Which, Margaret thought, would be more than acceptable if Lady Powerscourt didn’t take her in dislike, and torture if she did.

“THIS ROAD IS KNOWN AS the Scalp,” Breda informed Margaret some few miles later. “It passes through the Wicklow Mountains. I was terrified the first time I made the journey.”

Looking out of the window, Margaret could understand why. Huge granite boulders protruded from the steep sides of the chasm, some of them leaning at such precarious angles that they looked as if they might crash to the ground at any moment. It was a relief when they reached a small village with a large square clock tower at its centre.

“Enniskerry,” Breda said, as the road began to rise steeply. “That’s St. Patrick’s church on the left. It won’t be long now, till we reach Powerscourt.”

Almost as soon as she finished speaking, the carriage began to slow, and a huge pair of gates came into view. It was too late for Margaret to worry about her tangled hair and lack of bonnet, for the gates were already being opened and the landau drove through, providing her with her first glimpse of her new home.

The classical Palladian façade of Powerscourt House was clad in grey granite. Three stories high, it had a balustraded roof and central pediment featuring what was presumably the Wingfield family crest, and what looked like a carved eagle. Beneath the pediment, five busts peered imperiously out of the five round windows. The main house was book-ended by two low-terraced service wings, each with a circular sweep of wall terminating in an obelisk, though the towers with their copper cupolas peeping out from behind each wing hinted at a very different, hidden aspect.

“You get no sense of how grand it is from this approach,” Breda confirmed. “It looks like a foreign palace from the other side, where all the gardens are being landscaped.”

The door of the landau was opened by a liveried footman, the steps folded down, and Margaret’s travelling companion disembarked. “Here is her ladyship to greet you.” Breda smiled tentatively up at her. “I hope you enjoy your stay here, my lady.”

“Thank you for your company,” Margaret replied, but the maid, having dropped a quick curtsy, was already hurrying away.

Gathering her skirts and the tapes of her crinoline, Margaret pasted a smile to her face and descended from the carriage, only to be almost bowled over by a huge hound which came lolloping forwards and with a joyful bark threw itself at her, its massive front paws on her chest. Laughing, she staggered, pulling off her gloves to caress the beautiful animal’s head. The hound’s fur was dark grey flecked with white, the tips of its ears a much darker colour. “Well, that was quite a welcome,” Margaret said. The dog whimpered, licking her fingertips, its graceful, feathered tail wagging furiously.