And then came Margaret’s first glimpse of Achnacarry, sitting low in the land just as Donald had described it, surrounded by a riot of oak trees which were green against the grey stone, the conifers on the steeply rising hill behind in hues of purple and teal. Donald’s home was not so much a castle as a country house with baronial aspirations, with a lower wing, obviously a late addition, spoiling the symmetry of the central block, and a balustraded roof adorned with an assortment of turrets. It was a solid house with a commanding view over some pretty fields full of contentedly grazing sheep to the front, and presumably the river to the rear, but it was neither imposing nor intimidating.

Margaret banished the thought that this could have been hers, reminding herself sternly of the purpose of the visit; but as the carriage came to a halt in front of a white portico and the coachman opened the door and pulled down the steps, a man appeared in the doorway to greet them and her legs turned to jelly.

“Your Grace,” she heard him say to her mother, “it is a great pleasure to welcome you to Achnacarry. I am very much obliged to you for making the effort at such short notice.”

To hear his voice was so very different from remembering it. To have him actually standing only a few feet away was unnerving. She wasn’t at all certain she could get herself out of the carriage, but she could not remain inside indefinitely. Taking herself in hand, reminding herself that it was dear Donald she was about to face, not some hostile tyrant, Margaret gathered up her skirts, pinned a smile to her face, and climbed out of the carriage.

“Margaret, you remember Lochiel, of course,” Mama said.

“Margaret!” He stared at her, utterly confounded.

“Didn’t you get my telegram? I am afraid the duke is in London,” Mama explained, “and so I brought my second daughter. Her Majesty will be pleased to meet her again. The last time was at Princess Helena’s wedding, which would be— Oh, goodness, how long ago was that?”

“Seven years,” Margaret said, holding out her hand, pleased to see it was not shaking. “How do you do, Lochiel?”

“Margaret.” He clasped his hands around hers, staring at her as if she was an apparition. “I thought you were in America.”

“I returned in March.”

“March? You are paying an extended visit, then?”

Gently she disentangled her hands from his. “I am home for good. I have taken a town house in Edinburgh.”

“A house? In Edinburgh? So you are married, then?”