Dalkeith Palace, Scotland, Monday, Christmas Day, 1865
THE LARGE ENTRANCE HALLWAY AT Dalkeith was cold, the marble-tiled floor missing the Christmas tree which usually stood proudly at its centre. The banisters of the staircase were bare of the garlands of greenery which adorned them at this time of year, filling the hallway with the scent of pine. The table in the grand dining room remained swathed in Holland covers. The silver punch bowl was still locked away on a shelf in the butler’s pantry. There was no yule log burning in the hearth of the drawing-room.
Margaret had always loved Christmas at Dalkeith. The house was filled with laughter and chatter, games and feasting. Even Mama and Papa let their hair down a little. All her brothers and sisters made an effort to be together for the festive season, with their various spouses and offspring. They had gathered at Drumlanrig this year. Mary was still there. Her eldest brother, William; his wife, Louisa; and their two little boys had arrived there for an extended stay last week along with her brother John and his new wife, Cecily, and the usual collection of aunts, uncles, and cousins who made a point of travelling to Scotland to celebrate Christmas. Right up until yesterday, Margaret had hoped for a last-minute invitation to join them, but nothing had been forthcoming. No letters. No gifts. No word.
Louise had been wrong for once. Her family were perfectly capable of leaving her all alone at Dalkeith today of all days. This morning she had attended church with the rest of the household, sitting alone in her father’s pew for the Christmas service, feeling horribly exposed by her isolation, too embarrassed to join in the hymns with her usual enthusiasm. After church was when Mama usually handed out her gifts to the village children. She had asked Mrs. Mack to act in her stead this year. The housekeeper had been clearly uncomfortable performing the task, the snub to Margaret too painfully obvious to be ignored. So much so that Margaret had denied herself her annual treat of watching the children unwrap the wooden toys and barley sugar twists before telling them one of her stories. She had written a story for Mary as usual, and sent it to Drumlanrig, but she doubted her sister would be permitted to acknowledge the gift, even if she received it.
“There you are!” The green baize door to the servants’ quarters opened and Molly appeared. “What are you doing standing there like a wee lost soul?”
“I’ve decided to go for a walk.”
“It’s snowing outside. You’ll freeze.”
“I have my cloak and my mittens,” Margaret said, “and I’m wearing my sturdiest boots. I need some fresh air.”
“It’ll be dinner-time soon. There’s roast goose and clootie dumpling.” Molly crossed the hallway to stand beside her, staring at the space where the Christmas tree should have been. “We’ve a tree downstairs. I spoke to Mrs. Mack. It’s not right that you eat your Christmas dinner alone. We’d be delighted to have you eat with us in the servants’ hall.”
Touched, Margaret blinked furiously as tears started in her eyes. “Oh, Molly, that’s so kind, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not? You’ll be miserable on your own.”
“Not as miserable as I’ll be if I think you’re going to spend the day fretting about me,” Margaret said, forcing herself to smile, “especially when there is no need. I’m perfectly used to taking my dinner alone after all this time, and, anyway, you know that my presence below stairs would put a damper on the occasion.”
“But—”
“No, Molly. I might pop down later for the sing-song as usual, though. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
“But what are you going to do with yourself in the meantime?”
“I told you, take a walk. Pay Spider a visit. Perhaps I’ll build a snowman.” Margaret gave her maid a brief hug, then a small push. “‘Go and enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”
Outside, the snow was falling far more thickly now, though a glance up at the sullen sky showed that it would probably clear in half an hour or so. Deciding to wait it out, she headed down the hill, by-passing the stables, for the sanctuary of the orangery.
Set on the banks of the River Esk, it was the centrepiece of the formal parterre gardens and one of Margaret’s favourite spots. The circular building was neoclassical in style, with an elaborately moulded cupola roof and ornately carved columns. The boiler housed under the tiled floor, installed by Papa to heat the exotic plants and fruits grown inside, kept the place warm even on a bitter winter day like today. The multicoloured parakeets squawked a greeting as she closed the glass door gently behind her, breathing in the smell of the warm, damp earth mingled with the lush greenery of the palms. She could be in a jungle, far away in Africa or South America, save that outside snow lay thick on the ground.
