THE HEAT IN THE CROWDED drawing-room was stifling. Charlotte abhorred musical soirées such as this. As the latest tone-deaf young lady brought her demolition of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” to an abrupt close, the duchess joined in with the round of applause. Unfortunately, relief made her, along with the rest of the audience, overenthusiastic in their acclamation. Her heart sank when the young lady resumed her seat and began to rustle through her sheets of music.
Flicking open her fan, Charlotte leaned towards her daughter, seated next to her. “I have a theory,” she whispered, “that the less talent a young lady possesses, the more protracted her performance.”
Margaret gave a snort of laughter. “I think it just feels that way. If it were indeed the case, I would be obliged to perform from dawn till dusk.”
In fact, Margaret had a rather charming singing voice but a horror of public performance. It was ironic that Walter thought his second daughter someone perpetually seeking attention, when she was a wallflower by inclination.
“Are you feeling the heat, Mama? Shall I see if I can secure you a glass of lemonade?”
Thoughtful, too, Charlotte thought guiltily, shaking her head. “Louise was right—turquoise is your colour,” she said, eyeing Margaret’s new ball gown with some satisfaction. It was a deceptively simple creation worked up from the sketch made by the princess, the fabric of the skirt falling in deep pleats, lacking the swags and ruffles her daughter detested, a bertha collar of cream lace the only adornment. “Your friend has an excellent eye for what suits you.”
“Thank you, Mama. Molly had to adjust it a little, for my waist is now a mere eighteen inches, the smallest it has ever been.”
As was Margaret’s appetite, which had all but disappeared. “I think eighteen is svelte enough,” Charlotte said, adding, “Oh, dear heavens!” as, to her horror, a violinist stepped up to join the pianist.
The pair scraped and tinkled into action. Beside her, Margaret rolled her eyes, but as she leaned in to comment, her face fell and she stiffened. “Here comes Killin,” she said. “Again.”
Charlotte watched her daughter transform into a rigid effigy, her hands clasped tightly together, quite literally bracing herself. She could not understand this visceral reaction to the man, but it was painful to witness. As Killin manoeuvred himself carefully into the empty chair beside Margaret, Charlotte felt the girl shrink towards her. The movement was instinctive; she doubted that Margaret herself was even aware of it.
The performing duo launched into something utterly unrecognisable and she tried to catch her daughter’s eye; but Margaret, her gaze fixed determinedly to the front, was no longer listening. Looking at her fixed smile and tense shoulders made Charlotte’s own jaw clench in sympathy.
Killin was taking the opportunity to study his prize, his mouth pursed into a disapproving line. He had most likely read that vile piece in the Illustrated Times. The press really were beastly when they had some poor soul in their sights. There could be no denying that she and Walter were partly to blame for the remorseless hounding, however, though the duke would dispute that fact. Margaret’s exile last year, coupled with her father’s tight-lipped response when anyone asked after her health, had signalled to everyone that the Duke of Buccleuch’s daughter had committed some heinous crime. Margaret had committed a major faux pas, but with the benefit of hindsight, their reaction had been ill-judged. They ought to have brazened it out. At least if Margaret had remained in public view, the vilest of the allegations would have been proved demonstrably to be false.
Walter was still very set on this match, all the more so because Margaret had done her level best to thwart him. And it was an excellent match. There was nothing objectionable about Killin. Since Margaret’s return to London at the beginning of the year, she had not once faltered in her efforts to please. Her desire to fulfil her obligations was clearly genuine, so why did she have to work so hard to embrace them? Ought a mother to ask? But what good would it do, when the die was cast? When they were married, Margaret and Killin would reach an amicable accommodation, as couples invariably did.
A final discordant screech from the violin brought the duet to a merciful close. “Well, that was most uplifting,” Charlotte said, getting quickly to her feet in order to prevent another encore.
“I have not a musical ear as you do, Your Grace, and so must bow to your superior judgement,” Killin said primly. “I believe that a cold collation is to be served in the dining room. If I may offer to escort you, in His Grace’s absence? And your daughter, of course.”
“We are much obliged,” Charlotte replied, “but I notice that Margaret’s flounce is torn and must be pinned. If you will excuse us, we will join you shortly.”
Taking a firm hold of her daughter’s arm, she headed for the ladies’ retiring room.
“Mama, my gown hasn’t any flounces.”
“If music be the food of love, then that performance has made me bilious.” The retiring room was happily empty. “I am reliably informed that after supper our hostess plans to warble her way through a selection of operatic arias. Too much of a good thing, methinks. We shall wait here while our carriage is summoned.”
