“You shouldn’t have to ask,” Margaret said sadly. “Of course I promise.”

“Good,” Louise said briskly, patting her hair. “I’m afraid we are obliged to look out for ourselves from now on, you and I.”

“I will miss you, Lou. Whatever happens, I will always be your best and true friend.”

Louise brushed her cheek with the briefest of kisses. “Let us not prolong this, my dear, I can’t bear sad goodbyes. Good luck, Margaret.”

“Good luck, Lou.” But she was speaking to thin air. The curtain flicked behind her friend, and she was gone, leaving Margaret alone.

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Friday, 6 July 1866

THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS flew past in a blur. As soon as the royal newly-weds departed, Margaret, with her mother’s assistance, changed out of her bridesmaid’s dress and into her newly purchased travelling garb. Mama was brusque and businesslike up until the moment arrived for her to take her leave. There were no tender words of farewell, only a long, protracted embrace.

“No tears,” Mama said, pressing a small leather pouch into her hand, her own eyes swimming. “Be brave, Margaret.”

And then her mother fled, a handkerchief pressed to her face. The leather pouch contained a miniature portrait of Lix, Margaret’s favourite terrier. There was barely time for her to kiss the protective glass, before she was shepherded into the waiting carriage and on to Windsor station. Waiting for her there were a rather earnest-looking maid and a manservant, who had travelled all the way from Ireland to escort her back. At Euston Station the trio boarded the London and North Western Railway service bound for Holyhead.

They arrived at the port too late to catch the night mail boat, and so were obliged to spend the night at the Royal Hotel. Lying awake in the cramped, unfamiliar room, staring blankly at the ceiling, Margaret felt numb, too tired to sleep, drained of all emotion. Only a few hours ago she had been a bridesmaid at the royal wedding. Her participation would be extensively reported in the press in the coming days, her photograph pasted into the commemorative album, perhaps by Queen Victoria herself. Would she ever see Mama again, or Louise? How long would she remain in exile at Powerscourt, the grand Irish estate belonging to Mervyn Wingfield, the seventh viscount, and Mama’s friend Lady Londonderry’s son? What would Lady Powerscourt, his wife, make of her? What would she make of Lady Powerscourt? Would she be expected to earn her keep, perhaps as a lady’s companion? As the hours ticked by and the noise of the awakening docks filtered in through the open window, she couldn’t even bring herself to speculate.