Chapter Three #2
“I have always found that worth of character transcends circumstances of birth or geography,” Sir Thomas remarked, his gaze lingering on èibhlin in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable. “Some of the finest people I know come from the most unexpected backgrounds.”
“How democratic of you, Sir Thomas,” Miss Harrington said with a tinkling laugh. “Next you will be inviting your tenants to dine at your table.”
“And why not, if they are people of quality?” Sir Thomas replied good-naturedly. “I judge a person by their actions and their conversation, not by their title or lack thereof.”
“A commendable philosophy,” Niall said, his voice carrying a note of approval. “Though perhaps not one widely shared in certain circles.”
The conversation was interrupted by Hartwell’s announcement that dinner was served.
Sir Thomas immediately moved to offer his arm to èibhlin, a gesture that clearly surprised the Duchess, who had likely expected him to escort her, or Lady Harrington.
“May I have the honour, Miss èibhlin?” he asked, his expression jovial.
“Thank you, Sir Thomas.”
èibhlin placed her hand lightly on his arm, aware of Niall’s gaze following the movement.
As they processed into the dining room, she felt caught between conflicting emotions — gratitude for Sir Thomas’ kindness, discomfort at his obvious interest, and a yearning awareness of Niall that she could neither explain nor suppress.
The dining room gleamed with candlelight, the long table set with the Stonemont silver and the finest china.
èibhlin found herself seated between Sir Thomas and Niall, with Lady Harrington, Miss Harrington, the Duchess, and Aunt Muireall arranged opposite and at the ends. Whilst the lack of other gentlemen made for an unusual pattern of seating, no one seemed much put out by it.
Throughout dinner, Sir Thomas maintained a steady stream of conversation, his questions about Scotland revealing a genuine interest. Miss Harrington made several pointed remarks about the importance of proper feminine accomplishments, while Lady Harrington and the Duchess exchanged knowing glances whenever Sir Thomas paid particular attention to èibhlin.
Niall spoke little, though she was constantly aware of his presence beside her. Occasionally their hands would brush as they reached for glasses or adjusted cutlery, each brief contact sending a thrill of sensation through èibhlin’s body.
When the ladies withdrew after dinner, Lady Harrington wasted no time in assessing èibhlin’s prospects.
“Sir Thomas seems quite taken with you, my dear,” she observed, her tone suggesting that this was unexpected, but not unwelcome. “He is a most eligible widower, with a substantial fortune.”
“He has been very kind,” èibhlin replied neutrally, unwilling to encourage speculation.
“Kindness is a valuable quality in a husband,” the Duchess remarked. “Particularly for a young woman entering society without the advantages of extensive connections or... extraordinary fortune.”
The reminder of her relatively modest circumstances was unnecessary, and perhaps unkind, but èibhlin maintained her composure.
“My father has taught me to value character above material considerations.”
“A laudable sentiment,” Lady Harrington murmured, exchanging a significant glance with the Duchess. “Though one often abandoned in the face of practical realities.”
When the gentlemen rejoined them, Sir Thomas immediately sought èibhlin out, engaging her in conversation about music and literature.
His interest was flattering, but slightly overwhelming, and she found herself wishing for a moment of quiet reflection — or, perhaps, a chance to speak with Niall, who had stationed himself near the fireplace, his expression unreadable as he observed the room.
After Miss Harrington had demonstrated her technical prowess at the pianoforte, the Duchess suggested that èibhlin perform as well.
She chose a simple Scottish air, playing it with feeling, rather than elaborate flourish.
When she finished, there was a moment of silence before the applause began, led by Sir Thomas but joined, she noticed with a flutter of pleasure, by Niall, whose eyes held a warmth that had been absent earlier.
“You played beautifully,” he said quietly, when she passed near him on her way back to her seat. “Your mother would have been proud.”
The simple tribute brought unexpected tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, managing a smile of thanks before returning to Sir Thomas’ side.
The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly enough, though èibhlin was acutely conscious of the undercurrents at play — Sir Thomas’ obvious interest, the Duchess’ approval of that interest, and Niall’s watchful presence, neither encouraging nor discouraging, but simply... observing.
When at last the guests took their leave, the Duchess pronounced the evening a success.
“Sir Thomas was most attentive,” she remarked, with a meaningful glance at èibhlin. “A connection there could be most advantageous.”
“He is considerably older than my niece,” Aunt Muireall observed tartly. “And rather... effusive in his manners.”
“Age brings wisdom and stability,” the Duchess replied smoothly. “And enthusiasm is preferable to coldness, is it not?”
Before the conversation could devolve further, Niall excused himself, citing correspondence that required his attention. As he bid them goodnight, his gaze lingered briefly on èibhlin, conveying something which she could not quite decipher — regret, perhaps, or resignation.
That night, as she prepared for bed, èibhlin found herself torn between the purely practical, and the yearnings of her heart.
Sir Thomas was kind, wealthy, and genuinely interested in her — all qualities which should have made him an appealing prospect.
Yet it was Niall who occupied her thoughts, Niall whose brief touches had set her pulse racing, Niall whose rare smiles had brought warmth to her heart.
Niall, who was as far beyond her reach as the stars themselves.
*****
Niall breathed a sigh of relief as he left the drawing room. The conversation had been simply unbearable, once the guests had departed. He had been hard put to simply smile and say nothing as his mother and Miss Muchison discussed èibhlin’s ‘prospects’.
He went to his study, and sat at his desk – but he had no enthusiasm for correspondence.
He did not understand how they could speak as they had, or how èibhlin could simply sit there, whilst the older women spoke as if she was not present, whilst they discussed her as if she was some bargaining piece, where which gentleman could make the best offer was more important than what she might think of them.
Was it always like this, when women spoke of such things together?
He did not know, but he could not like it. He had not been comfortable with Sir Thomas’ manner towards èibhlin, and he was almost certain that èibhlin herself had been rather overwhelmed by it, no matter how proper it appeared.
But it was not his place to say anything. èibhlin was not his concern – she was his mother’s guest, and all he need do was be a polite host. Still, it was hard to just stand back…