Page 52 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Chapter Fifteen

Morning light filtered through the curtains of Èibhlin’s bedchamber, casting pale patterns across the floor. She had slept little, her mind replaying the events of the previous evening in an endless loop — Niall’s intervention with Lord Gregory, their waltz together, the moment beneath the mistletoe when everything had changed.

The kiss.

The scandalised gasps.

The Duchess’ cold fury and Aunt Muireall’s rigid outrage.

After being swept from the corridor, Èibhlin had been secluded in a small anteroom for nearly an hour, subjected to her aunt’s scathing condemnation of her ‘wanton behaviour’ and ‘complete disregard for propriety’. She had then been escorted back to the ballroom by Sir Thomas, who had come to tell Aunt Muireall that their absence was causing more gossip. He had surprised her with his kindness amid the storm.

“Courage, my dear,” he had murmured, patting her hand as they approached the ballroom. “These tempests blow themselves out eventually. Hold your head high in the meantime.”

She had taken his advice, maintaining her composure through the remainder of the Ball, despite the whispers that followed her movements, and the pointed distance maintained by many of the guests who had previously been cordial.

Lord Gregory had avoided her entirely, though she had glimpsed him in heated conversation with his father, his face flushed with what appeared to be equal parts anger and humiliation.

The Duchess had been icily polite when their paths crossed, her every word and gesture conveying disapproval, without actually expressing it directly. And Niall — Niall had been occupied with his duties as host, their eyes meeting occasionally across the crowded room, his expression revealing nothing to casual observers, though she could read concern and something deeper in his gaze.

Now, as Lucy entered with a breakfast tray, Èibhlin braced herself for whatever the new day might bring. The lady’s maid’s expression was sympathetic as she set the tray on a small table near the window.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said, moving to draw back the curtains fully. “The Duchess asked me to inform you that she would like to speak with you in the morning room at ten, if you’re feeling well enough to come down.”

It was not a request but a summons, delicately phrased to maintain the fiction of concern. Èibhlin nodded, sitting up against the pillows as Lucy arranged the breakfast tray across her lap.

“Thank you, Lucy. I shall be down at ten.”

The maid hesitated, clearly debating whether to say more.

“It’s all over the household, Miss,” she finally admitted, her voice lowered, though they were alone in the room. “What happened last night beneath the mistletoe. Mrs Graves had to send one of the younger maids to the kitchen when she wouldn’t stop giggling about it during morning duties.”

Èibhlin felt her cheeks warm at this confirmation that her indiscretion had indeed become common knowledge, not just among the ton, but throughout the household.

“I suppose I should have expected as much,” she said, attempting a lightness she did not feel. “Nothing remains private for long in a house this size.”

“If I may say so, Miss,” Lucy ventured, straightening the bedcovers with careful attention, “many of the staff think it quite romantic. His Grace rescuing you from Lord Gregory, then... well...”

“Then creating an even greater scandal,” Èibhlin finished wryly. “I’m not certain ‘romantic’ is how the Duchess or my aunt would describe it.”

“No, Miss,” Lucy agreed, a hint of mischief in her eyes, despite her proper demeanour. “Though Sir Thomas Thornfield was overheard last night saying that mistletoe has been causing such difficulties since ancient times, and that perhaps the tradition should be retired if people insist on taking it so seriously.”

The comment, so typical of Sir Thomas’ pragmatic humour, brought a genuine smile to Èibhlin’s face.

“Sir Thomas is a voice of reason amid the chaos, it seems.”

After finishing her breakfast and allowing Lucy to help her dress in a morning gown of pale blue, Èibhlin steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. The clock had not yet struck ten, but she preferred to be early rather than risk appearing reluctant to face the consequences of her actions.

The morning room was empty when she arrived, the fire burning brightly against the December chill. Èibhlin moved to the window, gazing out at the garden where servants were removing the lanterns that had illuminated the previous night’s festivities. The scene looked oddly bereft in the cold light of day, like a stage set being dismantled after the final performance.

The door opened behind her, and she turned to find not just the Duchess entering, but Aunt Muireall as well. Both women wore expressions of stern displeasure, their usual mutual antagonism apparently set aside in the face of Èibhlin’s transgression.

“Good morning, Your Grace, Aunt Muireall,” she said, dropping into a curtsey that acknowledged their authority while maintaining her own dignity. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Indeed,” the Duchess replied, settling herself in a chair near the fire and gesturing for Èibhlin to take the seat opposite. “I believe that we must discuss the events of last evening and their... implications... for your position in society.”

Aunt Muireall seated herself with rigid posture, her thin hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Your behaviour was utterly beyond the pale, Èibhlin,” she declared, dispensing with preamble. “I have never been so mortified in all my years. What your father would say if he knew—”