THE MORNING OF QUEEN VICTORIA’S visit to Achnacarry was bright and sunny. Margaret, perched by the window staring out at the River Arkaig, was enjoying the luxury of a breakfast of tea and bread and butter in her bedchamber. Despite her reservations, yesterday had turned out to be most wonderful of days. Though there had been the occasional awkward moments between Donald and herself, the sympathy that had always existed between them had been rapidly re-established. They had sat up talking long into the night. Some of the conversation was expended on filling in the gaps in their respective histories, but they had also talked of other, inconsequential things, the sort they used to discuss in their letters. Only as dawn was fast approaching had the mood changed. Donald had turned to her to say good night, and the easiness between them became charged with a desire for a different kind of closeness.
Margaret had lain in bed wide awake watching the sun come up, disturbed and confused by the emotions swirling around in her head, and making no progress. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had arrived here, hoping to prove to herself that her feelings for Donald were a distant memory. Frowning deeply, she poured the last of her tea into the pretty cup painted with forget-me-nots. The moment she heard his voice, the moment their hands touched, their eyes met, she knew that her feelings were no figment of her imagination. There was no doubt in her mind: she still loved him, and not only as a friend. She wanted more from him than that.
Dear lord, M., what are you saying? More to the point, what are you imagining you might do about it?
Dumbfounded, she gazed into the dregs of her tea-cup, as if they would provide her with inspiration. She didn’t even know if Donald felt as she did. Was she too late? This was far too momentous a decision to do anything other than wait, consider things rationally. Yes, but if she did nothing, she might never get the chance again.
A soft tap at the door saved her from descending into complete panic.
“I came to tell you that Her Majesty has finally sent word of her plans,” Mama said, breezing into the room. “She is expected this afternoon, so there is no rush to dress, though if you are expecting to monopolise Lochiel for the rest of the morning, you are out of luck, for he has gone down to the pier to make sure his little boat is ship-shape for the royal party.”
QUEEN VICTORIA AND HER ENTOURAGE arrived in the late afternoon, and drove straight to the pier Donald had built at the head of Loch Arkaig. Margaret and the duchess, Camilla and Susan were waiting to greet them, decked out in the various forms of tartan that the queen seemed to expect everyone in the Highlands to wear no matter the weather or the occasion. While the other three ladies wore cotton and silk, Margaret’s gown, borrowed from Mary, was wool, which in the unseasonable heat of the early-autumn sun, made for uncomfortable wearing.
If Donald was suffering from the heat in his full Highland regalia, he did not show it. As he made the final arrangements for the sail with his captain, Margaret guiltily availed herself of the opportunity to admire the picture he presented, the broad plaid draped over his body, the gleaming buckle of the belt that held his tightly pleated kilt in place, the shapely calves, and the tantalising glimpses above his knitted stockings which the gentle breeze granted her. Her cheeks grew hot as her thoughts turned shockingly carnal, and even hotter still when Donald glanced over his shoulder and caught her staring at him. Could he read her mind? She discovered that she was brazen enough to want him to, and had the satisfaction of seeing her desire momentarily reflected before a shout went up that the royal carriages were approaching.
The screw steamer Scarba was too small to accommodate everyone, and so the honour of accompanying Queen Victoria, Princess Beatrice, Baroness Churchill, and the two gentlemen escorts was confined to Donald and the duchess. The plan to sail the full fourteen miles of Loch Arkaig had to be curtailed, for the queen had arrived late and did not wish to endure the return trip back to Inverlochy Castle in the dark.
“But she very much enjoyed her tea on board and admired the scenery,” Mama said later, back at Achnacarry over dinner. “Though Lochiel was disappointed not to be able to show her the most rugged of views at the far end of the loch, Her Majesty was delighted to hear of his connection with Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
Donald rolled his eyes. “And equally delighted with the screeching of young Gordon’s bagpipes from the pier when we returned.”
Margaret giggled. “It’s a treasonable offence, Donald Cameron, not to love the skirl of the pipes.”
He grinned. “I loathe them every bit as much as you do, and you know that fine and well. I remember you saying in one of your letters—” He broke off, remembering too late that they were not alone.
“It’s getting very late,” Camilla said, breaking the pointed silence, though it was not much after nine.
“Aye, I’m very tired,” Susan said, smothering a theatrical yawn.
