Chapter Four
Three days passed, during which èibhlin saw little of Niall.
Each morning at breakfast, the Duchess explained, with barely concealed satisfaction, that his duties kept him occupied elsewhere.
èibhlin tried not to show her disappointment, focusing instead on her correspondence with her father, and the small excursions into London that the Duchess permitted, always accompanied by Aunt Muireall.
On the fourth morning, as èibhlin sat in the morning room composing a letter to her father, the Duchess entered with an air of animation that immediately caught her attention.
“Good morning, Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin,” she said, settling herself gracefully near the window. “I trust that you both slept well?”
“Tolerably, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall replied, not looking up from her embroidery. “Though I find that the London air does not agree with me as well as our Scottish climate.”
The Duchess’ smile tightened fractionally.
“How unfortunate. Perhaps you might benefit from a visit to Bath when your duties here are complete. The waters are said to be most restorative.”
èibhlin hastened to intervene before her aunt could respond.
“Did you wish to speak with us about something specific, Your Grace? You seem in particularly good spirits this morning.”
“Indeed I am, Miss èibhlin.” The Duchess folded her hands in her lap, her expression one of satisfied determination. “I have decided to host a Ball before Christmas, as I have done in previous years — but this will also be a grand affair to properly introduce you to society.”
èibhlin’s heart gave a little leap of excitement and trepidation.
“A Ball? That is most generous, Your Grace.”
“It is the perfect opportunity,” the Duchess continued, warming to her theme.
“The Christmas season allows for more... intimate gatherings… before the crush of the spring Season begins. I have already sent word to Lady Harrington and several other influential Ladies. We shall make it an event to remember.”
“How very thoughtful,” Aunt Muireall said, her tone suggesting that she found it quite the opposite. “Though I fear that such grandeur may overwhelm my niece, accustomed as she is to simpler entertainments.”
“Nonsense,” the Duchess replied dismissively. “Miss èibhlin comported herself admirably at dinner. I have every confidence in her ability to navigate a formal Ball. And of course, I shall be there to guide her.”
Aunt Muireall made a small, somewhat inelegant noise, quickly suppressed.
“Of course she comported herself admirably.”
Her tone was full of barely contained irritation, and èibhlin hoped that the conversation would not become an argument. The Duchess, however, simply gave Aunt Muireall a hard look, then went on.
“The house will need to be decorated extensively, of course,” the Duchess’ gaze swept the room as if she was already envisioning its transformation.
“Draperies, ribbons, evergreens, holly, mistletoe — all of the traditional Christmas adornments, arranged with suitable elegance. I thought that perhaps you might assist with the preparations, Miss èibhlin. It would give you an opportunity to become better acquainted with London customs.”
“I would be delighted to help, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied sincerely.
“Excellent. I shall speak with Mrs Graves about the arrangements.” The Duchess’ expression grew thoughtful. “Sir Thomas enquired most particularly about you after the dinner, Miss èibhlin. I believe that we may expect him to call soon. He was most impressed by your musical performance.”
Aunt Muireall looked up sharply from her embroidery again.
“Sir Thomas Thornfield? The gentleman who spoke so enthusiastically about Scottish grouse?”
“The very same,” the Duchess confirmed, with a complacent smile. “A most eligible widower, with a substantial fortune and impeccable connections. His interest in Miss èibhlin is most flattering.”
“Indeed?” Aunt Muireall’s voice held a note of scepticism. “And what of his age? He must be at least twenty years my niece’s senior.”
“A difference of years can be advantageous in a marriage,” the Duchess replied smoothly. “Sir Thomas has the maturity to appreciate a young woman of Miss èibhlin’s... unique qualities.”
Just as èibhlin was about to respond, the door opened, and Niall entered. He paused momentarily upon seeing the assembled women, then continued into the room with a bow.
“Good morning, Mother, Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin,” he said, his gaze lingering briefly on èibhlin before returning to his mother. “I apologise for interrupting. I was looking for my correspondence.”
