Page 16 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Chapter Five

“Remember, my dear,” the Duchess said, adjusting her gloves as the carriage pulled away from Stonemont House, “Lady Westmoreland is an old friend of mine, but she is also a stickler for proper etiquette. Speak only when spoken to, and keep your answers brief but thoughtful.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Èibhlin replied, smoothing her skirts nervously.

She wore her best day gown, having few options for morning calls, and hoped that it would be considered appropriate.

“And for heaven’s sake,” Aunt Muireall interjected, “do not mention those dreadful Latin texts of yours. Nothing frightens a potential suitor more than a young woman with ideas above her station. It’s also just the sort of thing that these ladies will certainly disapprove of.”

“I have no intention of discussing classical literature at a morning call, Aunt Muireall,” Èibhlin said, trying to keep the edge from her voice.

The weight of expectation pressed on her from both sides — her aunt’s stern warnings and the Duchess’ careful instructions forming a cage of propriety around her.

As they travelled through the fashionable streets of Mayfair, Èibhlin found herself wishing that Niall had accompanied them. His presence would have been a comfort, a familiar anchor in these unfamiliar waters. She had glimpsed him at the window as they departed, his tall figure framed by the morning light, his expression unreadable at such a distance.

Had he been watching for her? The thought brought a flutter of warmth to her chest, quickly suppressed as the carriage drew to a halt before an imposing townhouse.

“Lady Westmoreland’s residence,” the Duchess announced, as the footman opened the carriage door. “Remember, Miss Èibhlin—measured speech, proper posture, and a modest demeanour.”

“And do not fidget with your gloves,” Aunt Muireall added sharply. “You have developed that habit of late, and it is most unseemly.”

Èibhlin clasped her hands firmly together, determined to give neither woman cause for criticism. As they ascended the steps, she drew a deep breath, steadying herself for the ordeal ahead.

A butler received them with formal courtesy, conducting them to a drawing room where Lady Westmoreland awaited. The room was elegantly appointed, with furniture of the finest quality and tasteful Christmas greenery arranged on the mantelpiece and windowsills. A small fire burned in the grate, casting a warm glow over the scene.

Lady Westmoreland rose to greet them — a tall, stately woman with silver-streaked dark hair and keen eyes that missed nothing.

“Amelia, how delightful to see you,” she said, extending her hands to the Duchess. “And these must be your Scottish guests.”

“Indeed,” the Duchess replied. “May I present The Honourable Miss Murchison and her niece, The Honourable Miss Èibhlin Murchison, daughter of Viscount Felldale. Ladies, the Countess of Westmoreland.”

Èibhlin curtsied deeply, conscious of the Countess’ assessing gaze.

“It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Lady Westmoreland.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” the Countess replied, gesturing for them to be seated. “Scotland, is it? I have a cousin who married a Scottish Baronet. Found the climate quite intolerable, poor thing. Always wrapped in furs like a Russian Princess.”

“The Scottish climate builds character, my Lady.”

Aunt Muireall’s tone suggested that English character might benefit from such fortification.

The Countess’ eyebrows rose fractionally.

“Indeed? How... bracing. And you, Miss Èibhlin — do you find London’s milder weather to your liking?”

“Very much so, my Lady,” Èibhlin replied carefully. “Though there is a beauty to Scotland’s wild landscape that I do miss at times.”

“I imagine that it must seem quite plain here, without all of those picturesque mountains and glens,” the Countess said, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Such a shame you’ve arrived in winter. London is at its best in spring, when the Season is in full swing.”

“Miss Èibhlin will be staying through the Season,” the Duchess interjected. “I have undertaken to sponsor her introduction to society.”

“How generous of you, Amelia,” Lady Westmoreland murmured, her gaze moving speculatively between the Duchess and Èibhlin. “Though I confess that I’m surprised. You’ve never shown particular interest in sponsorship before.”

“Viscount Felldale is an old friend,” the Duchess replied smoothly. “When he expressed his wish for his daughter to experience London society, I could hardly refuse.”

“Of course not,” the Countess agreed, though her tone suggested that she found the explanation incomplete. “And how are you finding London society thus far, Miss Èibhlin?”

“Everyone has been most welcoming, my Lady,” Èibhlin said, hoping that the slight tremor in her voice wasn’t noticeable. “The Duchess has been exceedingly kind.”