“All that fresh air out on the loch has made me long for an early night. If you’ll excuse me,” Mama said, getting to her feet and causing a minor stampede as the other two ladies followed her.
Donald heaved a sigh as the dining room door closed. “That’s our skeleton well and truly out of the cupboard.”
“My mother guessed straightaway that we were more than mere acquaintances, though I have told her nothing of our history.”
The mood had changed now that they were alone. Donald twisted his wine-glass, staring down at its almost untouched contents. “Do you ever regret refusing my hand in marriage?”
Would he prefer her to lie? But she’d never lied to him, and just as important, she had long since stopped deluding herself. “I don’t,” Margaret said. “I regret hurting you, but not turning you down. It was the right thing to do at the time.”
He looked up, smiling crookedly. “Do you know, that’s what I thought you’d say.” He pushed back his chair, getting to his feet.
“No, wait!”
“I thought we could go for a walk down to the loch side. It’s a beautiful evening—it would be a shame to waste it.”
“Oh. I thought you were—I thought . . .” To her horror, Margaret found herself on the brink of tears.
“You thought that I was about to storm off in a sulk?”
She laughed weakly. “I’m not sure you know how to sulk. I thought you still hadn’t forgiven me.”
“Oh, Margaret, don’t be daft. There was never anything to forgive. Come on, let’s take that walk, shall we?”
“Please.” She sniffed, dabbing her eyes with her linen napkin.
“Do you want to fetch a jacket or a shawl?”
“Oh no. This blasted tartan gown of Mary’s is wool, but there was no time to change for dinner. I was so hot earlier in the sunshine, I felt like a boiled lobster. How you managed to look so cool in all that regalia, I don’t know, though I must agree with the queen on this one point, Donald, you looked very handsome in it.”
“It was heavier than a suit of armour, but if it pleased you, then I’m sorry I discarded most of it the first chance I got.”
They had reached the terrace at the rear of the house, where a path led down to the river. Above them, the moon was bright in the dark-blue sky, making mere twinkling points of the stars. Donald was still wearing his jacket, kilt, and sporran, though he had lost the plaid and the various belts, buckles, and ceremonial swords and daggers. Margaret wondered at her younger self taking so long to see how attractive he was and to understand that he felt the same about her. “I am sorry,” she said gently, “for hurting you all those years ago.”
“You’d have hurt the pair of us a great deal more if you’d accepted my proposal when you weren’t ready. I told you at the time, remember—I didn’t want a half-hearted bride. I still don’t.” He took one of her hands, kissing the fingertips. “Shall we let the past be?”
“Yes.” She caught his hand, lifting it to her cheek, and couldn’t resist pressing a kiss in return to his fingertips. “Please.”
They made their way down to the river in silence, both lost in their thoughts, turning to follow the tumbling water to the pier at the head of the loch, where the Scarba was berthed.
“We’ll take a seat on the deck, shall we?” Donald jumped on board, holding out a hand to help her. The boat rocked gently, then settled as they sat on one of the wooden benches. The air was still unseasonably warm, though there was a faint trace of autumn in the freshness of it, and the leaves on the trees which hugged the shores of the loch were just beginning to turn.
“In New York in the fall, the leaves hang on until the very first frost. One day the trees are golden, the next day they’re quite bare. I prefer the way they take their time to modestly undress here.”
“That’s a very literary turn of phrase.”
“I’ve been commissioned to write a journal-style series for the English Woman’s Domestic Magazine, comparing life here and in New York, I might use it for that.”
“What else are you writing, apart from the journal for—is it Demorest’s?”
“Mary Louise Booth, the editor of Harper’s Bazar, has some ideas she wants me to think about, and then there’s the Victoria, which I think I told you about last night. Oh, and I have been asked by another publication to serve as their dispenser of wise words and sage counsel—you know the kind of thing, never share an umbrella with a man unless you are betrothed.”
Donald burst out laughing. “No, I don’t know the kind of thing. Did you invent that?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Will all of this work be published under your own name?”
“Most of it. Are you wondering what my father will make of it? My mother says that provided I don’t become a journalist for the Times, he will simply ignore my journalistic efforts.”
