Charlotte stifled a laugh. “When you are married, you will likely find that he becomes considerably less assiduous.”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

The heartfelt words startled them both. “When you have a family,” Charlotte said bracingly, “you will likely spend most of your time in the country, for fresh air is what young children need. You certainly thrived on it. I expect that Killin’s business interests will keep him occupied elsewhere, so for the better part of the year, you will hardly see him.”

Contrary to her hopes, Margaret was not at all reassured by this. “I have a horrible premonition that Killin’s progeny will be tediously correct and rather boring.”

“I doubt it, not with you as their mother. In point of fact, there is a great deal to be said for having a tediously correct and rather boring child.”

“Then I will name my first daughter Victoria in the hope of guaranteeing that.”

Seeing the spark of laugher in Margaret’s eyes, Charlotte permitted herself a small, complicit smile.

Margaret stared down at her gown, pleating the silk of the skirt between her fingers. “Mama, you and my father do a great deal of charitable work, don’t you?”

“We are both very much aware of our position in society,” Charlotte replied, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “We feel it is our duty to do what we can by serving on committees, raising funds, sponsoring causes, that kind of thing.”

“I have been thinking that I would also like to do something useful. I have so much time on my hands between engagements and nothing to do with it, save kick my heels at home. I know you will say I should read an improving book or some other worthy endeavour but . . .”

“Go on,” Charlotte said warily.

“There is a parson, Reverend Beckwith, who lives with his sister in Lambeth.”

“How on earth did you come to meet a clergyman from Lambeth?”

“I met him through Lochiel.”

Colour stained her daughter’s cheeks. She wasn’t lying, Charlotte was sure of it. Margaret never lied, but there was more to the affair than she was admitting. However, there was no more respectable and trustworthy man than Donald Cameron of Lochiel. “You think this parson can provide you with a useful occupation? Does he wish you to help him with his charity works?”

“Father Sebastian—that is how he is known there—hasn’t actually asked for my help. His parish is near Waterloo Bridge Station, and he lives with his sister, who is a widow. I hoped that I might assist her in some practical capacity.”

“Practical?” Charlotte frowned. “Are you thinking of emulating the charitable work that Lady Cavendish does, soup-kitchens and the like? It is most commendable, but hardly the kind of endeavour you should be getting embroiled in while your future is hanging in the balance. Frankly, Margaret, I am not at all sure that Killin would approve.”