“You do understand there will be some who will be shocked by your living alone with only servants for company?”

“Please don’t suggest that I employ a companion in your stead, because you are irreplaceable. Those who know me and like me for myself will remain my friends. Those who drop me because I’ve broken another of their rules—well then, that is their decision. I will happily weather the storm of Mr. McAllister’s disapproval. Dear Marion, you really mustn’t worry about me. Besides,” Margaret teased, “you’ve made your decision—there’s no point in questioning it now. You have to look forward, not back.”

“Ha! Hoisted by my own petard.” Marion heaved herself to her feet. “Very well. Patrick will be expecting to pop a cork or two to celebrate our last evening together. I’d better go and primp myself up a bit.”

An hour later, having waved Marion, decked out in one of her finest gowns, off in a hansom cab, Margaret returned to her parlour and lit the candles on the little Christmas tree. It was decorated with baubles from Macy’s that Bina and Mouse had helped her pick. The huge Christmas tree that stood in the entrance hall at Dalkeith would be hung with the wooden stars she and her sisters had made over the years. Victoria’s were always gold and Mary’s were silver, but Margaret had chosen to paint hers a different colour each year. Would Mama have thought of her as she hung them up, those stars in emerald and scarlet and purple? There would be new additions now, made by nieces that Margaret had never seen. She retrieved the photograph which Victoria had sent her, smiling at her sister’s serious expression as she gazed down at baby Margaret in her arms. Little Cecil, who was almost three years old, was standing beside a footstool on which Walter, aged eighteen months, perched. Staring intently at the camera, he was already the image of his stern father hovering in the background.