October 1866
THE DAY WAS CONSIDERABLY ADVANCED when Margaret headed back to Powerscourt with Aoife dutifully padding along in her wake. She had walked farther than she had originally intended, tempted by the warm autumn sunshine to wander out to the deer park which Julia’s husband had established as a home for his rare Japanese sika breed.
She had read Louise’s letter several times now and still could not decide how to interpret it. Was her friend so concerned that her correspondence was being monitored by the queen’s overvigilant courtiers that she couldn’t comment on the concerns which had been at the forefront of her mind when they last met? Or was it simply the missive of a young, flighty woman with nothing more to worry about than party dresses and handsome new tutors, and no time for absent friends who had fallen from grace?
Louise was always at her most brittle and superficial when she was most unhappy. Margaret’s instincts told her that all was not well. She longed for the chance to speak to her, to comfort her, even if she had no sage advice to offer. But that would be impossible for the foreseeable future, and there was nothing to be gained by writing a letter that might not even be read or, worse, fall into the wrong hands. Whether their friendship would ever be rekindled was a question for the future. For now, their paths were heading in very different directions. Ha! If going round in ever-decreasing circles could be called a direction.
Her steps slowed, her booted feet kicking up the mulch of dried leaves and soft Irish soil of the woodland floor. She was sick of her endless, purposeless daily wandering. She had been at Powerscourt for three months now. The days trickled past, one much like another, like grains of sand in a bottomless hour-glass, as she sank more and more into a lethargic acceptance of her fate. Even the press seemed to have forgotten all about her—for Louise would surely have mentioned it, if there had been any adverse comment. She had taken to avoiding her reflection, fearing seeing a dumpy ugly duckling staring back at her, one who looked as if she had swallowed her own crinoline.
Kicking up another heap of leaves, she caught one as it fluttered down like a crinkly, mottled butterfly. Was she to pay for her refusal to do what was expected of her with a lifetime of listless inertia? She crumpled the leaf and dropped it onto the ground.
“No, I will not!” she shouted aloud, the sound reverberating through the trees. The time had come for her to take Julia’s advice and make the best of things. She was going to forgive herself for her mistakes and stop lamenting what might have been. Tomorrow was her twentieth birthday. As a gift to herself she would finally take up Julia’s offer to borrow a horse and go for a ride. Why should she continue to deny herself one of the great pleasures of her life!
Viscount Powerscourt was due home imminently. For the last two weeks, Julia had been a whirlwind of activity, preparing the house and gardens for her husband’s arrival. It was almost as if she thought that by proving to be the perfect chatelaine she would be rewarded with a child. Margaret hoped fervently that she got what she wished for. Julia’s situation was heartbreaking, though she endured it stoically; and whenever Margaret tried to raise the subject, she demurred. It must have cost her very dear to mention it in the first place.
Poor Julia was another person that Margaret was powerless to help. Though it might be a good idea, now she considered it, to make herself scarce while she and her husband tried to remedy their childless state. The very notion of playing gooseberry—no! In fact, the viscount’s arrival would be the perfect excuse for her to explore the country that was currently her home. Dublin was supposed to be beautiful, and then there was the seaside town of Bray nearby. As long as she took Breda with her, it would be perfectly in order. It was a very small step, but at least she was finally looking forward.
Entering the house through one of the side doors, Margaret was about to take the backstairs to her bedchamber with the intentions of sprucing herself up, when Aoife gave a loud, joyful bark and galloped for the main staircase. Exasperated and laughing, she gave chase all the way up to the first floor, where the dog, to her horror, bounded into the main saloon.
This was Powerscourt’s largest and most formal room. It had been used to entertain George the Fourth when he visited Ireland after his coronation, and was therefore considered sacrosanct. The armchair covered in red velvet, made specifically for His Majesty and known as the Throne, still stood in pride of place. Julia said the ornate saloon with its classical pillars and arched balcony made her feel as if she was visiting an art gallery, and Margaret couldn’t disagree. A series of niches boasted scenes painted by Wingfield’s apparently loathed younger brother, Lewis, who was, among other things, an artist. Full-size statues of semi-naked Greek and Roman goddesses stood sentinel between the pillars. In the far corner, incongruously, was a depiction of Lady Londonderry, the current viscount’s mother, whose presence was also marked by the large ebony sofa in the saloon, the coverings of which she had embroidered with Egyptian designs while on a sailing trip with her husband on the family cutter, according to the family mythology—of which there was a great deal.
Julia, whose only sewing ambition was to one day embroider a christening robe, never used this room, but today she was taking tea with a gentleman. It was not hard to deduce, from Aoife’s furiously wagging tail, that he was Lord Powerscourt, arrived two days early. His luxuriant beard covered most of his face and some of his shirt front, so bushy as to appear part of a stage costume. Suddenly remembering her dishevelled state, Margaret was on the point of retreat when Julia spotted her.
“Margaret, as you can see, my husband has arrived home earlier than expected. Come and meet him. Mervyn, this is Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott. Margaret, my husband.”
“How do you do, Lord Powerscourt?” Mortified, for her hair was hanging down her back and her gown was mud-spattered, Margaret dropped a curtsy.
Lord Powerscourt’s eyebrows were as bushy as his beard, yet his hair, which had receded though not yet entirely retreated from his head, sat in soft curls, like a baby’s. He had a good nose, neither delicate nor forceful, and his brown eyes reminded her of a spaniel. “It’s very good to meet you, Lady Margaret. I am indebted to you for keeping my wife company.”
“It has been a pleasure, my lord,” Margaret replied, feeling guiltily undeserving of any praise in that regard.
“Well now, sit down and join us.”
“Margaret will wish to get changed, won’t you, Margaret?”
“Oh, yes.” Responding to Julia’s plea, she started backing away. “I can’t sit here caked in mud.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Powerscourt exclaimed, “a sod of good Irish soil never hurt anybody.”
“But you will wish to catch up with Lady Julia, after being apart for so long.”
“There’s nothing urgent, is there?” Lord Powerscourt said. Then, when Julia shrugged defeatedly, he turned back to Margaret, indicating the chair next to him. “Please sit down. Your father owns many estates, I believe. I would value your opinion on my own humble abode.”