Page 10 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Chapter Three

The tour of the library had been both a pleasure and a torment. For two blissful hours that morning, Èibhlin had been in Niall’s company, surrounded by leather-bound volumes and the comforting scent of paper and ink. He had shown her treasures — rare first editions, beautifully illustrated botanical texts, and a collection of Scottish poetry that had brought a homesick lump to her throat.

Throughout it all, Aunt Muireall had maintained her role as chaperone with grim determination, trailing behind them like a disapproving shadow, occasionally making pointed comments about the extravagance of collecting books ‘merely for show’. Niall had managed her barbs with gracious composure, though Èibhlin had noticed the slight tightening around his eyes each time her aunt spoke.

Now, as Lucy arranged her hair for the Duchess’ dinner party, Èibhlin found her thoughts returning to a moment when their hands had brushed as they both reached for the same volume of Burns’ poetry.

The contact had lasted but a second, yet the warmth of it lingered still, hours later.

“You have such lovely hair, Miss,” Lucy commented, deftly weaving a strand of pearls through the elaborate arrangement. “This style suits you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Lucy.” Èibhlin studied her reflection, scarcely recognising the elegant young woman who gazed back at her. Her blue gown, one of the finest she owned besides the green silk, complimented her fair complexion, and brought out the deep red of her hair. “I only hope that I do not disappoint the Duchess tonight.”

“I’m sure you won’t, Miss.” Lucy secured the final pin and stepped back to admire her work. “Her Grace has invited Lady Harrington and her daughter, along with Sir Thomas Thornfield. Very select company, Mrs Graves says.”

Èibhlin’s stomach tightened with nerves. This dinner was clearly a test — the Duchess’ way of assessing whether she was fit to be introduced to wider society.

“And what sort of people are they, Lucy? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Lucy’s eyes widened slightly at being consulted, but she seemed pleased to share her knowledge.

“Lady Harrington is very grand — one of the Duchess’ oldest friends. Miss Harrington is about your age, Miss, and quite accomplished, they say. Sir Thomas is a widower, very wealthy, with estates near His Grace’s country seat at Haverly.”

Èibhlin nodded, grateful for the information. At least she would not be going in entirely blind.

“And do they call here often?”

“Lady Harrington visits regularly. Sir Thomas less so, though he and His Grace sometimes ride together in the Park.” Lucy hesitated, then added in a lower voice, “The servants say he’s looking for a wife, Miss. Been widowed these three years now.”

Before Èibhlin could respond to this interesting piece of intelligence, a sharp knock announced Aunt Muireall’s arrival. She entered without waiting for a response, her gaze immediately critical as she assessed Èibhlin’s appearance.

“Well, at least you look presentable,” she said, her usual greeting. Tonight, she wore a gown of her preferred deep burgundy, which did not really suit her. “I trust that you remember everything we discussed? The Duchess will be watching your every move, make no mistake.”

“Yes, Aunt Muireall.” Èibhlin rose, smoothing her skirts. “I will do my best not to embarrass you.”

“It is not my embarrassment that concerns me,” her aunt replied tartly. “It is your future prospects. The Duchess’ opinion will determine your reception in society. Mind your posture, speak only when spoken to, and for heaven’s sake, do not mention your interest in those dreadful Greek poems. No gentleman wishes to marry a bluestocking.”

Èibhlin bit back a retort. There was no point in arguing; her aunt’s views on a woman’s proper role were as fixed as the stars.

“I shall endeavour to be the model of propriety.”

“See that you do.” Aunt Muireall cast a final critical glance over her niece. “Come, we must not keep the Duchess waiting.”

As they descended to the drawing room, Èibhlin felt her nerves tighten further. The knowledge that she was to be judged — not just by the Duchess, but by strangers of consequence — made her palms damp beneath her gloves. She thought suddenly, desperately, of Felldale Castle, of the wild freedom of the moors and the comfort of her father’s library. How simple life had seemed there, how uncomplicated.

But there was no retreating now. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, determined to face the evening with the dignity her mother had taught her.

“The Honourable Miss Murchison and The Honourable Miss Èibhlin Murchison,” Hartwell announced as they entered the drawing room.

The Duchess rose to greet them, resplendent in a gown of silver-grey silk that flattered her still-handsome features.

“Ah, Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin. How delightful you both look this evening.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Èibhlin curtsied, conscious of the room’s other occupants. “You are most kind.”

The Duchess turned to the assembled company.

“Allow me to make the introductions. Lady Harrington, Miss Harrington, Sir Thomas Thornfield — may I present The Honourable Miss Murchison and her niece, The Honourable Miss Èibhlin Murchison, daughter of Viscount Felldale of Scotland.”