Page 30 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

The simple observation, delivered without judgment, brought unexpected tears to Èibhlin’s eyes. She blinked them away, unwilling to give in to the emotions which threatened to overwhelm her carefully maintained composure.

“It matters little what my heart might prefer,” she said quietly. “The practical realities of my position cannot be ignored. Lord Gregory represents a connection that most young women in my circumstances would welcome without hesitation.”

“Perhaps,” Lucy acknowledged, setting the brush aside and beginning to plait Èibhlin’s hair for the night. “But if you’ll pardon my saying so, Miss, you don’t strike me as the sort of young lady who makes decisions based solely on practical considerations.”

Èibhlin couldn’t help but smile at this assessment.

“My mother always said that I had an inconvenient tendency to follow my own judgment rather than convention. It caused her no end of worry.”

“She must have been very proud of you, all the same,” Lucy said softly. “A daughter with a mind of her own is a rare blessing, even if it does make life more complicated.”

The mention of her mother brought the familiar ache of loss, tempered now by time, but never truly absent.

“She would have wanted me to be happy,” Èibhlin murmured, almost to herself. “But she would also have understood the importance of making prudent choices.”

As Lucy completed her plait and helped her into her nightrail, Èibhlin found herself wondering what her mother would have made of the current situation. Would she have encouraged Lord Gregory’s suit, as Aunt Muireall did? Or would she have perceived the mismatch between his values and Èibhlin’s, the subtle condescension that underlaid his attentions?

And what would she have thought of Niall — of the man he had become, so different from the boy Èibhlin had known, yet with glimpses of that same character still visible beneath the weight of his responsibilities? Would she have seen, as Èibhlin increasingly feared she did herself, the impossible attraction growing in her daughter’s heart?

These questions remained unanswered as Èibhlin bid Lucy goodnight and slipped beneath the covers. Outside, a light snow had begun to fall, dusting the windowsill with delicate crystals that caught the moonlight. She watched them accumulate, each unique flake adding to the growing blanket of white, and thought of Felldale Castle, of the wild beauty of the Scottish winter, of her father sitting by the fire in his library, perhaps reading one of the letters she had dutifully sent each week.

How simple life had seemed there, how uncomplicated. Yet she could not pretend, even to herself, that she wished to return — not yet, not before... before what? Before seeing whether the tenuous connection she felt with Niall might grow into something more substantial? Before discovering whether the impossible might, somehow, become possible?

Such thoughts were dangerous, leading only to disappointment and heartache. The Duke of Stonemont moved in a world far removed from her own, his future determined by considerations of dynasty and alliance rather than personal inclination.

Whatever moments of connection they might share were transient, ephemeral as the snowflakes melting against the windowpane.

Lord Gregory, for all his faults, offered a path that was at least possible — a future that society would approve of, that her aunt and the Duchess actively encouraged. Yet the thought of accepting such a future, of binding herself to a man whose every word and gesture set her teeth on edge, filled her with a quiet desperation.

As sleep finally claimed her, Èibhlin’s last conscious thought was of the approaching Ball — of the extra evergreens, drapes and candles that would adorn the grand rooms of Stonemont House, of the music and dancing that would fill the night with festive warmth, of Lord Gregory claiming her hand for the first dance.

And, though she tried to suppress it, of Niall watching from across the room, his stormy blue eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts as she danced in another man’s arms.