June 1867
MARGARET HAD REMAINED BEHIND as usual to help put the classroom to rights before leaving the infant school to head back to Powerscourt. A young man was leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the playground when she emerged, but he straightened up when he saw her, making a flourishing bow.
“Lady Margaret Scott, I presume?”
She knew immediately who he must be. “The very same,” she said, dropping a small curtsy. “The Honourable Lewis Strange Wingfield, I presume? Lord Powerscourt’s youngest brother. We have been expecting you.”
“Please, I beg of you, drop the honourable. My title is neither welcome nor particularly accurate. I am considered the theatrical youngest brother, a description I much prefer. Now, it has been a long-held ambition of mine to walk a teacher home from school, rather than the other way round. May I have the honour?” He offered his arm, but seeing her hesitation immediately withdrew it. “Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.”
“I prefer to make my own mind up about people,” Margaret said. “Having said that, you must admit this is an unconventional way to be introduced. I’m not sure Julia would approve. Does she even know you are here?”
“Julia doesn’t approve of me, full stop. However, she did, admittedly most reluctantly, divulge your whereabouts once I had assured her I would be on my very best behaviour.”
Margaret bit back a laugh. “I have been trying to discover from her why I should be wary of you, but to no avail.”
“Come—my brother must have said something. Did he call me a fop?”
“He did. And Julia said that you are not what you ought to be,” she risked.
Lewis gave a snort of laughter. “That, I will admit freely, is perfectly true. Though the same thing, I understand, could be said of you, if you don’t mind my saying so. But I can see from your expression that you do. Ought I not to have mentioned it?”
Margaret put her hand to her heated cheeks, shaking her head. “What have you heard about me?”
“Enough to whet my appetite.”
She eyed him narrowly, her amusement tempered with wariness. “Are you always so—so forthright with people you have just met?”
“No, only those who interest me. I am the epitome of Victorian reserve and good manners with bores.”
She couldn’t help it—Margaret gave a peal of laughter. “I am flattered,” she said, tucking her hand into his arm.
“And I am vastly relieved. I have high hopes of you, Lady Margaret. I do hate to be disappointed, but I am aware—as my brother will attest—that I am not everyone’s cup of tea. Talking of which, I am thirsty after my walk. Shall we take some refreshment at the Leicester Arms before we return to Powerscourt?”
“A cup of tea would be most welcome, Mr. Wingfield.”
“Lewis, please, since I am quite determined we are to be friends, and I was rather thinking of a glass of strong porter.”
“I can’t go into a tavern and sup ale!”
“No? Well then, go and sit down by the river and I’ll bring a jug out. There’s a lovely spot. . . .”
“I know it. You go and purchase our ale, then, and I will see you there.”
It was five minutes later when he emerged, and Margaret had settled herself on the sunny riverbank. Lewis was twenty-five, she knew, but she would have guessed at something closer to her own age. His dark-brown hair was worn long, parted in the centre, waving down over his ears. Like his elder brother’s, his hairline was already receding to reveal a high, smooth forehead. His jaw was smooth, too, with no trace of a beard. He was not handsome, his nose being rather too big, his mouth rather small, but he had an infectious smile and a gleam of mischief in his eyes that Margaret found vastly appealing. Though his slim figure was soberly dressed, his red necktie hinted at a tendency towards ostentation, and there was, in the way he carried himself, something of the feline grace of a ballet dancer.
“Well, do I pass muster?” he asked, settling himself beside her and pouring them both a glass of the dark beer. “You were positively drinking me in, my dear.”
“You are nothing like your brother,” she answered, somewhat taken aback.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. I have what is known as a thespian bent.” He touched his glass to hers. “Slainté, as they say here. Good health.” He took a long draught and smacked his lips theatrically. “I always know I’m in Ireland when I taste that.”
Margaret took a sip, nodding approvingly. “It is rather good.”
“You’re something of an expert, are you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, but I’ve had the occasional glass in Dublin.”
Lewis leaned back on his elbow, smiling over at her. “Have you, now? My mama told me that you were ‘a bit out of the ordinary way,’ and since that is how I view myself, I reckoned we would be bound to like each other.”
