Whatever the truth, Margaret would in all likelihood never know. All she did know from Mama, was that Louise was still keeping the queen constant company both in public and in private. She had been at the State Opening of Parliament in February. In May, she was one of the godparents to Bertie and Alix’s daughter, her new niece bearing her own name. And in August she and the queen had visited Floors Castle, where Margaret’s father had been one of the guests, though Mama had not been present. If there had been any hint of scandal, surely Louise would, like Margaret, have been hidden from public scrutiny? Then again, perhaps she had learned from Margaret’s painful lesson that to do so would heighten speculation to fever pitch.

Margaret sighed impatiently. Wherever Louise was, whatever her state of mind, she wasn’t thinking of her former friend on this, her birthday. Nor, it seemed, was Donald, which did surprise her, though it could be that his letter was still in the post. By far the biggest surprise, however, was the letter from her father.

She stared incredulously at the single sheet of paper bearing the Buccleuch crest. She had given up hope of receiving a reply to the proposal she had sent her father back in August. She had agonised for weeks over the precise wording. Donald had cautioned her not to expect a response, and as the weeks passed, she had reconciled herself to having failed. The urge to write again had been strong, but she had nothing to add to what she had already said, and she would not weaken her case by pleading. She had resisted the temptation to ask Mama for the duke’s reaction, warning her in advance that she had written and going so far as to ask her not to intervene.

Margaret read the letter again to make sure she had not misunderstood, but the contents, written in her father’s familiar scrawl, were unambiguous. I have carefully considered your proposal, and have reluctantly decided to accede to your request.

Her father had granted her wish to live independently, awarding her the full settlement she requested, the equivalent of the dowry which he would no longer be required to offer. She would be able to live well, to travel without scrimping, and she would certainly not be required to hide away in a little cottage subsisting on bacon fat and dry bread. There were strict terms and conditions attached, of course. Wherever she chose to live, it could not be in England or Scotland or, as he put it in his usual grandiose terms, on the same sovereign soil as any of my residences. Any hint of a public scandal, and her annuity would be instantly revoked. The duke had finally accepted that she would never do his bidding, acknowledging her right to choose a different life for herself, but he would continue to judge her.