Watching the Esk burble and tumble its way under the wide arch of the stone bridge, Margaret traced the path of the snowflakes as they landed gently on the windowpane before melting. This was a day like any other day, she told herself, but it wasn’t true. If she wanted to torture herself, she could imagine almost to the minute what particular festive ritual or custom her family would be following at Drumlanrig. And Louise, too, at Windsor with the assembled royal family, trying to coax the queen into enjoying the day without lapsing into melancholy, a task that was beyond even Lou. Would she take Margaret’s flippant advice to sneak downstairs and join in the fun in the servants’ hall for a little light relief? Of all the royal children, Louise would be the most welcome, for she had that rare talent of being able to adapt herself to and charm whatever company she kept. Molly would have primed the staff to expect Margaret later, but she wasn’t sure she had the heart to brave the unasked questions and awkward silences which might ensue. Christmas Day wasn’t any other day. To be so very alone, so completely shunned on a day which was supposed to be joyful, when families were supposed to be united and loving, was proving difficult to bear. In bustling, crowded London, where the Season revolved around an endless whirl of tea-parties, soirées, and balls, she had often longed for some solitude. Be careful what you wish for, M.
Enough! Unlike the queen, she was not going to fall into a melancholy, lamenting Christmases past. What she needed, taking her cue from Mr. Scrooge, was to make sure that her Christmas future was different. She was tired of feeling that her life was suspended until further notice. She was tired of being abandoned and ignored. It was time to take matters into her own hands and act. She wanted to make amends, to prove that she had changed, that she had grown up and was ready to embrace her fate, though how she was to do that when her father decreed enforced inaction was quite a quandary.
It was becoming stiflingly hot in the orangery, so she decided to visit Spider. Outside, her footprints had already been obliterated by the snow. Wrapping her cloak more tightly around her, Margaret followed the path through the archway that led to the inner courtyard of the stable block. She could hear the whinnying of the horses coming from the boxes which lined two sides of the cobble-stoned square. One of the stable cats brushed past her legs, disappearing into the coach-house where the huge outmoded travelling coach belonging to the previous duke was stored. Margaret had never met her grandfather, who died when Papa was only twelve, but if his coach, embellished with gilt and lined with red velvet, was anything to go by, he had been a man with a very defined sense of his own importance. One summer, when Louise had been permitted pay a rare visit to Dalkeith, the pair of them foolishly tried to harness the coach up to two of the Shire horses. Fortunately they had been caught by Papa’s head groom before they could do any damage either to the coach or the animals. Unfortunately, her elder sister had witnessed their escapade and felt obliged to report the heinous crime to Mama. Louise, she recalled, had put salt in Victoria’s lemonade at dinner that evening, though naturally Margaret got the blame. At this moment in time, Lou would probably be getting changed for dinner at Windsor. Was she thinking of Margaret? If she was, she would be thinking she was feeling far too sorry for herself!
The fountain in the centre of the stable-yard was frozen over. A burst of raucous male laughter from the buildings opposite the clock tower, where the grooms and stable hands had their quarters, shattered the silence.
Margaret hurried towards her pony’s stall. Spider whinnied a greeting, his muzzle soft on her palm. She rubbed her cheek against his flank, breathing in the familiar, comfortable equine smell. “Here you go, old boy,” she whispered, fishing a carrot from her pocket. “It’s not much, I know, but merry Christmas anyway.” The pony whickered, making her smile. “You’re very welcome.”
Back outside, she followed the carriage-way as it climbed through the woodland to the crown of the hill and Montagu Bridge, built to celebrate the marriage of her great-grandfather, the third duke. There was a portrait of him by Gainsborough at Drumlanrig, which was one of her favourites, for not only did her great-grandfather have the same vivid red hair as she, he held a little dog in his arms that he was clearly very fond of.
Margaret leaned on the parapet, surveying Dalkeith Palace, standing proud on the hill across the narrow but steep valley. The bow windows of the drawing-room and, above it, the library were shuttered. The snow had stopped falling, but the steep-pitched roofs were white. It didn’t look like home at all from here but unwelcoming, cold, rather forbidding. Though in the basement she could see lights glowing from the servants’ hall.
She had been languishing here for five months. She could ride Spider anytime she chose, go for endless walks with the dogs, with no-one to chastise her for coming back late with muddy boots and wind-blown hair. But walking dogs and riding horses did not amount to a life lived.
