save to steel herself to get through it without a hitch.
One of the lords in waiting began to organise the queue according to the list he carried. “Your Grace, you have the honour of being first, at Her Majesty’s behest,” he said, and Margaret and Mama were ushered forward.
Despite the fact that she had been in the queen’s presence countless times, Margaret felt a sheen of cold perspiration break out at the back of her neck. Her heart began to thump. At Mama’s urging, she let down the train, which she had been holding carefully over her left arm, and another lord in waiting used his ceremonial wand to spread it out behind her, while another intoned her name.
“Remember what you have been practicing, and all will be well,” Mama whispered.
Margaret took her first step forward onto the red carpet. The large feathers on her head nodded, her veil threatened to unravel her coiffure, and her crinoline swayed from side to side. Though she had practiced walking with a starched tablecloth around her shoulders many times, she still felt like a very ungainly ship in the grip of a gathering storm.
Mama had not warned her that the Presence Chamber would be so crowded. There was a sea of courtiers, the most senior of whom was the Lord Chamberlain in his full wig and gown. In addition to the numerous lords in waiting in their silk knee breeches, there were equerries and gentlemen in waiting surrounding the royal party in full regalia, their chests swathed in sashes and braid, glittering with honours and medals. Ladies-in-waiting took up more space with their feathers and crinolines, making the passageway to the dais hazardously narrow.
“More slowly,” Mama hissed out of the corner of her mouth as Margaret began the short journey.
She didn’t see Louise at first, for her friend was standing to one side, partly obscured by her elder sister. But as Margaret got to within a step of the dais and Mama presented her, Louise adjusted her position and wiggled her eyebrows.
Margaret bit her lip as the nervous giggle formed. Dear heavens, surely Louise would not actually wink, as she had threatened. But, no, Louise prided herself on her public poise; she would never do anything so risky.
Margaret creaked carefully into her full court curtsy, reciting the instructions in her head. Drop low enough so that her knee almost touched the ground. Hold. Count to three. Bow for three. Eyes on the ground. Keep your balance. Hold on to your bouquet. Her knees trembled, and her nose itched with the urge to sneeze. She could feel Louise’s encouraging gaze on her, and Mama’s, too, which gave her the will she needed to remain perfectly in control. Was she close enough to the queen? Low enough for her petite majesty to reach her cheek? Goodness, how much longer must she hold this pose?
At last, the queen bent forward and brushed her cheek with the kiss, an honour reserved for the elite few. Finally, Margaret was permitted to rise, which she did as Mama had instructed, as if a rope were attached to her head pulling her straight up.
The closing stage of the ceremony required her to pay her respects to each of the royal party. Bertie was there, though no Alix, presumably excused because of her condition. Margaret made a deep curtsy to the Prince of Wales, and then moved on. Princess Helena was next, looking very unlike the Lenchen she knew, stiff and regal in her formal gown. Margaret reached Louise and despite herself, she smiled as she curtsied. Nothing could detract from her friend’s elegant beauty. The smile Louise bestowed on her as she rose from her curtsy was fleeting but warm, making Margaret glow with pride, for she had passed the test, and no-one had higher standards than Lou. Not even Mama.
“Well done.”
Another of Louise’s talents, her ability to speak with her mouth closed. Margaret dare not acknowledge the words, concentrating on making her way backwards out of the room, her gaze fixed towards the queen.
Another lord in waiting expertly folded her train and hung it over her left arm and the ordeal was over. Buoyed with success, Margaret beamed at her mother as soon as she had left the Presence Chamber. “I did it.”
“Well done,” Mama said, unconsciously echoing Louise’s words. “Congratulations, you are now officially out in society.”
The words made her spirits plummet. Out in society. On the market. And firmly set on a well-worn path that had only one destination. Marriage.