“The usual. Another month, and still no sign of me being with child, and now Wingfield has gone off to London and heaven knows when he’ll be back.” A tear trickled down Julia’s cheek. Snatching her hand back, she found her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “We have been married for three years come April, and I have signally failed to find myself in an interesting condition. The matter wasn’t so urgent while Maurice was alive, but now he is gone, and Mervyn is becoming increasingly agitated at the thought of Lewis inheriting.” Julia sighed wearily. “Wingfield married me to produce an heir. It is the one thing he required of me, and I have let him down.”

“It takes two people to make a child, Julia, and Lord Powerscourt was away from home for six months.”

“He has been home since October. Four months! You’d think that would be time enough. The truth is, even when he is here he pays more attention to his collections,” Julia said bitterly. “His gardens are flourishing, his precious deer are breeding, but his wife is barren.”

“You don’t know that!” Margaret exclaimed, appalled. But as she slid a glance at Julia, sitting rigidly erect, gazing blankly out of the window where the rain was falling so heavily it all but obliterated the view, Margaret struggled to think of any practical advice to offer. The matter was so delicate, and Julia so very reserved. Yet she was obviously wretched; something had to be said. “When he is at home, does he— what I mean is, does your husband come to your bed?”

Julia’s cheeks flooded with colour. “Yes.”

“And does he . . .” Margaret flinched. Her own cheeks were blazing. “Does he perform the act? Adequately, I mean?” she asked, realising as she did so that she wasn’t at all sure what she meant.

“I think so,” Julia whispered, keeping her gaze fixed on the window. “As far as I am aware, he does what is necessary, but to no avail. Every month I have to endure the embarrassment of my maid removing the evidence of my failure, knowing that the bad news will be all over the servants’ hall in five minutes.”

“Oh, Julia . . .”

“And it’s not only the servants. The whole county are watching and waiting. When Wingfield brought me here as his bride, Margaret, there were such celebrations, and I was so filled with hope. He was more conscientious then, when we were first married, but I think my continued failure to conceive has put him off.” Julia shuddered. “It is mortifying. I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. You are not even married.”

“You must talk to someone. Couldn’t you write to your mama?”