Montagu House, London, June 1865
THE DRAWING-ROOM WAS ONE OF Margaret’s favourites in the London town house. The cornicing, the walls, and the woodwork were all painted white which, combined with the views of the garden, gave it a relaxed feel. As she hovered outside the door today, however, she didn’t feel at all calm. She had been summoned and had no idea why. Bracing herself, she opened the door, only to discover to her dismay that both her parents were present.
“Sit down,” Mama said, indicating one of the chairs between them.
Margaret did so, trying to smile. “This all looks rather ominous.”
“No, no, I have some good news to impart. Your mother and I have identified a suitable husband for you.”
Papa smiled at her encouragingly, but Margaret, for once, was lost for words. A husband had been found for her? She wondered where, exactly. Hiding in the attics? Wandering the streets desperately searching for a red-haired bride?
“Well?” Papa was looking at her expectantly. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
“I didn’t think it would happen quite so quickly.”
“To be perfectly honest,” Mama said, “neither did we, but the ‘Titian-haired breath of fresh Scotch air,’ as the press have it, has defied the odds.”
Margaret dearly wished she had not. Shocked, she stared dumbly at her parents.
“Don’t you want to know who the lucky gentleman is?” Mama asked.
No, she did not, for that would make it real. But Mama and Papa were looking delighted with themselves, and it wasn’t as if their purpose in bringing her to London was a secret. She pinned a smile to her face. “Who is it?”
“Come,” Mama said, smiling encouragingly, “surely you must be able to guess?”
Guess! Was this some sort of bizarre parlour game? Margaret felt sick. Of the many eligible men she had been introduced to, she couldn’t think of any she’d want as a husband, or even a single one who had indicated that he’d like her to be his wife. “No, I give in,” she said.
“Oh, for goodness sake! It is Lord Rufus Ponsonby.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped. Surely she had misheard. Lord Rufus Ponsonby was that pompous man with the irritating little cough whose smile would freeze boiling water.
“Ponsonby, the Earl of Killin,” her father repeated. “You’ll be a countess, mistress of a castle set on the banks of Loch Tay. Of course it’s a bit run-down, in need of your dowry to fix it up, and the Killin title isn’t as prestigious as ours, but it’s a venerable one. And as for his side of the bargain—well, it’s what I would call serendipity. Our estates have lots of sheep. He has woollen mills. In more ways than one, it will be a marriage made in heaven. So, what do you say?” he concluded with a rare smile. “Haven’t your mother and I done well by you?”
Horrified, knowing her feelings would be writ large across her face, Margaret prevaricated. “I had no idea he was interested.”
“Why would you? He’s a perfect gentleman; he wouldn’t dream of fixing his intentions with you until he’d spoken to me. I’m very glad he did. Just between ourselves, he was already in our top five.”
“You actually had a list?”
“Choosing your husband is the single most important decision we have to make for you as parents, and we set about it with due diligence.”
Margaret tried to imagine her parents, closeted together in Papa’s study, working their way through the runners and riders, but this was no laughing matter. Whether or not she and her prospective suitors shared any interests or, heaven forfend, found each other attractive or even liked each other would not have been taken into consideration.
“What does that pained expression mean? Come on, out with it.”
Papa’s tone was considerably less indulgent now. She braced herself. “I am so sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t like Killin.”
“You don’t like him?” Papa’s face was set, his expression forbidding now. “There is plenty to like about him, is there not, Charlotte?”
Taking her cue, Mama launched into a rhapsody about Killin and all his husbandly qualities.
Margaret couldn’t argue with any of them. “It’s the way he clears his throat,” she exclaimed when her mother finished her encomium. “Just before he speaks, he makes this really irritating noise—”
“Margaret! You do realise that is the most preposterous—”
“I don’t like him, Mama, and I’m certain he doesn’t like me either. Or if he does, he’s certainly done an excellent job of concealing the fact. He is so—so cold.”
“You mean he does not wear his heart on his sleeve as you do. A modicum of reserve is no bad thing.”
“He has vast reservoirs of it! Enough to drown me. Please, I beg you don’t make me—”
“Make you! You are not some foolish heroine in a melodrama. There is no question of my making you do anything.” Brows drawn fiercely together, Papa got to his feet. “The law of the land gives me the right to insist you marry any man of my choosing. I am not a despot, however, but a father wishing to do his best by a daughter who should understand her duty to the family by now.” He glowered. “I have found you an eminently suitable husband, whose family interests perfectly complement ours. What I expect from you is compliance and gratitude, not disrespect and disobedience.”
“Papa! I am neither of those things.”
“I beg to differ, Margaret. You are also immature and overly dramatic. To speak so defiantly—”
“No, no, Papa, I would not dream of— I did not mean—” Margaret broke off, tears smarting her eyes. “I am perfectly aware that I must marry, but—”
“I am pleased to hear that.” Her father cut her short. “This betrothal has, for reasons I cannot fathom, come as a surprise to you. You are very young for your age compared to your sister. I will make some allowance for that, and you in turn must trust me when I assure you that you will thank your mother and me when you understand the many advantages of this match.”
“I can already see the advantages, but—”
“As for this irrational dislike you claim, that is stuff and nonsense. You barely know the man. I am convinced you will think very differently when you do. Trust that your mother and I know best. Now, if we are finished, I have other urgent business to attend to.”
“Let me talk to Margaret. There is no need to detain you further,” Mama said, accompanying him to the drawing-room door, where they whispered together for a moment.
“Mama,” Margaret exclaimed as soon as the door was closed behind her father, “please . . .”
“No more. You have said quite enough.” The duchess’s pretty mouth firmed as her expression hardened.
Margaret could almost feel the shackles being locked and bolted into place around her heart. “But you don’t understand. I haven’t explained myself properly.”
“Explained what, precisely? Why you have decided to take an obtuse aversion to a well-respected gentleman of excellent character and means? Are you setting yourself up as a superior judge of character to the duke?”
“No, but . . .”
“Or myself, perhaps? You think that I don’t know you, my own daughter, well enough to judge the type of man who would best suit you as a husband? You have made your mind up without giving Killin the benefit of the doubt. The man is doing you the honour of offering for your hand, and you won’t even consider his proposal. Do you think that fair?”
“No, Mama,” Margaret said, mortified. “I’m sorry for my outburst.”
“Very well. We will put that behind us. I trust that we now understand each other perfectly. You have approximately two hours to regain your composure and to reconcile yourself to the fact that your future husband is on his way to make his declaration as we speak. I trust you will contrive to give Killin a significantly more positive response to his proposal than the one you have treated us to.”