It was becoming stiflingly hot in the orangery, so she decided to visit Spider. Outside, her footprints had already been obliterated by the snow. Wrapping her cloak more tightly around her, Margaret followed the path through the archway that led to the inner courtyard of the stable block. She could hear the whinnying of the horses coming from the boxes which lined two sides of the cobble-stoned square. One of the stable cats brushed past her legs, disappearing into the coach-house where the huge outmoded travelling coach belonging to the previous duke was stored. Margaret had never met her grandfather, who died when Papa was only twelve, but if his coach, embellished with gilt and lined with red velvet, was anything to go by, he had been a man with a very defined sense of his own importance. One summer, when Louise had been permitted pay a rare visit to Dalkeith, the pair of them foolishly tried to harness the coach up to two of the Shire horses. Fortunately they had been caught by Papa’s head groom before they could do any damage either to the coach or the animals. Unfortunately, her elder sister had witnessed their escapade and felt obliged to report the heinous crime to Mama. Louise, she recalled, had put salt in Victoria’s lemonade at dinner that evening, though naturally Margaret got the blame. At this moment in time, Lou would probably be getting changed for dinner at Windsor. Was she thinking of Margaret? If she was, she would be thinking she was feeling far too sorry for herself!

The fountain in the centre of the stable-yard was frozen over. A burst of raucous male laughter from the buildings opposite the clock tower, where the grooms and stable hands had their quarters, shattered the silence.

Margaret hurried towards her pony’s stall. Spider whinnied a greeting, his muzzle soft on her palm. She rubbed her cheek against his flank, breathing in the familiar, comfortable equine smell. “Here you go, old boy,” she whispered, fishing a carrot from her pocket. “It’s not much, I know, but merry Christmas anyway.” The pony whickered, making her smile. “You’re very welcome.”

Back outside, she followed the carriage-way as it climbed through the woodland to the crown of the hill and Montagu Bridge, built to celebrate the marriage of her great-grandfather, the third duke. There was a portrait of him by Gainsborough at Drumlanrig, which was one of her favourites, for not only did her great-grandfather have the same vivid red hair as she, he held a little dog in his arms that he was clearly very fond of.