March 1867
AS MARGARET, ASTRIDE HER FAVOURITE chestnut mare, headed out through the main gates of the estate, Pennygael was champing at the bit. “You can have your head in a moment,” she said, keeping a tight rein. “Patience, girl.”
The day was overcast with what in Scotland would be called a smur of rain, and Breda would call a tear of mist coming in from the bog, but Margaret’s spirits were in direct contrast to the lowering sky. Heading through the deer park in the direction of the famous Powerscourt waterfall, she relaxed her grip on the reins and Pennygael’s stride lengthened. The ground was soft, the mare’s hooves drummed a muffled, rhythmic beat as Margaret leaned in, the wind catching at her hair and the skirts of her riding habit. The sweet scent of damp bracken and mulched leaves filled her nose, mingling with the smell of leather and horse sweat. A hawthorn hedge loomed, but Pennygael soared over it, her grey fetlocks just brushing the top, galloping on without missing a beat, slowing reluctantly only as the viscount’s newly planted woods loomed into view.
At the waterfall Margaret dismounted, leaving the horse to drink, while she took her favourite seat on a rock by the pool. The water was grey blue today, the weed on the boulders glinting brown and gold, mimicking the colours of the surrounding heavily wooded hills. The cascade pounded down a sheer rock escarpment, the central flume a powerful torrent of white water with many smaller rivulets tumbling over the jagged rocks on either side. A huge cloud of mist hung in the air and a thunderous roar drowned out all other sounds. This was by far her favourite place on the estate. The exhilarating power of the falls, the contrasting tranquillity of the pool, and the ever-changing beauty of the forested slopes never failed to entrance her, or to lift her spirits.
She could not claim to be happy, but she was busy, and that was enough. She had found a niche here at Powerscourt, and a purpose, which was so much more than she’d ever imagined possible. She had stopped railing at her exiled state, stopped questioning the rights and the wrongs of it, stopped asking herself when and how it would end, or if it ever would. Was that burying her head in the sand? Perhaps. But what was the alternative when she was powerless to influence the outcome? Unlike so many she had encountered, she was safe and well-fed, with a roof over her head. She was resolved to be patient, and in the meantime to continue to follow Julia’s lead in making the best of her lot.
IT WAS A SATURDAY, so the school was closed. Lord Powerscourt had left yesterday for London and the sale rooms, which meant that Margaret could safely ensconce herself in the octagon library and scribble away at her stories without fear of interruption. Julia would probably be indoors, too, working on her chair covers, since the weather had deteriorated markedly by the time Margaret stabled Pennygael. What his lordship insisted on referring to as Lady Powerscourt’s sitting room was one of the few stag-free chambers. Instead, two pairs of large and particularly ugly Sèvres pug dogs squatting on gold cushions sat on opposite ends of the mantelpiece, gazing out belligerently at all comers. When Margaret entered, Julia was sitting at the window beside her embroidery frame, the canvas for her latest work-in-progress chair cover stretched taut, the coloured wools laid out in a row on top of her sewing box.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Margaret said. The Berlin work cover on the frame was embroidered in a trellis pattern of diamond shapes in muted tones, with a violet, scallop-like flower in the centre of each. “This is so pretty. And the colours are very restful. How many have you completed so far?”
“This is only the third. I have another twenty-one to make. My legacy to Powerscourt,” Julia said. “Most likely my only one.”
Her tone was morose. Looking at her more closely, Margaret saw that her eyes were red-rimmed. “What is the matter?” she asked, sitting down on the sofa beside her and taking her hand.
“The usual. Another month, and still no sign of me being with child, and now Wingfield has gone off to London and heaven knows when he’ll be back.” A tear trickled down Julia’s cheek. Snatching her hand back, she found her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “We have been married for three years come April, and I have signally failed to find myself in an interesting condition. The matter wasn’t so urgent while Maurice was alive, but now he is gone, and Mervyn is becoming increasingly agitated at the thought of Lewis inheriting.” Julia sighed wearily. “Wingfield married me to produce an heir. It is the one thing he required of me, and I have let him down.”
“It takes two people to make a child, Julia, and Lord Powerscourt was away from home for six months.”
“He has been home since October. Four months! You’d think that would be time enough. The truth is, even when he is here he pays more attention to his collections,” Julia said bitterly. “His gardens are flourishing, his precious deer are breeding, but his wife is barren.”
“You don’t know that!” Margaret exclaimed, appalled. But as she slid a glance at Julia, sitting rigidly erect, gazing blankly out of the window where the rain was falling so heavily it all but obliterated the view, Margaret struggled to think of any practical advice to offer. The matter was so delicate, and Julia so very reserved. Yet she was obviously wretched; something had to be said. “When he is at home, does he— what I mean is, does your husband come to your bed?”
