“They will still need me at the school for story time.”

“When you publish your book, the children will be able to read the stories for themselves.”

“That’s a lovely thought. I wish that I could give every child a copy, but books are so expensive unless I—oh my goodness, you have just given me the most wonderful idea. Lewis Strange Wingfield, I do believe you are a genius.”

He preened. “I know. What was my wonderful idea exactly?”

“I could have the stories published as chap-books—you know, like the lesson books they have in the school. They are very cheap to make.” Margaret’s smile faded. “Though probably not cheap enough. I don’t really have any money.”

“Speak to Julia. I know for a fact that Mervyn gives her an allowance for charitable purposes. I would think your books qualify.”

“I didn’t know that. Do you think she will help me?”

“I am sure she will be delighted to. She’s not very happy, is she? She covers it up well, but her smile is sometimes quite pained.”

“All she wants is a baby. It seems so tragic that people like Breda’s mother get more children than they can cope with, while people like Julia . . .”

“Perhaps this time when my brother is home he will—they will—oh, you know. I hope they do resolve the matter. Aside from my not wanting to inherit Powerscourt, it would be wrong.”

“In what way?”

Lewis paused to open the gate that led to the Green Pond. “I was only two when the Sixth Viscount died, and my mother married Londonderry two years later—or Castlereagh, as he was then. But there is a rumour, a persistent rumour, that my mother and he were lovers before she was widowed. That I am not a Wingfield at all, but Londonderry’s bastard.”

“Lewis! That is shocking!”

“Is it?” He frowned down at the pond, then shrugged, heading for the path once more. “The man whose name I bear died when I was an infant. The man whose blood in all likelihood runs in my veins has been locked up in an asylum for the last five years. Which would I choose as my father? Does it change who I am?”

Lewis led the way to a wooden bench. “Sit with me a moment, Margaret, I’m going to be that rare thing for me, deadly serious. You are wasting away here. I know you are busy making yourself useful—and though Julia doesn’t say much, she appreciates your company—but don’t you think you’ve been hiding away long enough? There is a big world beyond Powerscourt’s gates.”

“I know there is, and I would love to see it, but how? I have no means to support myself. . . .”

“Never mind that for now. Do you agree or not?”