Poor Julia was another person that Margaret was powerless to help. Though it might be a good idea, now she considered it, to make herself scarce while she and her husband tried to remedy their childless state. The very notion of playing gooseberry—no! In fact, the viscount’s arrival would be the perfect excuse for her to explore the country that was currently her home. Dublin was supposed to be beautiful, and then there was the seaside town of Bray nearby. As long as she took Breda with her, it would be perfectly in order. It was a very small step, but at least she was finally looking forward.

Entering the house through one of the side doors, Margaret was about to take the backstairs to her bedchamber with the intentions of sprucing herself up, when Aoife gave a loud, joyful bark and galloped for the main staircase. Exasperated and laughing, she gave chase all the way up to the first floor, where the dog, to her horror, bounded into the main saloon.

This was Powerscourt’s largest and most formal room. It had been used to entertain George the Fourth when he visited Ireland after his coronation, and was therefore considered sacrosanct. The armchair covered in red velvet, made specifically for His Majesty and known as the Throne, still stood in pride of place. Julia said the ornate saloon with its classical pillars and arched balcony made her feel as if she was visiting an art gallery, and Margaret couldn’t disagree. A series of niches boasted scenes painted by Wingfield’s apparently loathed younger brother, Lewis, who was, among other things, an artist. Full-size statues of semi-naked Greek and Roman goddesses stood sentinel between the pillars. In the far corner, incongruously, was a depiction of Lady Londonderry, the current viscount’s mother, whose presence was also marked by the large ebony sofa in the saloon, the coverings of which she had embroidered with Egyptian designs while on a sailing trip with her husband on the family cutter, according to the family mythology—of which there was a great deal.

Julia, whose only sewing ambition was to one day embroider a christening robe, never used this room, but today she was taking tea with a gentleman. It was not hard to deduce, from Aoife’s furiously wagging tail, that he was Lord Powerscourt, arrived two days early. His luxuriant beard covered most of his face and some of his shirt front, so bushy as to appear part of a stage costume. Suddenly remembering her dishevelled state, Margaret was on the point of retreat when Julia spotted her.

“Margaret, as you can see, my husband has arrived home earlier than expected. Come and meet him. Mervyn, this is Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott. Margaret, my husband.”

“How do you do, Lord Powerscourt?” Mortified, for her hair was hanging down her back and her gown was mud-spattered, Margaret dropped a curtsy.