“I’ve no time for those who are constantly bemoaning their fate. One makes the best of the hand one is dealt.”

“Julia said that to me when I first arrived in Powerscourt.”

“A sensible gal, is Julia, though I am of the opinion she has a smidgen of the martyr in her. I would also have loved to have children of my own, but the Lord did not bless us. Mind you, I cannot fault Alexander for endeavour. In that department, unlike Wingfield, he was ever eager, right until the end,” Aunt Marion said with a broad wink. “I see I’ve shocked you. The young imagine passion to be solely their province, but it’s not at all. I’m fifty-five years old and far from decrepit. You should find that reassuring.”

“I am sure I shall, one day,” Margaret replied, blushing and laughing.

“True, true, time enough to concern yourself with that kind of thing—you’ve your whole life ahead of you.” The ship’s anchors were creaking up, and the RMS Scotia was rocking into motion. “There’s no going back now.”

“I know, and when I am not excited about that, I’m terrified.”

“I won’t say have no regrets, for that would be plain silly. You’ll have regrets by the score, but the trick, my dear Margaret, is to continue onwards and upwards.” Aunt Marion raised her glass. “A toast, my dear. Here is to pastures new.”

The Scotia’s horn gave one final blast. “Pastures new,” Margaret said, as the ship began to pick up speed at an alarming rate, and they set sail for New York. “And here is to making the most of second chances,” she added quietly to herself.

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

New York, January 1868