Margaret leaned on the parapet, surveying Dalkeith Palace, standing proud on the hill across the narrow but steep valley. The bow windows of the drawing-room and, above it, the library were shuttered. The snow had stopped falling, but the steep-pitched roofs were white. It didn’t look like home at all from here but unwelcoming, cold, rather forbidding. Though in the basement she could see lights glowing from the servants’ hall.

She had been languishing here for five months. She could ride Spider anytime she chose, go for endless walks with the dogs, with no-one to chastise her for coming back late with muddy boots and wind-blown hair. But walking dogs and riding horses did not amount to a life lived.

Resuming her walk, she followed the sweep of the carriage-way past the house, and onwards towards the main entrance gates where St. Mary’s church lay in darkness. Generations of Montagus, Douglases, and Scotts had worshipped here, all of whom had assiduously done their level best to increase the family weal. They had given up their home to King George when he paid his historic state visit to Edinburgh, decamping to a hotel in Edinburgh. More recently, they had played host to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. They had served the county as members of Parliament. Papa served on a hundred committees, gave to a thousand charitable causes. He was responsible for the railway line into Dalkeith from Edinburgh. He had been instrumental in building bridges and roads, parochial schools, and any number of churches. Amo, “I Love,” was the Buccleuch family motto, and as far as Papa was concerned, it meant “I Love to Serve.”

She, too, would love to serve, but as a mere female, her purpose was neither practical nor philanthropic. Buccleuch women made strategic marriages, increasing their power and wealth, before breeding the next generation of dutiful progeny, raising them to do the same. That was what she’d been born to. That was her duty. Why did she find it so difficult to accept? Why couldn’t she simply do as her sister had done, and her mother before her, perform her role with grace and elegance and make the best of it?

Because I’m neither graceful nor elegant! Looking down at her soaked boots, feeling the damp hem of her cloak flapping about her ankles, and knowing that her hair would be a sodden mass of rebellious curls, Margaret couldn’t help but laugh at herself. Could one learn to be both? If she looked to Louise as an example rather than her sister, if she applied herself as she never had before, then surely it could be achieved. Though grace and elegance were not the issue, were they?