Elizabeth, Lady Londonderry, was one of her mother’s closest friends, which was why Margaret was here with Julia. She had lost her first husband, Viscount Powerscourt, when her three boys were very young. Though it was said that her second marriage was a love match, it, too, ended tragically when her husband, the Marquess of Londonderry was confined to a lunatic asylum, effectively making a widow of her for the second time. Like Victoria’s mama-in-law, Lady Cecil, Marchioness of Lothian, and Mama herself, Lady Londonderry had converted to the Roman Catholic religion in middle age. She was an established beauty and a woman of fearsome intellect, and Margaret had always found her rather intimidating.
“What else has Lady Londonderry said about me?” she asked Lewis, frowning.
“You must not worry that she has been spreading gossip. My mother is most discreet. She said only that you have a most decided mind of your own. Since I pride myself on sharing that trait, too . . .” Lewis made an expansive gesture. “She also told me last year, when I was first considering a visit, to leave you be.”
“And you have done so for almost a year, but now your curiosity has got the better of you, is that it?”
He shrugged. “If you must know, I needed a change of air.”
“There is nothing like the fresh Irish air for healing the spirit,” Margaret said, half teasing. “I myself am testament to that.” She waited for Lewis to elucidate, but he was frowning down at his hands, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Whatever the reason for your visit,” she said, “I am glad you are here.”
She earned herself a relieved smile for this. His reluctance to confide made her warm to him. He was not as shallow as she had first thought. She finished her porter, shaking her head when he made to top up her glass. “I like it, but more than one makes me feel sick.”
“Waste not, want not,” Lewis said, emptying the jug into his own glass. “In any case, we had better make our way back soon. I don’t want to upset Julia on my first day here by being late for dinner.”
“Tell me a little about yourself first. I know next to nothing about you, save that you are an artist. You painted those lovely panels in the saloon, didn’t you?”
“In happier days, when Maurice was still alive and Mervyn did not live in fear of my inheriting. In the last few years, I have been many things, an artist, an actor, and an attendant in a lunatic asylum. I worked in a prison, too, as a warder. For a short while only, you understand.”
“Good heavens, why?”
Lewis shrugged. “The same reason that I pretended to be a pauper and begged a bed in a workhouse or dressed up in petticoats to play an elderly spinster in a burlesque. For the fun of it. Because I get bored easily, I suppose. Mostly because I would rather be almost anyone than the heir to the great Powerscourt estates.” He grimaced. “Now that really is the most tedious role I can imagine—unless one imagines actually being Lord Powerscourt.”
“Do you mean that? Truly?”
“Truly, honest to God and cross my heart,” Lewis said, suiting action to words. “I dread the very idea of having to walk in my brother’s shoes. I do wish Julia would hurry up and produce an heir.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Margaret said sharply. “No-one wants a child more than Julia.”
“Save my brother,” Lewis continued in the same flippant tone, quite unrepentant. “Mervyn would do anything rather than see me inherit. It does beg the question, doesn’t it, why he spends so much of his time away from Wicklow. You’d think that after all the effort he has put into the house and gardens, he might strain a sinew to produce a son to inherit them.”
“Lewis!”
“Oh, have I shocked you?”
“You have, and I am aware it was quite deliberate on your part.”
He laughed, getting languidly to his feet, and holding out his hand to help her up. “I think I’m going to enjoy my brief stay.”
“BRAY,” LEWIS INFORMED MARGARET five days later, “is not nearly so fashionable as Brighton. It is a quaint little seaside town with a charming promenade, but has not much to offer by way of diversion.”
They were seated together in Julia’s landau with the top down, for the day was fine and the sun shining. Margaret dragged her eyes away from the view of the River Dargle, which the road had been following for much of the short drive, to smile at him. “I don’t need diversion when I have you.”
“If only the critics agreed with you, but they can be so cutting. Do you know, after my debut performance in a burlesque, they said that my ‘idiotic dance in petticoats might stand for something in a competitive examination for admission into the Earlswood Asylum.’ Why does one only remember the bad reviews?”
“Have there been any good ones to recall?”
“A few. A very few, actually. My Roderigo was fairly well-received, but when one treads the boards with Mrs. Kendal and Ira Aldridge, one cannot help but shine. I don’t suppose you happened to see that particular production of Othello? It was on at the Haymarket a couple of years ago. August, I think it was.”
“A month after I was sent off to Dalkeith,” Margaret said, grimacing.
“Ah yes, after you fled the ball at midnight, just like Cinderella in the pantomime. I have not had the pleasure of appearing in it, which is a pity, as I do have a fine pair of calves for a pair of breeches.” Lewis raised his leg to be admired. “Actually I have decided to bring down the curtain on my acting career, so to speak.”
