Page 60 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Epilogue

Christmas Day dawned clear and bright at Stonemont House, the morning sun casting diamond-like sparkles across the snow-covered garden. In the small anteroom that had been set aside for her preparations, Èibhlin stood before the mirror as Lucy made final adjustments to her wedding gown — a creation of rich green silk, the colour of Spring leaves, with delicate silver embroidery along the hem and neckline, hastily altered from one of the Duchess’ own youthful gowns.

Two days had passed since Niall’s proposal in Hyde Park — two whirlwind days of arguments, negotiations, and preparations. The special licence had been secured that very afternoon, Niall riding out to speak personally with the Archbishop, whose Christmas charity was apparently enhanced by an ancient friendship with the Stonemont family.

“You look beautiful, Miss,” Lucy said, adjusting the small coronet of holly and white roses that crowned Èibhlin’s carefully arranged curls. “Though I still can’t believe we’re having a wedding on Christmas Day itself!”

“Nor can I,” Èibhlin admitted, smoothing nervous hands over the silk. “It seems almost a dream.”

Yet the sapphire ring on her finger, catching the light with each movement, was tangible proof that the events of the past few days were wonderfully, incredibly real.

From the moment that they had returned from Hyde Park, their betrothal announced by nothing more than their clasped hands and the joy which neither could quite conceal, the house had been thrown into a state of barely controlled chaos.

Aunt Muireall had been predictably horrified, her outrage finding expression in a stream of dire predictions about society’s reaction to such an ‘imprudent alliance’. The Duchess had been coldly furious, her disapproval manifesting in rigid formality rather than open condemnation. Yet neither woman’s opposition had swayed Niall in the slightest.

“We shall be married on Christmas Day,” he had declared, with the quiet authority that seemed so natural to him. “By special licence, here at Stonemont House, with whatever guests can be assembled on such short notice.”

A knock at the door interrupted Èibhlin’s recollections. Aunt Muireall entered without waiting for a response, her expression a mixture of resignation and lingering disapproval despite her fine gown of dark purple silk.

“So you’re determined to go through with this madness,” she said, surveying Èibhlin with critical eyes. “Marrying without your father’s presence or blessing, rushing into an alliance that will set all of London society talking. I’ve never known such impetuosity in all my years.”

“Father’s blessing was in his letter that came this morning, Aunt Muireall,” Èibhlin reminded her gently, turning from the mirror. “And the roads north are near impassible with snow, as you well know – it is a miracle that the mail coaches can get through at all. We could hardly expect him to risk his life attempting the journey.”

“You might have waited until spring,” her aunt retorted, though with less heat than her previous objections. “A proper betrothal, a proper ceremony, a proper trousseau — these things matter, Èibhlin, whatever you and the Duke might think.”

“What matters,” Èibhlin replied, taking her aunt’s hands in a gesture of reconciliation, “is that we are marrying with honest hearts and clear intentions. The rest is merely... circumstance.”

Aunt Muireall’s expression softened marginally.

“You always did have your mother’s romantic nature. Heaven help the Duke if you’ve inherited her stubborn streak as well.”

The mention of her mother brought a momentary pang of sadness. How Èibhlin wished that she could be here today, to see her daughter marry, not for advantage or connection, but for genuine love. Yet perhaps, in some way, she was present — in the strength that she had instilled in Èibhlin, in the values that she had taught her, in the courage to follow her heart, despite convention or expectation.

“It’s time,” Aunt Muireall said, glancing at the small clock on the mantelpiece. “Sir Thomas is waiting to escort you downstairs. At least the Duke had the sense to secure a respectable gentleman to give you away, in your father’s absence.”

“Sir Thomas has been most kind throughout,” Èibhlin agreed, thinking of the older man’s steady support amid the tumult of the past days.

While others had whispered behind fans or raised eyebrows at the hasty arrangements, Sir Thomas had been a vocal advocate for the match, his approval lending weight that even the Duchess could not entirely dismiss.

Lucy handed Èibhlin a small bouquet of winter roses and holly, their scent fresh and rich. With a final adjustment to her veil — a piece of Honiton lace that had belonged to Niall’s grandmother — Èibhlin left the anteroom, Aunt Muireall and Lucy following close behind.

Sir Thomas waited at the foot of the stairs, resplendent in formal attire, his kind face alight with genuine pleasure at the sight of her.

“My dear Miss Èibhlin,” he said, bowing over her hand, “you are a vision worthy of this blessed day. The Duke is a fortunate man indeed.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas,” she replied, taking his offered arm. “For everything.”

The drawing room, where the ceremony would take place, had been transformed with evergreen garlands, white winter roses, and dozens of candles that cast a warm, golden glow over the assembled guests.

Though hastily arranged, the wedding had drawn a surprising number of attendees — friends of the family, curious members of the ton (invited to ensure that the gossip was positive), and a selection of servants who had also been invited to witness the occasion.

At the far end of the room, before the fireplace decorated with holly and mistletoe, stood Niall and the clergyman who would perform the ceremony. Èibhlin’s heart caught at the sight of her soon-to-be husband, so handsome in his formal attire, his expression one of barely contained joy as their eyes met across the room.

The small orchestra fell silent, and all heads turned as Sir Thomas led her forward. Èibhlin was conscious of the Duchess watching from the front row, her bearing regal despite the circumstances she had opposed so vigorously. Beside her sat several of Niall’s closest friends, their presence a testament to loyalty that transcended social considerations.

When they reached the makeshift altar, Sir Thomas placed Èibhlin’s hand in Niall’s with formal dignity.

“I give you this young lady with great pleasure, Your Grace,” he said, a twinkle in his eye belying the solemnity of the moment. “Though I trust that you already know what a treasure you receive.”