The train journey from Dublin to Cork, where the station was reached through a tunnel almost a mile long, passed in a blur. Here she and Aunt Marion boarded the train to the port of Queenstown, a scenic route that hugged the banks of Lough Mahon, allowing Margaret to stare out at the view, though her thoughts were elsewhere, to those she was leaving behind, perhaps forever.

Mama’s last, precious letter had been the source of tears, sleepless nights, and much soul-searching. It was impossible not to regret the fact that they had always been at odds and to wish that they had grown closer sooner. Though if she had followed the path her parents had chosen for her, she and Mama may never have grown close at all. Their new relationship was the product of adversity, of strife and suffering, of separation and endurance; and the same could well be said for her relationship with Victoria, perhaps even Mary. Even now, as the train ate up the miles, knowing she was in her mother’s thoughts and prayers gave Margaret some comfort.

Louise was another matter entirely. Louise was truly lost to her now, perhaps forever. Her letter had deliberately set out to wound; but as ever with Lou, Margaret knew she lashed out at those she cared for most when she was feeling vulnerable. It was not the first time Louise had rewritten history to put herself in the right, or at least in a better light. The jibes and accusations she made were the weapons she used to deflect from her own shortcomings—not that she would ever admit to having any! As to what had transpired in the last eighteen months, it was impossible to be definitive from her veiled hints, though Margaret could hazard a guess, and her heart ached with sympathy. To admit to frailty or needing love and support were beyond Lou. Like Julia, she was determined to lock her feelings down and to endure. Margaret could not help her, and any offer would be rejected. Would Louise even read her brief reply, assuring her of her continuing love and friendship? She could hope, though she wasn’t convinced.

From Donald, Margaret had heard nothing, nor had she expected to. She did not regret turning down his proposal, but, oh, how deeply she regretted losing his friendship. The temptation to write, to confide in him her fears and hopes for this new phase in her life, to set out her tentative plans for his consideration, had been almost irresistible as the weeks since her birthday flew past, but doing so would have been cruel and selfish, and she loved him too much to hurt him further or to give him false hope.