In a break from tradition, Mama had arranged for the usual array of aunts and cousins to be invited elsewhere, much to their disappointment. “I want us to enjoy an intimate family gathering at Dalkeith, this year of all years,” Mama had explained, pressing Margaret’s hand. And so every one of Margaret’s six brothers and two sisters and their children had made a special effort to be there. The dining table had to be extended to its limit to accommodate the adults, and now that dinner was over and only the remains of Mrs. Mack’s famous clootie dumplings were left, the rabble of children had joined them from the nursery for party games. Margaret, seated in the middle of the table, gazed around at her extended family, smiling with quiet contentment. Mama had left the table and was seated on the hearthrug helping several of her grandsons to assemble a toy train track. The eldest two of Margaret’s brothers were gathered around the side table, where the huge silver punch bowl was set out, arguing over which of the array of bottles, oranges, lemons, and selection of spices were to be pressed into service. Victoria was seated at the far end of the table, which had been cleared, umpiring a game of spillikins, and on the other side of the hearth from Mama, Mary was allowing little Meg, Margaret’s namesake, to tie a multitude of coloured ribbons in her hair.

The duke, who had retired to the smoking room after dinner with Margaret’s youngest brother, returned and gazed around the crowded, noisy room before electing to resume his seat at the head of the table. As usual, his only acknowledgement of her presence was a curt nod.

Little Meg abandoned Mary and crept over to her side with a storybook, demanding that her aunt listen to her reading, but as Margaret prompted and turned the pages, she was aware, once again of her father gazing at her over his gold-rimmed pince-nez, his expression slightly baffled, though there was also a hint of grudging respect. He had done his level best to rid himself of her, he seemed to be thinking, yet here she was. Having made her mark on America, she now had the nerve to use the name he had given her to promote her causes in Scotland. Her extremely happy marriage to someone the duke considered to be a friend should have met with his approval, but that he, too, considered to be inexplicable, for why should she choose to do now what he had tried and failed to force her to do all those years before?

Margaret smiled quietly to herself. Because she chose to. Because she refused to know when she was beaten. Because she was stronger than she looked, as Molly had reminded her when she had been on her way to spend her first Christmas alone right here at Dalkeith Palace all those years ago.