Resuming her walk, she followed the sweep of the carriage-way past the house, and onwards towards the main entrance gates where St. Mary’s church lay in darkness. Generations of Montagus, Douglases, and Scotts had worshipped here, all of whom had assiduously done their level best to increase the family weal. They had given up their home to King George when he paid his historic state visit to Edinburgh, decamping to a hotel in Edinburgh. More recently, they had played host to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. They had served the county as members of Parliament. Papa served on a hundred committees, gave to a thousand charitable causes. He was responsible for the railway line into Dalkeith from Edinburgh. He had been instrumental in building bridges and roads, parochial schools, and any number of churches. Amo, “I Love,” was the Buccleuch family motto, and as far as Papa was concerned, it meant “I Love to Serve.”
She, too, would love to serve, but as a mere female, her purpose was neither practical nor philanthropic. Buccleuch women made strategic marriages, increasing their power and wealth, before breeding the next generation of dutiful progeny, raising them to do the same. That was what she’d been born to. That was her duty. Why did she find it so difficult to accept? Why couldn’t she simply do as her sister had done, and her mother before her, perform her role with grace and elegance and make the best of it?
Because I’m neither graceful nor elegant! Looking down at her soaked boots, feeling the damp hem of her cloak flapping about her ankles, and knowing that her hair would be a sodden mass of rebellious curls, Margaret couldn’t help but laugh at herself. Could one learn to be both? If she looked to Louise as an example rather than her sister, if she applied herself as she never had before, then surely it could be achieved. Though grace and elegance were not the issue, were they?
She walked down the main street, past the shuttered tollbooth and the busy Cross Keys Hotel, on past the Corn Exchange, shuddering involuntarily at the spot marking the site of the last public hanging there. At the railway station on the outskirts of town, which her father had steered through an Act of Parliament to construct, she huddled for shelter in the doorway of the ticket booth.
If she didn’t marry at all, she was destined to become what Louise feared most, the family hausfrau, as she called it. A maiden aunt, at the beck and call of her brothers and sisters and their offspring, shunted from pillar to post as required. She would be a perpetual guest in others’ homes, expected to be nothing but dutiful and grateful until the end of her days.
Exasperated, she scooped a handful of snow into a ball and hurled it across the tracks. What she wanted was to stop the questions endlessly circling around and around in her head. What she wanted was to prove to her parents that she was indeed fit for purpose, not a selfish, feckless child.
Could she play the role expected of her, as Rufus Ponsonby’s wife? She could never love him, but love wasn’t part of the bargain. You must resist the urge to let your heart steer your actions. Louise’s words had stung, but she was right. Margaret should be asking herself whether she could learn to respect him, to hold him in some sort of affection. Every instinct screamed a resounding no, but look where her instincts had landed her.
Duty involved sacrifice and hard work. Her sister had successfully managed it, albeit, in Victoria’s own words, with a determined effort. If she could find the strength of character to emulate her sister, she would be redeemed in everyone’s eyes. And if she was fortunate, she would be rewarded, as Victoria was about to be, with a family of her own, even if she cringed to think how that family would come about.
If Victoria wasn’t example enough, she could look to Louise. Bored senseless, deprived of her friends, denied a proper debut, forced to listen to the queen’s endless lamentations and outpourings of grief, Louise did so with such grace and restraint that her mother believed she relished the task. Lou vented her feelings in her letters to Margaret, and she enjoyed her own, private little acts of rebellion, but she was otherwise a stoic.
Yes, Louise was the example she would follow. She would accept her place in the world, and she would make the best of it. She would have to wrap her heart in chains, suppress her true self in order to do so, but she would do it.
I can do it, Margaret told herself, as she set off back through the snow towards Dalkeith Palace. Ex adversis dulcis. Ex adversitas felicitas. A favourite quote of her father’s. “From adversity comes strength and happiness.” Something else for her to heed. As soon as she got indoors she would write to her parents, and if they didn’t reply, she would write again and again until they took her seriously.
Turning in through the gates, she was surprised to see Molly rushing towards her, waving something in the air. “It’s a telegram, Lady Margaret,” she said, smiling. “From your father. It looks like they haven’t abandoned you after all.”
Margaret grabbed the envelope with a squeal of delight. It looked like opportunity had knocked sooner than she dared imagine!