YOU’VE LET ME DOWN. You’ve let me down. You’ve let me down.
Margaret stared sightlessly out the window of the first-class carriage, her father’s words chiming mockingly in time with the rhythmic pistons of the Scotch Express, darkening her already severely chastened mood. The huge locomotive expelled enormous puffs of smoke as it powered north, giving her only fleeting glimpses of the towns and countryside they passed through. She was heading home to Dalkeith. As little as twenty-four hours ago, the prospect would have filled her with delight, but the memory of that dreadful interview with her father made the prospect of anything other than her imminent demise utterly unappealing.
If she died, it would at least lend credence to the version of events her parents had announced at last night’s ball. A sudden illness that required lengthy recuperation involving fresh air and seclusion, apparently. She would prefer something quick and painless. If the train crashed—but, no, she didn’t want anyone else to be harmed as a result of her folly, especially not dear Molly, sitting stoically opposite her.
You’ve let me down. You’ve let me down. You’ve let me down, the pistons taunted remorselessly. Margaret put her hands over her ears and bowed her head, her eyes smarting with unshed tears. Despite Lochiel’s shocked reaction, until she entered the kitchen of Montagu House last night, she hadn’t realised quite what a dishevelled picture she presented. Papa’s austere butler had almost dropped the salver of glasses he was carrying. The stunned silence of the servants—kitchen maids, porters, chambermaids, and footmen—told its own story. And as for Molly—the look of horror on her maid’s face made it clear that at the very least she thought Margaret had been ravished.
But worse was to come. She had been forced to stand before her father in her tattered dress, looking and smelling, as Molly had forthrightly informed her, as if she’d been dragged through a midden backwards. Papa wouldn’t meet her eyes, fixing his gaze on the wall about a foot above her head. The way he’d spoken, the clipped tones, barely able to contain his fury, made her quake in terror.
The memory made her shudder. She had tried to stick to her resolve to explain her actions, but she had not been permitted to speak, not even to apologise or beg forgiveness, far less admit the error of her ways. He didn’t want to hear her lily-livered excuses, he’d said. No amount of self-justifying waffle could explain her dereliction of duty. Having failed dismally to fulfil her only purpose in life, he considered her redundant. He may as well have placed a black cap on his head when he sentenced her to exile in Dalkeith for an indeterminate period.
When Margaret had finally been dismissed, emerging from the study emotionally flayed and reeling, Mama and Victoria were waiting outside in the hallway. Her aching heart had leapt, thinking they were preparing to plead her case, beg her father to display some mercy or simply offer some succour. But they were waiting only to reinforce her ostracized status, pointedly turning their backs on her. Mama, with her handkerchief to her nose, informed her that she stank of the gutter.
Bowing her head in shame, it was only then that Margaret noticed that having lost her reputation, her family’s good name, and her bridegroom, she had also somehow mislaid her mother’s bracelet along the way. The one Papa had given her to mark their own betrothal and lent especially for the occasion. Ignominy heaped upon ignominy! Could her fall from grace get any worse?
“We’ll be coming in to York soon, my lady,” Molly said, dragging Margaret back to the present. “It’s our only refreshment stop, so it would be sensible to take advantage of the facilities, if you take my meaning.”
“Thank you, I will, but I don’t want anything to eat. You and that poor footman in the corridor, dispatched all this way just to chaperone us, will need some sustenance, though.”
“Jarvis has his own sandwiches. You must be hungry, for we left King’s Cross at ten and it’s almost two now. You had nothing for breakfast but a slice of bread, and you left half of that.”
“I’ve lost my appetite and I don’t think I’ll ever regain it.”
“Come now,” Molly said with a forced smile, “the situation is dire but not as desperate as that, surely?” Reaching for the basket which the porter had placed in the luggage rack above her, she opened it. “Take a look at this now. Luckily there’s no need for us to put ourselves at the mercy of the railway company’s catering, if that’s what’s worrying you. It was a bit of a scrabble, for we left in such a rush that I’d hardly time to pack our portmanteaus, but Monsieur Henri very kindly put together a picnic for us. See, there’s some chicken in aspic, and a big slice of that pork pie that you’re so fond of.”
Until now Margaret had been too shocked and shaken to cry, but this small thoughtful gesture, the first since she had returned to Montagu House last night, touched her heart. She burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Molly. I’m completely ruined, and I have dragged you down with me.”
Her maid pursed her lips, handing her a handkerchief. “There’s no use in crying over spilt milk. Truth is, I never really took to London; it’s far too big and noisy. I’ll be glad to get home to Scotland.”
“That’s a sweet thing to say, whether you mean it or not.” Margaret dabbed her eyes, sniffing. “I don’t deserve you.”
“What you don’t deserve is to be treated like a criminal, in my humble opinion.”
“Oh, Molly, if you could have seen Papa’s face. I felt as if I was getting smaller by the second. By the time he’d finished with me, I was no bigger than a mouse, I swear.”
“Even a wee mouse needs to eat, my lady. I know I’m speaking out of turn, but your father has no notion how hard you try to please him.”
“He thinks I don’t try nearly hard enough.”
Molly clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Och, away and boil your heid! That’s nonsense.”
“Boiling ma heid might knock some sense into it.” The train was slowing down to pull into York station. Margaret’s head ached from lack of sleep. Despite her protestations, her tummy rumbled. She smiled weakly at Molly. “Perhaps I’ll have a small slice of pie. It will give me the strength to start thinking about how on earth I am going to atone for the terrible damage I’ve wreaked.”