Margaret had guessed as much, for the other bridesmaids had been pointedly distant with her, but it was like a slap in the face to have it confirmed. “It was that piece in the Morning Post, I suppose.”

Louise sighed. “Amongst other things.”

“I wish the press would leave me alone.”

“Then you should stop providing them with ammunition. The queen was furious when it was brought to her attention—and don’t look at me like that, M., it wasn’t my doing. You know what these blasted courtiers who surround her are like—they seem to positively relish delivering bad news. Is it true?”

“That I’m not going to marry Killin? Yes, it is true.”

“I sincerely hope you are not now about to inform me that you are instead going to marry the priest.”

“No, I’m not. You were right, I was living in a fool’s paradise even thinking that I might.”

“Then why on earth have you spurned Killin? I wish you had not, Margaret, for now I don’t even have you to turn to.”

“You can always turn to me, Lou.”

“At the moment, it’s more important than ever that my reputation is spotless and you, I am sorry to say, are currently tarnished goods.”

“Louise!”

But her friend shrugged petulantly. “There are too many eyes upon me to risk any contact with you. Perhaps in time, but not now. I must go.”

“Don’t you dare leave without telling me how you are.”

“Faring better than you, by the looks of it.” Louise narrowed her eyes. “Underneath that rouge you are dreadfully pale. And you are as slender as a willow. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

“Never mind my figure,” Margaret snapped, hurt and exasperated. “I have been so worried about you, and your letters from Balmoral, if you could call them such, said next to nothing. Please, tell me how you are, honestly? I have been so worried about you.”

For a moment she thought that Louise would brush her away, but then her shoulders slumped. “With good reason, I fear.”

Shocked, Margaret immediately forgot her own cares. No wonder Louise was brittle and waspish. “Dear God, do you mean . . .”

“Don’t say it aloud,” Louise hissed, looking over her shoulder. “Do not even think it. I could still be wrong. I know next to nothing of such matters.”

“You look as well as ever,” Margaret said uncertainly, for she knew that looks could be deceiving. “How do you feel?”

“I exist in a constant state of terror lest my mother find out,” Louise said, looking close to tears. “I have to keep it from her at all costs.”

A hope born of desperation if ever there was one, Margaret thought, for the queen was bound to find out. “And what of Lieutenant Stirling? You said that you were in love with him.”