Silence descended between them once more, but it was becoming tense again. Tomorrow she would return to Edinburgh, and what then? Margaret didn’t want to leave Achnacarry without an inkling of what the future held for them—if anything. She had to speak, to say something, no matter how difficult it was.
“I’m twenty-seven next month, Donald,” she began, pausing to clear her throat. “I’ve been living on my own now for almost four years. I am no longer the impulsive young woman who ran away from her own betrothal party with no thought of the consequences.”
“It’s obvious to me how much you have changed.”
“Yes, but I’m going to sound as if I’m being impulsive again. We’ve only just become reacquainted, and we are both older and wiser, in some respects much changed, too. But I know how I feel, and I’d rather we—because if I’m wrong and you don’t feel the same way, then it would be better for both of us if we said so now, don’t you think?”
He angled himself more towards her. “I am not sure what you’re about to say, but I think it might be pretty much along the lines of what I was planning to say myself.”
Her heart began to race. That smile of his, she wasn’t imagining the tenderness in it. Despite earlier exhorting herself to exercise caution, Margaret had plunged headlong into this declaration without any preparation, but she was sure it had been the right thing to do. “A wise friend once told me, when I was appealing for funds, to always speak from the heart,” she said. “I love you. I have never stopped loving you, but I thought you married and thought nothing could come of it.”
Donald let out a long sigh, taking her hands, edging closer to her. “You must know that I still love you. I tried, but I haven’t managed to find anyone who came close to taking your place.”
“Oh! You put it so much better than I can.” His hands tightened on hers, but he made no move to kiss her. “You want to know what has changed, don’t you?” Margaret said. “I suppose the simple answer is that I have. I know that it would be a huge step for both of us. We would both have to adapt, but I don’t see that as a compromise anymore.” She was conscious of his gaze fixed on her, their hands twined, their knees touching. “I want to share my life with you and be part of yours,” Margaret said, with every word becoming more certain. “I could carry on as I am alone and be perfectly content, but with you by my side I would be so much happier and I think—I hope—that you feel the same?”
For a terrifying moment he said nothing, and then he pulled her into his arms. “Oh, Margaret, I feel exactly the same. I love you so much.”
At last, their lips met and clung and then opened into a kiss that was tentative and just a little strange. They stopped, smiled at each other, then kissed again, more deeply this time. Donald murmured her name, and this set her body alight, urging her to close any gap there was between them, wanting and caring for nothing save more kisses, and more of him.
She wasn’t sure if it was the world which was rocking on its axis or the boat on the waves when Donald gently eased her away, shifting uncomfortably on the seat, adjusting his kilt, swearing under his breath. “We need to talk about what we’re going to do.”
“Get married?”
He laughed raggedly. “We are definitely getting married. The question is, when? I really don’t think it would be a good idea to make our vows anytime soon. No, don’t look at me like that, listen to me a moment, Margaret. It’s what you’ve already acknowledged, in essence. We’ve both got lives we’re happy with, but which are very different. I’ve got my work as an MP and the Achnacarry estate to care for; you’ve got your writing and charity work in Edinburgh.”
“We can make it work, though, can’t we?”
“Of course we will, and it will be worth it.” He kissed her tenderly. “But the adjustments required will be significant. Simply trying to decide where we will live and how, for example. Then what if we are blessed with children—which I dearly hope we will be? It may be selfish, but after waiting so long I’d like to have you to myself for a while first. What do you think?”
She forced herself to consider, though she already knew what he said made perfect sense. “How long do you think we should wait?”
“A year? Maybe even two? Time for you to establish yourself, to build this Edinburgh Children’s Sanctuary you’re so set on, and time for me to decide if I’ll continue in politics.”
“I know you’re right, but it seems a very long time.” She was still struggling to get her breathing under control, her body still heated and clamouring for something other than rational, logical discussion.
“When you’re sitting next to me like this, it seems an impossibly long time,” Donald agreed. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t want to wait another minute, but I’m trying to be sensible.”
As a wicked idea popped into her head, Margaret once more edged closer to him. “We’ll wait two years for the ceremony, and we’ll decide how we’ll live and where, and all the other practical details in a sensible and considered manner.” She kissed him. “But in the meantime, provided we’re careful . . .”
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“Are you shocked?”
Donald laughed, sweeping her up into his arms and kissing her deeply. “I’m delighted,” he said, making for the intimacy of the cabin.