Page 32 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lord Dearborn said, bowing over each lady’s hand in turn. “Any friend of the Duke’s is most welcome at Wildwood. Though I fear you find us in something of a muddle — my wife and daughters are visiting her sister in Bath, leaving me to bachelor solitude.”

“We have come to impose upon your generosity in the matter of Christmas greenery,” Niall explained. “The Duchess is planning a Ball, and Stonemont House requires suitable decoration.”

“Say no more, say no more,” Lord Dearborn replied, waving them towards the entrance. “You are welcome to whatever the grounds provide. But first, some refreshment, I think. The journey from London, though short, can be chilling in December.”

He spoke to the hovering butler, then they followed him into a comfortably appointed drawing room, where a fire blazed cheerfully in the grate. A maid appeared promptly with tea and biscuits, served in china of good quality, though lacking the exquisite delicacy of the Stonemont service.

As they warmed themselves with tea, Lord Dearborn engaged Miss Murchison in conversation about Scotland, displaying a genuine interest in the country that seemed to thaw her usual reserve. Èibhlin contributed occasionally to their discussion, but Niall noted her gaze wandering repeatedly to the window, where the gardens and woods beyond beckoned.

“Perhaps we might begin our expedition while the light remains strong,” he suggested, once the tea had been consumed. “The best holly is in the south wood, I believe?”

“Indeed it is,” Lord Dearborn agreed, rising from his chair. “And the mistletoe in the old orchard beyond. I’ve had the gardeners prepare some baskets and clippers for your use. Will you require assistance, or do you prefer to make your own selections?”

“If you could spare a gardener to direct us to the best locations, that would be most helpful,” Niall replied. “Though the actual gathering we can manage ourselves.”

Lord Dearborn nodded, then turned to Miss Murchison with a thoughtful expression. “The path to the woods can be somewhat muddy after the recent snow, Miss Murchison. Perhaps you might prefer to remain here by the fire? I have some rather beautiful botanical texts from the Scottish Highlands that might interest you.”

Miss Murchison hesitated, clearly torn between her duty as chaperone and the temptation of comfortable warmth and intellectual conversation.

“That is most kind, Lord Dearborn, but propriety dictates—”

“I shall ensure that all proprieties are observed, Miss Murchison,” Niall interrupted smoothly. “My footman will accompany us, and we shall remain in full view of the house at all times.”

After a moment’s further hesitation, Miss Murchison nodded.

“Very well. But I expect you to return within the hour, Èibhlin. These winter days grow dark quickly.”

“Of course, Aunt Muireall,” Èibhlin replied, though Niall caught the flash of pleasure in her eyes at this unexpected freedom. “We shall be most expedient.”

Minutes later, they set out across the frost-hardened lawn, accompanied by two Stonemont footmen carrying baskets and clippers, and a weathered gardener who led the way towards the south wood. The air was crisp and cold, their breath forming small clouds before them as they walked.

“You seem pleased to escape the confines of the house,” Niall observed, matching his pace to Èibhlin’s. “Has London grown tiresome already?”

She glanced at him, a smile lighting her features.

“Not tiresome, precisely. But I miss the freedom of Scotland — the ability to walk for hours without encountering another soul, to breathe air untainted by coal smoke.”

“I remember that feeling well,” he said, memories of his boyhood visits to Greenfell Holt rising unbidden. “There is a wildness to Scotland that England lacks, a sense of... possibility.”

“Exactly so!” Her eyes brightened with shared understanding. “Here everything seems so ordered, so constrained by rules and expectations. In Scotland, the land itself resists such neat arrangements.”

They had reached the edge of the wood now, where ancient oaks and beeches stood sentinel, their bare branches etched against the pale winter sky. The gardener, a taciturn man named Jenkins, pointed towards a stand of holly trees some distance away.

“Best specimens be that way, Your Grace. Good berries this year, nice and red. Mind the path though — gets slippery where the snow’s melted.”

Niall nodded his thanks, then gestured for Èibhlin to precede him along the narrow track. The footmen followed at a discreet distance, maintaining propriety while allowing them a measure of privacy for conversation.

“Do you recall the holly and mistletoe that we gathered at Greenfell Holt that Christmas?” he asked, as they made their way carefully between the trees. “You insisted on selecting each branch yourself, though some were quite beyond your reach.”

Èibhlin laughed, the sound bright in the hushed woodland.

“I was a determined child, wasn’t I? Always convinced that I could manage without assistance, even when evidence suggested otherwise.”

“You were refreshingly independent,” he corrected, smiling at the memory. “Most girls your age would have been content to admire the decorations once arranged, rather than participating in their gathering.”

“My mother encouraged such participation,” she said, her expression softening. “She believed that Christmas preparations should involve the entire household, from highest to lowest. It made the celebration more meaningful, somehow.”

“A wise perspective,” Niall replied, thinking of his own mother’s more formal approach to holiday festivities. “My father felt similarly, though my mother prefers to delegate such tasks to the staff.”