Mama’s letter had arrived at breakfast time, her first and only correspondence since she came to Powerscourt over a month ago. Margaret had read it while perched on the wrought iron seat on the topmost tier of the Italian garden. The duchess’s words should have provided her with some comfort, but instead the letter shattered the fragile hold she had on her self-control. Her stay here was not an interlude. Her period of exile stretched endlessly in front of her.

Sorrow and regret welled up inside her. The distant trundling of a wheelbarrow reminded her that the gardeners would be here to start work any moment. Jumping to her feet, Margaret hurried towards the seclusion offered by the walled garden, barely noticing that Aoife was bounding after her.

The Bamberg gate, which marked the entrance, had been one of the present viscount’s many contributions to the estate. Originally designed for a cathedral in the German town for which it was named, it was a beautiful affair made of wrought iron painted black and gold. The central panels were fashioned to give the illusion that one was about to step into an aisle bordered by twisted pillars, covered by a domed, starred roof. Today, however, instead of marvelling at the ironwork, or lingering to drink in the scents from the nearby rose garden, Margaret simply pushed the gate open and stepped inside. Loneliness, like a heavy, suffocating blanket, was wrapping itself around her. Sensing her mood, Aoife whimpered.

The lavender border, which had been one of Julia’s innovations, was in full bloom. The fragrance released as the skirts of Margaret’s gown lightly brushed against them made her feel slightly giddy. Though this was primarily a working kitchen garden it was still a creation of great beauty, with symmetrical beds separated by grass so carefully trimmed Margaret sometimes imagined the gardeners must use nail scissors rather than scythes. The fruit bushes on the south-facing wall were beautifully espaliered, the herbs planted out like a floral bouquet. Fresh earth, new-mown grass, and the contented drone of bees ought to have been soporific, but by the time she passed the little fountain at the convergence of the paths, making for the sheltered bench on the farthest wall, tears were already tracking down her cheeks.