Louise was always at her most brittle and superficial when she was most unhappy. Margaret’s instincts told her that all was not well. She longed for the chance to speak to her, to comfort her, even if she had no sage advice to offer. But that would be impossible for the foreseeable future, and there was nothing to be gained by writing a letter that might not even be read or, worse, fall into the wrong hands. Whether their friendship would ever be rekindled was a question for the future. For now, their paths were heading in very different directions. Ha! If going round in ever-decreasing circles could be called a direction.

Her steps slowed, her booted feet kicking up the mulch of dried leaves and soft Irish soil of the woodland floor. She was sick of her endless, purposeless daily wandering. She had been at Powerscourt for three months now. The days trickled past, one much like another, like grains of sand in a bottomless hour-glass, as she sank more and more into a lethargic acceptance of her fate. Even the press seemed to have forgotten all about her—for Louise would surely have mentioned it, if there had been any adverse comment. She had taken to avoiding her reflection, fearing seeing a dumpy ugly duckling staring back at her, one who looked as if she had swallowed her own crinoline.

Kicking up another heap of leaves, she caught one as it fluttered down like a crinkly, mottled butterfly. Was she to pay for her refusal to do what was expected of her with a lifetime of listless inertia? She crumpled the leaf and dropped it onto the ground.

“No, I will not!” she shouted aloud, the sound reverberating through the trees. The time had come for her to take Julia’s advice and make the best of things. She was going to forgive herself for her mistakes and stop lamenting what might have been. Tomorrow was her twentieth birthday. As a gift to herself she would finally take up Julia’s offer to borrow a horse and go for a ride. Why should she continue to deny herself one of the great pleasures of her life!

Viscount Powerscourt was due home imminently. For the last two weeks, Julia had been a whirlwind of activity, preparing the house and gardens for her husband’s arrival. It was almost as if she thought that by proving to be the perfect chatelaine she would be rewarded with a child. Margaret hoped fervently that she got what she wished for. Julia’s situation was heartbreaking, though she endured it stoically; and whenever Margaret tried to raise the subject, she demurred. It must have cost her very dear to mention it in the first place.