“Why?”
“Alas, I am never going to be an Edmund Kean. In any event, I am a bit of a butterfly, always flitting from one endeavour to the next. Now here we are arrived in Bray. I have asked the charming coachman to drop us off at the promenade, where we can take a stroll and enjoy the fresh air. What do you say?”
“An excellent idea. I can smell the sea already.”
The River Dargle widened as they neared the harbour, and the air became distinctively briny. The nondescript little main street gave way to much more imposing buildings as the landau came to a halt on the wide promenade upon which were located several very grand hotels. A long sweep of neat gardens with a bandstand in the centre was bustling with visitors, some clustered in deck chairs, others conversing in groups. The promenade itself ran in a long straight line next to the shore, where the waves pounded up the steep strand, spraying the unwary. Margaret clutched at her hat, for the breeze had got up, and closed her eyes, tilting her face towards the sun. The sound of the sea, the swoop and cry of gulls, and the smell of salt and sand, and something indefinable that was the seaside reminded her of the sands at Portobello near Edinburgh.
She opened her eyes to smile at Lewis. “Do you think we might go for a paddle?”
He shuddered. “Aside from the fact that the water is freezing, I have no desire whatever to roll my trousers up and totter about on those pebbles trying to keep my balance. It is a most undignified prospect. I sincerely hope you are jesting.”
“I expect I am,” Margaret said, looking longingly at the sea.
“You will be telling me next that you wish to hire a bathing-machine.”
“Do they have them here? Can one hire a bathing costume, too?”
“Dear heavens, I have no idea.” Lewis took her arm, and they set off along the strand. “Those are the Wicklow Mountains you can see to the south. The walk to Bray Head should take us half an hour or so each way. Then we shall have earned our tea.”
The sea breeze ruffled her hair, which was already escaping from her hat, and it made her crinoline sway in her wake. “If the wind catches me the wrong way, I shall take off into the air. I wish that women could wear trousers.”
Lewis chuckled. “Only on the stage, alas.”
“Are you serious about giving up acting?”
“I am almost never serious about anything.”
“Lewis!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said off-handedly. “I find learning lines that others have written somewhat tedious. I by far prefer to create my own characters.”
“Such as Ned Smith, the cabman’s friend, the character you adopt when carousing in rough taverns. If, of course, you weren’t teasing me.”
“No, it’s true enough. I am rather fond of Ned, though Ned is too fond of the drink, which is why the cabbies are fond of him. He overtips when he is in his cups.”
“What will you do, if you give up the stage?”
“I said I would give up acting, not the theatre. I might try my hand at stage adaptations or directing and I will continue with my reviews, for the meantime. I write as Whyte Tyghe, for the Globe, you know.”
“I didn’t know that. Honestly, Lewis, I can hardly keep up with your many alter egos.”
“I lose track of them myself sometimes. Perhaps I shall write a book about my travels to Algeria.”
“Good heavens! You are a traveller, too?”
“Everyone should see the world, including you, dear Margaret.”
“I would, if I had the means. Would I like Algeria?”
He shook his head decisively. “You must go to a country where your being a female is not a barrier. America, for example. My friend Ira—the actor, you know—he is an American. It is the land of the free, he tells me, though I am not precisely sure I know what that means.”
“What would I do in America?” Margaret asked doubtfully. “I don’t know anyone there.”
“But that is the whole point about travel, whether to America or Algeria or Timbuctoo.”
“I nearly went there once,” Margaret said, laughing at Lewis’s bewildered expression. “Ignore me, do carry on.”
“As I was saying, the point about going abroad—and I don’t mean Europe, that is too close to home. The point is, Margaret, that you don’t know anyone and more importantly, no-one knows you. You have no past, and the future is yours to write. I thought of going to America myself actually, and of acting on Broadway which is where all the theatres are, so Ira tells me, but now I have given up that career.”
“Perhaps you will become an explorer. Like Dr. Livingstone.”
“And disappear forever? Mervyn would like that.”
“I still don’t understand why your brother dislikes you so much. I like you very much.”
Lewis pressed her hand. “Because, like me, you are a maverick, though being a female, you are forced to disguise it more.” He was silent for a few moments, and when they reached Bray Head, turned towards the sea, leaning on the spray-damp railing of the promenade. “It’s not so much what I do that makes Mervyn dislike me, it’s the fact that I won’t settle to anything. He thinks I’m capricious, and he’s probably right, but I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“You like to test yourself, that’s all.”
