Since we arrived at Osborne a few days ago, I have had some precious time to myself, for the queen is much occupied with the furor following the Fenian bombing at Clerkenwell and her ministers’ concerns for her personal safety. The Irish republicans’ plot to kidnap her from Balmoral was foiled, but we are now told they were also plotting to assassinate her, and attempts are currently being made to apprehend the American conspirators aboard their ship as they cross the Atlantic. I mention this, obviously, because of your letter, which I received just before we left Windsor, though I have only now found the time to read it. Having heard nothing from you for many months, I was astonished to learn that you, too, are planning to traverse the Atlantic, abandoning your friends and family for the New World. And so I, who had previously considered myself one of your oldest and dearest friends, must finally relinquish any hope of ever seeing you again.

Our parting, at Helena’s wedding a year past July, was difficult for me to bear. Your exile could have been avoided had you honoured your parents’ wishes and heeded my advice and agreed to the long-anticipated betrothal, but you chose not to do so. Our resultant separation has weighed heavily on me. You were aware of my own extremely awkward situation, and yet elected to place yourself in a position where you could provide me with no comfort. Though I naturally made little of this, in my efforts to spare your feelings, I was forced to endure a period of prolonged suffering while you established yourself in Ireland, leaving me bereft of a confidant.

Relations since then between myself and Her Majesty have been fraught. I was forced to continue in her service in the public eye in order to quell suspicion. However, despite having succeeded beyond her expectations, my credit with her remains very low, her esteem for me in tatters.

At this time, when I am more in need of a good, loyal friend than ever, I hear the news of your emigration! I will not burden you with the pain this news has inflicted upon me. Instead, I will wish you well in your new life, Margaret. I hope you enjoy the freedom which you have extracted from your family, and make new friends to replace those you leave behind. Indeed, it seems you have already begun to do so, in the form of the travelling companion of late arrived at Powerscourt. I need have no fears that you will be lonely.

Meanwhile I will continue to serve my country, to smile graciously when I feel least like doing so, and to bear the burdens of my station without complaint. The stiff upper lip, which you have so often mocked, is not a feature, I am told, of American society, where the heart is worn openly on the sleeve. That should suit you very well.