P.S. Please tell Lady Powerscourt that I am much obliged for her recommendation that I order some table linen from Mr. Ferguson’s factory in Banbridge. The quality of the sample you sent is superb.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

IN THE WEEKS SINCE HER ARRIVAL, Margaret tried to put all that had happened behind her, to recapture the spirit of optimism she’d felt on the voyage, but every day dragged painfully, like walking uphill on soft sand, leaving her drained and defeated. Julia made polite conversation at mealtimes, accepting her listless assistance with such mundane tasks as sorting linen, but otherwise making no demands on her. Margaret was perfectly aware that she should be making more of an effort to become acquainted with her hostess. She was being a very poor companion, but Julia seemed in no rush for company, content to maintain her distance whether through tact or a natural reserve. In Margaret’s present maudlin state of mind, she was happy to follow her lead.

She ate too much of the cake Julia served up with tea every day, and made no attempt to resist the puddings, which were served at dinner, or the hot milk Breda brought to her room before bed with bread and honey, comforting food that reminded her of the nursery, though it never filled the aching void inside her.

By day, she took to roaming Powerscourt’s extensive gardens and the deer park beyond, with only Aoife for company. Her hair curled wildly, her face was becoming freckled, her skin tanned. With no need any longer to conform to the rules set down by society for a young lady, she had, shockingly, cast off her crinoline. It was enormously liberating to be free of this article of clothing. At times, when she knew she was safe from observation, Margaret even dispensed with her shoes and stockings to wander barefoot, digging her toes into the velvet-soft lawns, perching on the side of either Juggy’s Pond or the Green Pond to dip her toes in the cool waters. She had twice visited the stables, but the familiar smells of hay and horseflesh made her yearn for Dalkeith and her own beloved pony, Spider. She hadn’t the heart to ride another horse—it felt almost disloyal. She would never again hear the wind whistle through the stands of trees that bordered the River Esk as she walked her dogs, and she would never again taste Mrs. Mac’s peerless clootie dumplings or enjoy the fragrant smell of the peat burning in the kitchen range. If only she could turn the clock back to those innocent days and begin again. She would make a better fist of it the second time around. Would she though?