Julia’s cheeks flooded with colour. “Yes.”
“And does he . . .” Margaret flinched. Her own cheeks were blazing. “Does he perform the act? Adequately, I mean?” she asked, realising as she did so that she wasn’t at all sure what she meant.
“I think so,” Julia whispered, keeping her gaze fixed on the window. “As far as I am aware, he does what is necessary, but to no avail. Every month I have to endure the embarrassment of my maid removing the evidence of my failure, knowing that the bad news will be all over the servants’ hall in five minutes.”
“Oh, Julia . . .”
“And it’s not only the servants. The whole county are watching and waiting. When Wingfield brought me here as his bride, Margaret, there were such celebrations, and I was so filled with hope. He was more conscientious then, when we were first married, but I think my continued failure to conceive has put him off.” Julia shuddered. “It is mortifying. I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. You are not even married.”
“You must talk to someone. Couldn’t you write to your mama?”
“And say what, exactly? She has had twelve children; nine of us survived. She won’t understand. She’ll tell me to be patient, to wait, but I’m sick to death of waiting. I want a child! What am I to do?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said, feeling utterly helpless in the face of such raw pain and anger. “Have you consulted a doctor?”
Julia recoiled. “It is bad enough exposing myself to my husband.”
“Then have you a married friend you could consult?”
“I could not.”
“Well, what about a midwife?” Margaret suggested, acutely aware that she had reached the limit of her own knowledge.
But Julia shrank still farther away from her. “Can you imagine the gossip, if it were known I had done so? If Wingfield found out, he would be furious.”
“I can’t help but think that if you discussed the matter with him—”
“No!” Julia covered her face with her hands. “My husband is clearly not one of those men who relish the—the intimate side of married life.” Tears seeped through her fingers. “But he does at least try to do his marital duty. Forget I said that. It would be wrong of me to imply that the fault was somehow his.”
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said. “I’m being worse than useless.”
Julia sniffed, tucking her handkerchief away. “Please don’t apologise. I was at a low ebb, but I should not have discussed such a very personal subject with you. You are an unmarried young lady—it is not a fit topic for your ears.” Julia picked up her needle and selected a strand of lilac wool. “I appreciate your sympathy and your willingness to hear me out, but I’m afraid there are some things which cannot be fixed, no matter how much you want them to be.”
“You’re not a failure, Julia. You mustn’t think that.”
“No? It’s how the world views a childless woman.”
There was no disputing this. No matter how unjust, it was the truth. “You don’t need to pretend that it doesn’t matter, though. You shouldn’t bottle it all up.”
“I am not the weeping and wailing sort,” Julia said primly, pulling her embroidery frame towards her. “I have never seen the point in bemoaning my fate. It doesn’t make me feel any better, for there is nothing I can do save wait for my husband to return, and hope that when he does, fate will look more kindly upon me. When you are married, you will understand.”
Margaret sighed. “Speaking for myself, I think there are more than enough children in the world anyway. I would rather do what I can to help those already here than add to the numbers.”
“What an odd way you have of looking at things.”
“I am aware of that,” Margaret said, grimacing, “but I am coming to the conclusion I can’t look at it any other way.”
“You are enjoying working at the school, aren’t you?”
“I adore it. You should come with me one day. They are always in need of another pair of hands, and you might—”
“No,” Julia said flatly. “I know you’re thinking it might take my mind off things, but it would simply make me more conscious that I have no child of my own.”
“Oh, Julia.”
“I pray you will not pity me. If you feel that Mr. and Mrs. Doherty require more help, why not take Breda with you? Didn’t you tell me that her mother had aspirations to be a schoolmistress? I would happily excuse her from some of her duties, if it does not inconvenience you.”
“Really? That is a marvellous idea. Breda will be thrilled.”
“Now if you don’t mind, I need to concentrate on my Berlin work. It requires very intricate stitching and any mistake requires laborious unpicking.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
But as she prepared to rise, Julia stayed her. “I know that what you say is right. There are too many children in this world, and far too many of them are unwanted, too. I take my hat off to you.”
“It’s a modest enough contribution, but I love it.”
“I know. But one day, when you are married, you’ll understand that it’s simply no substitute. It’s not only that I wish to give Wingfield an heir, I want a child of my own. A child who will love me, and whom I can love back. That’s all I want, Margaret, a child of my own to love. Is it too much to ask?”
A lump rose in Margaret’s throat. “No, it shouldn’t be too much to ask,” she said in a small voice. But as she left the room she couldn’t help thinking sadly that it was too much to expect.