Page 2 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“Viscount Felldale and I have known each other for many years, though our paths cross infrequently. I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. Lady Felldale was a woman of remarkable grace.”

A brief pang of grief pierced Èibhlin’s heart at the mention of her mother.

“Thank you, Your Grace. She would have been honoured by your words.”

“Indeed.” The Duchess gestured to the arrangement of chairs and settees. “Please, be seated. I have ordered tea to be served. You must be fatigued after your journey.”

As they settled themselves, Aunt Muireall’s spine as rigid as a poker, a maid entered with a tea tray laden with delicate porcelain cups and a silver teapot. The Duchess waved the maid away and poured the tea, waiting until they each had a cup in hand before speaking again.

“I trust that your accommodations at the posting inn were satisfactory?”

“Quite adequate, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall replied before Èibhlin could speak. “Though I confess that I find travel increasingly tiresome as I age. The roads from Scotland are not what they once were.”

“I can well imagine,” the Duchess said, her tone suggesting that she could not imagine it at all. “It is fortunate that you were able to accompany your niece, Miss Muireall. A young woman requires proper chaperonage, particularly one who has lived so... remotely.”

Èibhlin sensed the subtle critique and fought to keep her expression neutral as she sipped her tea. The cup was so fine that she feared it might shatter in her trembling hands.

“I assure you, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall said, her Scottish accent becoming more pronounced, “that despite our ‘remote’ living, my niece has been raised with the utmost attention to propriety and decorum. My sister-in-law saw to that before her passing, and I have continued her education since.”

The Duchess inclined her head.

“I am sure that you have done admirably. However, London society has its own particular rules and nuances. It will be my pleasure to introduce Miss Èibhlin to these subtleties before her formal presentation in the spring.”

Èibhlin placed her cup carefully on its saucer.

“I am eager to learn, Your Grace. My father believes that a Season in London will broaden my horizons considerably.”

“Viscount Felldale is wise to consider your future,” the Duchess said. “A young woman of your... position… should have the opportunity to make suitable acquaintances.”

The emphasis on ‘position’ made Èibhlin’s cheeks warm. She was acutely aware that, as the daughter of a Scottish Viscount, her rank, while respectable, was not particularly distinguished in the eyes of the English aristocracy.

“My niece’s position,” Aunt Muireall said, her voice taking on an edge, “includes the distinction of being her father’s heir. The Felldale title, while perhaps not as ancient as some English peerages, is nevertheless one of considerable standing in Scotland.”

The Duchess’s eyebrows rose fractionally.

“Indeed? How... unusual. I was not aware that Scottish titles could pass through the female line.”

“Some can, Your Grace,” Èibhlin explained, attempting to smooth the increasingly tense atmosphere. “The Felldale Viscountcy was granted with special remainder to heirs general, not merely heirs male. It is not common, but neither is it unprecedented, especially in Scotland.”

“How fascinating,” the Duchess murmured, though her tone suggested that she found it merely peculiar. “In any case, your father has entrusted you to my guidance, and I shall endeavour to introduce you to the best of London society. The Christmas season provides ample opportunity for more... intimate… gatherings before the crush of the spring Season begins.”

Aunt Muireall set her cup down with a sharp click.

“I trust these gatherings will be of an appropriate nature for a young woman of Èibhlin’s breeding?”

The Duchess’s smile tightened.

“I assure you, Miss Murchison, that I would never expose Miss Èibhlin to anything unsuitable. The festivities I have in mind are quite select and will serve to ease her into society gradually.”

Èibhlin felt caught between opposing forces, like a small boat trapped between colliding waves.

She sought for something, anything, to say which might defuse the tension.

“I look forward to experiencing a London Christmas, Your Grace. I have heard that the decorations and celebrations here are quite different from our Scottish traditions.”

“Different, indeed,” the Duchess replied, some of the frost leaving her voice. “Though I imagine that you will find much to enjoy. The house will soon be adorned with holly and evergreens, as well as draperies, ribbons and more. We observe the old customs here — quite tastefully, of course.”

“We have mistletoe at Felldale Castle,” Èibhlin offered, then immediately wished she hadn’t, when both older women gave her sharp looks.