Page 40 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“We shall place another mistletoe ball in the garden corridor,” the Duchess declared, interrupting Èibhlin’s reflections. “It’s a traditional location for such decorations, though of course, kisses under the mistletoe should be limited to chaste brushes of the lips to the cheek, so that propriety is maintained.”

The comment, delivered with pointed emphasis, brought a flush to Èibhlin’s cheeks. For in that very moment, her mind had conjured an image so vivid and improper that she feared the Duchess might somehow discern it from her expression - Niall and herself, standing beneath the mistletoe, his arms around her as they had been at Wildwood Manor, but this time drawing her closer, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that had nothing to do with propriety or tradition.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears. “Propriety must always be our guide.”

The Duchess gave her a searching look, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, before turning to instruct a footman on the placement of some drapery.

Èibhlin took the opportunity to compose herself, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled slightly from the force of her imaginings.

What madness had taken hold of her, to entertain such thoughts while standing beside the Duchess herself?

It was one thing to write of her confused feelings in the privacy of her diary, quite another to indulge in improper fantasies in the midst of Christmas preparations. She was behaving like a romantic schoolgirl rather than a well-bred young woman of twenty.

“Miss Èibhlin?” The Duchess’ voice recalled her to the present. “Let us examine the ballroom once more. I wish to ensure that the musicians’ gallery is properly arranged.”

As they moved through the grand rooms of Stonemont House, now transformed by evergreens, drapery, ribbons, and the warm glow of coloured lanterns, Èibhlin could not help but contrast the elegance of these preparations with the simpler celebrations at Felldale Castle. There, Christmas had been a more intimate affair — the household gathering in the great hall, servants and family alike sharing in the festivities, her father reading the Christmas story before a blazing fire, her mother leading them all in carols both sacred and secular.

Here, everything was arranged for display, to impress, for the assessment of critical eyes. The Ball would be a spectacle of wealth and taste, designed to showcase the Stonemont position and influence. Even the mistletoe, which at home had been a simple excuse for harmless holiday merriment, here became another element in a complex social choreography, its placement carefully calculated to allow for tradition while preventing impropriety.

“You seem pensive, Miss Èibhlin,” the Duchess observed, as they paused in the ballroom to approve the arrangement of chairs along the walls. “Are you finding our preparations overwhelming?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Èibhlin replied, summoning a smile. “I was merely reflecting on the differences between Christmas in London and at Felldale.”

“Ah, yes. I imagine country celebrations are somewhat more... rustic.” The Duchess’ tone managed to make ‘rustic’ sound like a polite substitute for ‘primitive’. “Though I’m sure that they have their charm.”

“They do indeed,” Èibhlin agreed, refusing to be baited into defending her home. “Though Stonemont House is magnificent in its Christmas finery. The Ball will be a triumph, I have no doubt.”

The Duchess inclined her head, accepting the compliment as her due.

“I have hosted Stonemont Christmas Balls for twenty-five years,” she said, a note of pride in her voice. “They have always been considered one of the highlights of the season. This year’s will be particularly special, of course, as it marks your introduction to wider society.”

“You are most generous to include me in such a significant event,” Èibhlin said, genuinely touched, despite her reservations about the Duchess’ evident matchmaking efforts. “My father will be grateful for your sponsorship of me.”

“Viscount Felldale and I have known each other for many years,” the Duchess replied, her expression softening slightly at the mention of Èibhlin’s father. “He was always a man of principle, if somewhat... unconventional... in his approach to certain matters. I imagine that he has raised you with similar values.”

There was a question in the observation, and Èibhlin considered her response carefully.

“My father believes in judging people by their character rather than their circumstances,” she said finally. “It is a perspective I have found valuable, particularly since coming to London.”

“Character is important, certainly,” the Duchess acknowledged, as they moved towards the supper room to inspect the arrangements there. “But so too are practical considerations — position, fortune, connection. These are the foundations upon which stable futures are built.”

It was a familiar refrain, one Èibhlin had heard from Aunt Muireall with increasing frequency since Lord Gregory’s attentions had become marked. Yet coming from the Duchess, with her immense social influence and clear expectations, the words carried a weight that her aunt’s could not match.

“I understand the importance of such considerations, Your Grace,” she replied, keeping her tone respectful despite her inner resistance. “Though I believe that mutual respect and shared values are equally essential for any lasting connection.”

“Naturally,” the Duchess agreed, though her expression suggested that she found such concerns secondary. “And I am sure that you will find that Lord Gregory possesses both the practical advantages and the personal qualities to make him a most suitable match. His interest in you is both flattering and fortuitous.”

As twilight deepened outside the windows, servants moved through the house lighting candles and drawing curtains against the chill.

The house had taken on a different character with its Christmas decorations — the evergreens softening the formal elegance of the furnishings, the extra candles and lanterns casting a warm glow that made even the most imposing rooms feel somehow more intimate.

And everywhere, the mistletoe hung in its strategic locations, each ball a silent invitation, a promise of momentary connection beneath its white berries and green leaves.

Èibhlin found her gaze drawn to one such ball, suspended in the archway that led to the garden corridor.

In just a week’s time, that corridor and the rooms beyond would be filled with guests, music would echo through the house, and she would stand beneath similar decorations with Lord Gregory, fulfilling the expectation that she would dance with him.

Yet in her mind, it was not Lord Gregory who occupied her thoughts, but Niall — his stormy blue eyes, his rare smile that transformed his serious features, his hands steadying her among the apple trees at Wildwood Manor.