“Ah, Margaret, you have a generous soul.”
“Your brother is worried that if you inherit Powerscourt, you will not be interested enough to maintain it—is that it?”
Lewis shrugged. “I suppose, and I expect he is right about that, too.”
“Do you like him?”
“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself that question. Not particularly, is the answer. Mervyn is extremely worthy. But so very boring. I mean, deer, honestly? Shall we change the subject?” Lewis took her arm again, and they began to retrace their steps. “What does Julia make of our friendship?”
“Julia doesn’t judge.”
“Don’t bristle. I admire Julia, I’ll have you know. I admire anyone who puts up with my brother.”
“She is reserved, but just because she doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve doesn’t mean she is cold. And she’s been very good to me, Lewis. I don’t know what she thinks of our friendship. I don’t even know what I think of it. Will it last beyond this visit?”
“You mean, will I forget all about you when I am gone from here? Out of sight, out of mind? No, I am generally thought to be a loyal friend, though the chances of my paying another visit here are low. I don’t like to stay where I am not welcome. Mervyn would never deny me my right to come to Powerscourt, but he much prefers if I don’t. And Julia—oh, poor Julia, I am afraid I am a constant reminder of her failure to produce an heir.”
“Don’t say that,” Margaret snapped. “It is not Julia’s fault that she has not yet had a child.”
“Don’t bite my head off. As it happens, I agree with you that it is in all likelihood not Julia’s fault.”
“What do you mean by that, Lewis?”
He opened his mouth to answer her, then clearly changed his mind. “Shall we see if they serve tea at the Turkish baths? I had planned to take you to the International Hotel, but I heard that the baths have reopened as some sort of assembly rooms. When they were first built, the staff wore scarlet dressing gowns and Turkish slippers. It would be fun if they still did. What do you think, Margaret?”
She thought his attempt to distract her glaringly obvious. What was it he had decided against telling her about Lord Powerscourt? But though Lewis had a vicious streak, and though there was clearly no love lost between the two brothers, he had refrained. She respected him for that. “It sounds fun,” Margaret answered. “Will I be permitted to smoke a Turkish pipe?”
He pressed her arm, smiling down warmly at her. “Back in the day, one could loll about on velvet divans and smoke. I was never there in its heyday, but I’m told there were fountains and palm trees and domed ceilings set with glass stars. Let us hope the new owners have not stripped it of all its ambiance.”
“And let us hope they serve tea. The sea air has made me very hungry.”
A WEEK LATER, MARGARET WAS ensconced in the octagon library, at the desk which she had claimed for her own. The door to the room was decorated to look like one of the bookshelves, complete with imitation books. The Key to Paradise was the tome covering the lock, hinting at a sense of humour, which ruled out the current viscount being responsible. She was staring into space when it opened, and Lewis entered.
“I thought I’d find you here. I came to tell you that I’ve decided to leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! That’s rather sudden, isn’t it? You’ve been here for less than a fortnight.”
He began to pull books at random from the shelves, pursing his lips at each one before replacing it. “Mervyn is due back soon.”
“Not until next week. Can’t you stay a few more days?”
“My mind is made up. I won’t risk being here if he decides to arrive early. Does Julia always turn the house upside down and inside out when her husband is due home?”
“She likes everything to be perfect. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No, I suppose not. What are you doing? Are you working on that little book of stories?” He pulled the notebook from her and began to flick through it. “I agree with your friend Lochiel: you should have them published, they are quite out of the ordinary. And, of course, your name on the cover will ensure that they will receive lots of attention in the press.”
Margaret shuddered. “One of the best things about being here is that the press have forgotten all about me. I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to have my name in the newspapers again, for any reason.”
“Understandable, though I think you could use it to your advantage if you wished.” He rifled through the pages, frowning. “You need illustrations to go with these. I could dash them off for you.”
“Oh, would you?”
“I could, but they would be too good. Now, don’t give me one of your haughty looks, I mean that the stories have a childlike quality to them. They need drawings in a similar vein. Perhaps one of your star pupils?” Lewis set the book down again. “Just a thought. Come for a walk with me, will you? I want to talk to you.”
“That sounds very serious.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I do have a serious side; I simply keep it well hidden. Come on, let’s get out into the sunshine or the rain—I have no idea what the weather is doing. Let’s stick to the gardens as a precaution. I am in the mood for a little introspection.”
