“I am sure this will be perfect.”

Margaret stepped into a room that was semicircular and flooded with light from three arched windows. The half panelling was painted a soft cream, giving way to cream wallpaper with a gold trellised design. A modern bed was positioned on the central wall facing the windows, which were hung with cream and gold damask, the chaise-longue at the foot of the bed upholstered in the same fabric. A pretty marquetry desk stood by the window, on which a bowl of white and yellow freesias were letting off their delicate scent, while a larger display of mixed white blooms sat in the empty hearth.

“Oh, but it’s lovely,” she said. To her delight, a window seat spanned the whole length of the embrasure. Margaret treaded over the soft rugs, which were scattered over the polished boards, to the window, where she got her first glimpse of Powerscourt’s gardens. “Oh, my goodness!”

An amphitheatre with a series of wide terraces was cut into the steeply sloping ground. At the centre, the foundations of a stone staircase were being laid, sweeping down to a pond. The grass terraces were a brilliant emerald green under the grey-blue of the sky, their manicured perfection enhanced by the series of raised flower-beds laid out at regular intervals. The pond was framed by newly planted trees, the sensual, natural movement of the water in direct contrast to the regimented order of the raking terraces. Beyond the glinting blue of the pond the eye was drawn to the pale outline of the Wicklow Mountains, the purple-blue hues of a conical hill, and above it all the sky scattered with puffy clouds.

“That is Sugar Loaf Mountain,” Julia said, joining her.

“What an absolutely spectacular view. It is simply breath-taking.”

“The garden is very much a work in progress, but, I agree, it is a wonderful vista. Your mother also mentioned that you love the outdoors. Please treat the grounds as if they were your own. It was the late viscount and his gardener who dreamed up most of what you see before you. Mervyn, my husband, is determined to see his father’s vision fully realised. He’s in Bavaria at present. I track his progress by the crates of purchases which arrive every month or so. There are a stack of them now, waiting on his return.”

“Bavaria! Wouldn’t you have liked to accompany him?”

The question, which seemed perfectly natural to Margaret, was clearly not a welcome one. “My husband prefers to devote his time while abroad to enhancing his collection.”

As opposed to devoting his time to his wife of only two years? Poor Julia. Then again, perhaps she preferred to be alone, in which case she must be ecstatic to have had Margaret foisted upon her. “When do you expect him home?” she asked, rather at a loss.