THE LARGE ENTRANCE HALLWAY AT Dalkeith was cold, the marble-tiled floor missing the Christmas tree which usually stood proudly at its centre. The banisters of the staircase were bare of the garlands of greenery which adorned them at this time of year, filling the hallway with the scent of pine. The table in the grand dining room remained swathed in Holland covers. The silver punch bowl was still locked away on a shelf in the butler’s pantry. There was no yule log burning in the hearth of the drawing-room.

Margaret had always loved Christmas at Dalkeith. The house was filled with laughter and chatter, games and feasting. Even Mama and Papa let their hair down a little. All her brothers and sisters made an effort to be together for the festive season, with their various spouses and offspring. They had gathered at Drumlanrig this year. Mary was still there. Her eldest brother, William; his wife, Louisa; and their two little boys had arrived there for an extended stay last week along with her brother John and his new wife, Cecily, and the usual collection of aunts, uncles, and cousins who made a point of travelling to Scotland to celebrate Christmas. Right up until yesterday, Margaret had hoped for a last-minute invitation to join them, but nothing had been forthcoming. No letters. No gifts. No word.

Louise had been wrong for once. Her family were perfectly capable of leaving her all alone at Dalkeith today of all days. This morning she had attended church with the rest of the household, sitting alone in her father’s pew for the Christmas service, feeling horribly exposed by her isolation, too embarrassed to join in the hymns with her usual enthusiasm. After church was when Mama usually handed out her gifts to the village children. She had asked Mrs. Mack to act in her stead this year. The housekeeper had been clearly uncomfortable performing the task, the snub to Margaret too painfully obvious to be ignored. So much so that Margaret had denied herself her annual treat of watching the children unwrap the wooden toys and barley sugar twists before telling them one of her stories. She had written a story for Mary as usual, and sent it to Drumlanrig, but she doubted her sister would be permitted to acknowledge the gift, even if she received it.

“There you are!” The green baize door to the servants’ quarters opened and Molly appeared. “What are you doing standing there like a wee lost soul?”

“I’ve decided to go for a walk.”

“It’s snowing outside. You’ll freeze.”

“I have my cloak and my mittens,” Margaret said, “and I’m wearing my sturdiest boots. I need some fresh air.”