My home is the Achnacarry Estate in Invernesshire, near the little village of Spean Bridge, and just north of the town of Fort William. The land is rugged, with some fine woods, and the castle itself sits low on the terrain, not far from Loch Arkaig, where I am thinking of building a new pier to allow a steamer to berth. She still had the letter he had written to her in Ireland. She still had all his letters. I think you would like it, Margaret. I know that I would very much like to show it to you one day.

And now that day had arrived, but she would not be arriving as the estate’s future mistress, only as additional ballast to the guests he and his wife had assembled to greet the queen. She smoothed an imaginary crease out of the olive-green travelling gown that Mama had been astonished to learn she had bought ready-made. It was quite plain, a pleated hem and cuffs and a row of pearl buttons on the bodice the only trimmings, but she had long ago given up any attempt to be fashionable and the colour suited her. Would Donald think her much changed? Perhaps she would find him much altered? What would Helen look like? And goodness, would they have children? It hadn’t even occurred to her until now. Mama had made no mention of children, but then Mama had no notion at all that Margaret and Donald were anything other than acquaintances. Which they were not, now.

“This must be Loch Lochy,” the duchess said, leaning out of the window. “Isn’t it lovely?”

“Beautiful,” Margaret agreed, gazing out at the wooded banks of the loch, the hills behind looking blue rather than green. The road turned away from the loch to follow the banks of another river and the terrain became much more lush, the mountains more rugged. They had left Dalkeith in mizzle. As they journeyed north the skies had darkened and the rain had fallen with determined ferocity, but now the skies were clear, with only a few harmless puffy clouds drifting on the horizon. Through the open window of the carriage came the scent of spruce trees and bracken, the rush of the river, and the rumble of the coach wheels on the rutted road.