Page 33 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

They had reached the holly trees now, their glossy green leaves and bright red berries providing a splash of colour against the winter browns and greys. Jenkins demonstrated the proper technique for cutting branches without damaging the trees, then stepped back to allow them to make their selections. As they worked, Niall found himself increasingly aware of Èibhlin’s proximity — the delicate curve of her wrist as she reached for a branch, the wisp of breath that escaped her lips in the cold air, the occasional brush of her skirts against his leg as they moved among the trees. Each small contact sent a jolt of awareness through him, a sensation both unsettling and oddly pleasant.

“This one has particularly fine berries,” she remarked, pointing to a branch just beyond her reach. “Though I fear it is too high for me.”

“Allow me,” Niall said, stepping closer. As he stretched upward and cut the branch, he was acutely conscious of her standing beside him, close enough that he could detect the faint lavender scent of her hair. He handed her the holly, careful not to let the sharp leaves prick her gloved fingers. “Will this suit your requirements?”

“Perfectly,” she replied, her voice slightly breathless in a way that part of him hoped had nothing to do with the cold. “Thank you.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the years between them seemed to dissolve — they were not a Duke and his guest, not childhood acquaintances reunited by chance, but simply Niall and Èibhlin, standing among snow-dusted trees as they had once before.

The spell was broken by Jenkins clearing his throat.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace, but if you’re wanting mistletoe as well, we should be moving on to the orchard. Light’ll be fading soon.”

“Of course,” Niall replied, stepping back with perhaps more haste than dignity required. “We have gathered sufficient holly, I believe.”

The footmen came forward to take the cut branches, arranging them carefully in the baskets. As they set off towards the orchard, Èibhlin fell into step beside Niall once more, though she maintained a slightly greater distance than before.

“Your mother mentioned that the Ball will be held on the twentieth,” she said, her tone carefully casual. “That leaves much less than a fortnight for preparations.”

“My mother is nothing if not efficient,” Niall replied, grateful for the return to safer topics. “The invitations have already been sent, and Mrs Graves has the menu well in hand. The decorations are the final element requiring attention.”

“It is most kind of her to host such an event to benefit me,” Èibhlin said, though Niall detected a note of uncertainty beneath her words. “I hope that I do not disappoint her.”

“You could never disappoint,” he said, the words escaping before he could consider their wisdom. Seeing her startled expression, he hastened to clarify. “That is to say, you have already demonstrated admirable poise in society. The Ball will merely be an extension of what you have already accomplished.”

She looked unconvinced, but offered a small smile, nonetheless.

“Your confidence is reassuring, Your Grace.”

“Niall,” he corrected impulsively. “When we are not in formal company, I would prefer... that is, as old acquaintances, surely we might...”

He trailed off, suddenly aware of the impropriety that he was, again, suggesting. But Èibhlin’s smile deepened, bringing a warmth to her eyes that sent an answering heat through his chest.

“Niall,” she agreed softly. “Though only when propriety permits, of course.”

They had reached the orchard now, where ancient apple trees stood in ordered rows, their gnarled branches bare except for clusters of mistletoe high up. The parasitic plant formed roundish, green bouquets with trailing tendrils of leaves, high against the winter sky, its waxy white berries gleaming in the afternoon light.

“Finest mistletoe in the county,” Jenkins declared with proprietary pride. “Grows best on old apple trees, it does. Need the long-handled clippers for these, Your Grace.”

He produced a tool with extended handles and a cutting mechanism at the end, designed to reach high branches from ground level. Niall took it, assessing the nearest clump of mistletoe with a critical eye.

“Perhaps this one to begin with,” he suggested, positioning the clippers. With a deft movement, he severed the mistletoe from its host, catching the falling cluster before it could hit the ground. “Perfect.”

He handed it to Èibhlin, who examined it with evident admiration. “It’s beautiful,” she said, running her fingers over the smooth leaves. “So much finer than the mistletoe that grows at Felldale.”

“The mistletoe at Greenfell Holt was particularly abundant the year you visited,” Niall recalled, moving to the next tree. “You were determined to gather some yourself, as I recall, despite the difficulty.”

Èibhlin laughed, the sound bright in the cold air.

“I was forever trying to prove that I could do whatever the boys could do. My mother despaired of ever making a proper lady of me.”

“And yet here you are,” Niall observed, glancing at her over his shoulder, “every inch the proper lady, despite your youthful rebellions.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” she replied, with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “The rebellious spirit merely hides beneath a veneer of proper behaviour.”

The admission, lightly made but unexpectedly revealing, sent a surge of heat through Niall’s chest. It was this quality — this blend of proper decorum and underlying spirit —that he found so compelling in her, so different from the calculated charm of London’s marriageable young ladies.

As they continued through the orchard, gathering mistletoe from tree after tree, their conversation flowed with increasing ease — memories of Scotland interwoven with observations about London society, shared recollections of that long-ago Christmas at Greenfell Holt emerging naturally into their exchange.