“I really will miss you,” Margaret said, a few moments later as they walked arm-in-arm through the walled garden. “Have you decided what you are going to do when you get back to London—assuming that London is your destination?”
“For the moment. I have itchy feet, the one trait I share with Mervyn. I am thinking I might voyage to China.”
“China! Good heavens.”
“Or perhaps not. Perhaps I’ll get married, if I can find a female who understands me as you do, my dear.”
“If this is the prelude to a proposal, Lewis, I should warn you—”
He burst into a peal of laughter. “You deserve better than me, Margaret, and I need someone—oh, I need someone like Julia. A nice understanding woman who will make no demands and who will be waiting patiently for me when I come home from my travels. No,” he added, patting her hand, “don’t subject me to one of your reprimands. I admire Julia, I really do, but I did not ask you to come for a walk with me to talk about Julia or even myself, believe it or not. Let us talk about you. What are you going to do when I am gone?”
“It will be very dull here without you. I shall carry on at the school, I suppose.”
“But they have Breda now, don’t they?”
“They will still need me at the school for story time.”
“When you publish your book, the children will be able to read the stories for themselves.”
“That’s a lovely thought. I wish that I could give every child a copy, but books are so expensive unless I—oh my goodness, you have just given me the most wonderful idea. Lewis Strange Wingfield, I do believe you are a genius.”
He preened. “I know. What was my wonderful idea exactly?”
“I could have the stories published as chap-books—you know, like the lesson books they have in the school. They are very cheap to make.” Margaret’s smile faded. “Though probably not cheap enough. I don’t really have any money.”
“Speak to Julia. I know for a fact that Mervyn gives her an allowance for charitable purposes. I would think your books qualify.”
“I didn’t know that. Do you think she will help me?”
“I am sure she will be delighted to. She’s not very happy, is she? She covers it up well, but her smile is sometimes quite pained.”
“All she wants is a baby. It seems so tragic that people like Breda’s mother get more children than they can cope with, while people like Julia . . .”
“Perhaps this time when my brother is home he will—they will—oh, you know. I hope they do resolve the matter. Aside from my not wanting to inherit Powerscourt, it would be wrong.”
“In what way?”
Lewis paused to open the gate that led to the Green Pond. “I was only two when the Sixth Viscount died, and my mother married Londonderry two years later—or Castlereagh, as he was then. But there is a rumour, a persistent rumour, that my mother and he were lovers before she was widowed. That I am not a Wingfield at all, but Londonderry’s bastard.”
“Lewis! That is shocking!”
“Is it?” He frowned down at the pond, then shrugged, heading for the path once more. “The man whose name I bear died when I was an infant. The man whose blood in all likelihood runs in my veins has been locked up in an asylum for the last five years. Which would I choose as my father? Does it change who I am?”
Lewis led the way to a wooden bench. “Sit with me a moment, Margaret, I’m going to be that rare thing for me, deadly serious. You are wasting away here. I know you are busy making yourself useful—and though Julia doesn’t say much, she appreciates your company—but don’t you think you’ve been hiding away long enough? There is a big world beyond Powerscourt’s gates.”
“I know there is, and I would love to see it, but how? I have no means to support myself. . . .”
“Never mind that for now. Do you agree or not?”
“Yes, I do. I admire Julia, but I could never be like her. Every time I try to do what is expected of me, I fail.”
“Then stop trying. That is my advice to you.”
She laughed. “Is it really that simple? I don’t want to do what someone else tells me, I want to please myself. I know that is a frightfully selfish thing to say. . . .”
“It is music to my ears. If you don’t stand up for who you are, then no-one else will.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“And here endeth the lesson. Be yourself, Margaret. You are different. Find a way to embrace that.”
“But how?”
“Now that, I’m afraid, I can’t help you with. We each need to follow our own path. I have chosen mine; you must forge your own. What is stopping you from leaving here?”
“Who, you mean. My father.”
“There you are, then; that is the obstacle you must overcome.”
“That is easier said than done.”
“I never said it would be easy. I do believe it’s starting to rain. Come on.” Lewis pulled her to her feet, shaking his head at the tears which filled her eyes. “What are those for?”
“Embrace being different. No-one has ever said that to me before. I will try, though I don’t know how.”
He kissed her cheek. “You’ll find a way. As I said, it won’t be easy. There will be tears, and times when you will ask yourself, is it worth it? But take it from one who knows. Ultimately, it is.”