Page 39 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“Niall,” his mother said finally, her voice softening slightly, “I hope that you understand that my arrangements for Miss Èibhlin are made with her best interests at heart. A connection with Lord Gregory would secure her future in a way that her father’s modest fortune cannot.”

“I understand your intentions,” he replied, meeting her gaze directly. “But I question whether security and position are sufficient compensation for a lifetime spent with a man whose company one does not genuinely enjoy.”

The Duchess sighed, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation.

“You have become quite the philosopher on matters of the heart. May I ask what has prompted this sudden interest in the foundations of marital happiness?”

It was a question Niall was not prepared to answer, even to himself. He turned back to the window, where he could now see Èibhlin walking beside Mrs Graves, directing the placement of further lanterns in the garden.

“The Ball is but a week away,” his mother continued, when it became clear that he would not respond. “Whatever... concerns... you may have about Miss Èibhlin’s future, I trust that you will remember your position and responsibilities during the festivities.”

“I am unlikely to forget either,” Niall replied, turning to face her once more. “But I would ask the same of you, Mother. Remember that Miss Èibhlin is a young woman of intelligence and character, not merely a piece to be moved about the social chessboard according to others’ designs.”

The Duchess rose, gathering her correspondence with precise movements.

“We shall see,” she said, her tone neither conceding nor dismissing his point. “The Ball will provide ample opportunity for all parties to demonstrate their true inclinations.”

With that, she departed, leaving Niall alone with his increasingly complicated thoughts. He returned to the window, his gaze seeking Èibhlin once more. She had moved to the far side of the garden now, examining the placement, at the top of a decorative timber arch, of a cluster of mistletoe that a footman held up for her inspection.

The sight of her, surrounded by the Christmas greenery that they had gathered together at Wildwood Manor, stirred memories of their afternoon there — the easy conversation, the shared recollections, the moment when she had been briefly in his arms. For those few hours, away from the constraints of London society and his mother’s watchful eye, something had shifted between them, some barrier had momentarily lowered.

Now, with the Ball approaching and Lord Gregory’s intentions becoming increasingly clear, that moment of connection seemed both precious and precarious — a glimpse of possibility that reality threatened to extinguish.

*****

“The mistletoe ball should be suspended here, I think,” the Duchess said, gesturing towards the entrance to the ballroom. “It’s traditional, of course, but we must ensure that it’s high enough, and off to one side a little, such that guests do not find themselves beneath it unintentionally.”

Èibhlin nodded, watching as two footmen positioned the ladder accordingly.

The mistletoe they had gathered at Wildwood Manor had been fashioned into elegant spheres, each wrapped with ribbon and adorned with small glass beads that caught the light. They were beautiful, festive without being ostentatious, and she felt a small surge of pride at having contributed to their creation.

“Lord Gregory expressed particular admiration for our Christmas decorations when he called yesterday,” the Duchess continued, her tone casual, though her gaze was anything but. “He mentioned how much he looks forward to the Ball.”

“How kind of him to say so,” Èibhlin replied neutrally, carefully avoiding the implied question.

Lord Gregory had indeed called again, spending an hour in the drawing room expounding on his family’s Christmas traditions at Codhampton Park, with occasional pauses to compliment Èibhlin in ways that managed to be simultaneously flattering and condescending.

“He also expressed his intention to request your hand for the first dance,” the Duchess added, watching Èibhlin’s reaction closely. “Most gentlemen find such formalities tedious, but Lord Gregory seems genuinely enthusiastic.”

“I’m sure it is the general festivities that excite his interest, Your Grace,” Èibhlin said, moving towards the next doorway where mistletoe was to be hung. “The Christmas season brings out the child in us all, does it not?”

“Perhaps,” the Duchess conceded, following her. “Though I suspect it is the company rather than the season that appeals to Lord Gregory. He has been most attentive since your introduction at Lady Harrington’s musical evening.”

There was no avoiding the implication this time. Èibhlin turned to face the Duchess directly, maintaining a polite smile despite her inner discomfort.

“Lord Gregory has been very kind, Your Grace. Though our acquaintance is still quite brief.”

“Brief, yes, but promising,” the Duchess replied, her tone warming slightly. “He comes from one of the oldest families in England, you know. The Codhampton Earldom dates back to the reign of Elizabeth I. And the estate itself is magnificent — over ten thousand acres, with some of the finest hunting in Derbyshire.”

“Most impressive,” Èibhlin acknowledged, wondering how to change the direction of the conversation without appearing rude.

She was saved by Mrs Graves approaching with a question about the refreshments to be served during the Ball, and for several minutes, the discussion turned to practical matters of the supper room arrangements.

As they moved through the house, directing the placement of holly, drapery, evergreen boughs, and the precious mistletoe balls, Èibhlin found her thoughts continually returning to Niall.

She had glimpsed him earlier, in the morning room with the Duchess, their expressions suggesting a conversation of some intensity. Since their return from Wildwood Manor three days ago, she had exchanged few words with him, their paths rarely crossing within the busy household.

She missed him, she realised with a pang. Missed the easy conversation they had shared among the apple trees, the sense that he gave her of being truly seen and heard rather than merely assessed and categorised. In his company, she felt herself — not the Scottish visitor, not the Viscount’s daughter, not the potential bride for an ambitious young lord, but simply Èibhlin, with her own thoughts and feelings that mattered for their own sake.