She could not claim to be happy, but she was busy, and that was enough. She had found a niche here at Powerscourt, and a purpose, which was so much more than she’d ever imagined possible. She had stopped railing at her exiled state, stopped questioning the rights and the wrongs of it, stopped asking herself when and how it would end, or if it ever would. Was that burying her head in the sand? Perhaps. But what was the alternative when she was powerless to influence the outcome? Unlike so many she had encountered, she was safe and well-fed, with a roof over her head. She was resolved to be patient, and in the meantime to continue to follow Julia’s lead in making the best of her lot.

IT WAS A SATURDAY, so the school was closed. Lord Powerscourt had left yesterday for London and the sale rooms, which meant that Margaret could safely ensconce herself in the octagon library and scribble away at her stories without fear of interruption. Julia would probably be indoors, too, working on her chair covers, since the weather had deteriorated markedly by the time Margaret stabled Pennygael. What his lordship insisted on referring to as Lady Powerscourt’s sitting room was one of the few stag-free chambers. Instead, two pairs of large and particularly ugly Sèvres pug dogs squatting on gold cushions sat on opposite ends of the mantelpiece, gazing out belligerently at all comers. When Margaret entered, Julia was sitting at the window beside her embroidery frame, the canvas for her latest work-in-progress chair cover stretched taut, the coloured wools laid out in a row on top of her sewing box.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Margaret said. The Berlin work cover on the frame was embroidered in a trellis pattern of diamond shapes in muted tones, with a violet, scallop-like flower in the centre of each. “This is so pretty. And the colours are very restful. How many have you completed so far?”

“This is only the third. I have another twenty-one to make. My legacy to Powerscourt,” Julia said. “Most likely my only one.”

Her tone was morose. Looking at her more closely, Margaret saw that her eyes were red-rimmed. “What is the matter?” she asked, sitting down on the sofa beside her and taking her hand.