“But Killin is expecting to take us in to supper.”
“We shall take the risk for once of disappointing him. He has been most assiduous in his attentions.”
“Extremely,” her daughter replied with an acid smile. “Every time I turn around, there he is, assiduously paying attention.”
Charlotte stifled a laugh. “When you are married, you will likely find that he becomes considerably less assiduous.”
“Oh, I do hope so.”
The heartfelt words startled them both. “When you have a family,” Charlotte said bracingly, “you will likely spend most of your time in the country, for fresh air is what young children need. You certainly thrived on it. I expect that Killin’s business interests will keep him occupied elsewhere, so for the better part of the year, you will hardly see him.”
Contrary to her hopes, Margaret was not at all reassured by this. “I have a horrible premonition that Killin’s progeny will be tediously correct and rather boring.”
“I doubt it, not with you as their mother. In point of fact, there is a great deal to be said for having a tediously correct and rather boring child.”
“Then I will name my first daughter Victoria in the hope of guaranteeing that.”
Seeing the spark of laugher in Margaret’s eyes, Charlotte permitted herself a small, complicit smile.
Margaret stared down at her gown, pleating the silk of the skirt between her fingers. “Mama, you and my father do a great deal of charitable work, don’t you?”
“We are both very much aware of our position in society,” Charlotte replied, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “We feel it is our duty to do what we can by serving on committees, raising funds, sponsoring causes, that kind of thing.”
“I have been thinking that I would also like to do something useful. I have so much time on my hands between engagements and nothing to do with it, save kick my heels at home. I know you will say I should read an improving book or some other worthy endeavour but . . .”
“Go on,” Charlotte said warily.
“There is a parson, Reverend Beckwith, who lives with his sister in Lambeth.”
“How on earth did you come to meet a clergyman from Lambeth?”
“I met him through Lochiel.”
Colour stained her daughter’s cheeks. She wasn’t lying, Charlotte was sure of it. Margaret never lied, but there was more to the affair than she was admitting. However, there was no more respectable and trustworthy man than Donald Cameron of Lochiel. “You think this parson can provide you with a useful occupation? Does he wish you to help him with his charity works?”
“Father Sebastian—that is how he is known there—hasn’t actually asked for my help. His parish is near Waterloo Bridge Station, and he lives with his sister, who is a widow. I hoped that I might assist her in some practical capacity.”
“Practical?” Charlotte frowned. “Are you thinking of emulating the charitable work that Lady Cavendish does, soup-kitchens and the like? It is most commendable, but hardly the kind of endeavour you should be getting embroiled in while your future is hanging in the balance. Frankly, Margaret, I am not at all sure that Killin would approve.”
“I am quite certain he would not. In any case, Mama, I would rather not tag along in Lucy Cavendish’s wake. She is so frightfully clever and just a little bit intimidating, if I am honest, and I don’t want to be ordered about like a junior officer.”
“Margaret, really! You are welcome to assist me in raising funds for one of my own favoured charities.”
“No! I beg pardon, Mama, but I’d prefer to do something off my own bat. If Mrs. Elmhirst—that is Father Sebastian’s sister—if she is willing to take me on, then I could go to Lambeth, not as Lady Margaret but as plain Miss Scott, ready and willing to learn and to do whatever is needed—do you see, Mama?”
What Charlotte saw was a daughter eager to contribute, and where was the harm in that, if it helped her to cope with the restrictions that would be placed on her for the rest of her life? There was a glint of excitement in her eyes that had been absent for a long time. By the end of the year, assuming Killin came up to scratch, Margaret would be the latest in a long line of female sacrifices to the family weal. She deserved this much. And if she was in Lambeth, being useful incognito, then there would not be the additional worry of the press latching on to the story.
“Very well. If I can be assured that this Mrs. Elmhirst is a respectable person, then I see no reason to object.”
“Thank you! I am certain she is, because Father Sebastian is a most respectable man. Indeed, he gave up a parish in Cheltenham to come to London and work with the poor and Lochiel says that such a post would be more than comfortable.”
Margaret had met the brother but not the sister. A vague warning bell rang in Charlotte’s head, but the man had Lochiel’s approval, and Charlotte, herself an excellent judge of character, would take a view on Mrs. Elmhirst when she met her. It was highly likely that Margaret would quickly tire of traipsing about after the no doubt earnest and well-meaning parson and his sister, but at least she’d have had some respite from the strain she was under. And Killin would be none the wiser.
“Then it is agreed,” she said. “You may send Mrs. Elmhirst a note asking her to call on me at her earliest convenience. If she passes muster, I will smooth the waters with your father.”