“It is on your desk in the study, where it always is,” the Duchess replied, a hint of impatience in her voice. “Though since you are here, you may as well know that I have decided to, again, host a Ball before Christmas. To introduce Miss èibhlin to society.”
Niall’s expression remained carefully neutral.
“A generous gesture. I’m sure that it will be a success.”
“Miss èibhlin has kindly agreed to assist with the decorations,” the Duchess continued. “Perhaps you might spare some time from your... pressing duties... to lend your support as well?”
There was a note of challenge in her voice that èibhlin did not quite understand. Niall inclined his head slightly.
“Of course, Mother. I would be happy to assist.”
Aunt Muireall sniffed audibly.
“Such a fuss for a simple Ball. In Scotland, we manage to celebrate Christmas without quite so much elaborate preparation.”
“How fortunate for Scotland,” the Duchess murmured, her smile not reaching her eyes.
“Here in London, however, standards are somewhat different. The Ball will be an important occasion for Miss èibhlin — her first real introduction to society. I should think that you would appreciate the opportunity which it presents.”
Aunt Muireall opened her mouth, presumably to deliver a sharp retort, but èibhlin cut in quickly.
“I am most grateful for your efforts on my behalf, Your Grace. And I look forward to learning about London customs during the preparations.”
The Duchess’ expression softened slightly.
“You are most welcome, my dear. Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak with Mrs Graves about the arrangements.”
As she swept from the room, Aunt Muireall muttered something under her breath about ‘English ostentation’ and returned to her embroidery with renewed vigour. Niall lingered a moment, his gaze meeting èibhlin’s across the room.
“I hope that you are finding London to your liking, Miss èibhlin,” he said, his voice carrying a warmth which had been absent in his exchange with his mother.
“Very much so, Your Grace,” she replied, conscious of her aunt’s watchful presence. “Though I confess that I miss the open spaces of Scotland at times.”
“As do I,” he said quietly.
Then, with a slight bow, he withdrew, leaving èibhlin with the curious sense that something important had passed between them — something beyond the simple exchange of pleasantries.
Aunt Muireall looked up from her embroidery, her expression shrewd.
“The Duke seems unusually interested in your comfort, considering his busy schedule.”
“He is merely being polite, Aunt Muireall,” èibhlin replied, though her heart beat a little faster at the observation. “We were childhood acquaintances, after all.”
“Hmph.” Her aunt returned to her needlework.
“Well, do not allow his courtesy to give you ideas. The Duchess has made it quite clear where her ambitions for you lie — with Sir Thomas Thornfield and his convenient fortune, or perhaps with another gentleman of similar nature. A Duke, even one with Scottish connections, is quite beyond your reach.”
The blunt assessment stung, though èibhlin knew it to be true.
“I have no illusions, Aunt. I am here to observe London society, not to pursue impossible connections.”
Yet, as she returned to her letter, she could not help but remember the warmth in Niall’s eyes when he had complimented her playing, or the brief brush of his hand against hers in the library.
Impossible or not, something was growing between them — something that neither the Duchess’ ambitions nor her aunt’s pragmatism could entirely suppress.
The Ball, with its decorations and festivities, would bring them into closer contact. And in that contact, who knew what might ignite? She wasn’t generally prone to impractical dreaming, but in this case, she was discovering that improbable dreams were hard to suppress.
*****
Niall stared at the correspondence spread across his desk, the words blurring before his eyes.
He had been sitting in the same position for nearly an hour, yet had accomplished nothing beyond unsealing two letters and reading perhaps half of one.
His thoughts kept drifting, like a compass needle that refused to settle, always returning to the same point: èibhlin.
The sound of voices in the entrance hall below drew him to the window. His mother’s carriage waited at the front steps, a footman standing at attention beside the open door.
A moment later, his mother emerged, followed by èibhlin and her aunt.
The Duchess was explaining something, her hands moving in elegant emphasis, while Miss Murchison looked on with barely concealed disdain. èibhlin nodded attentively, her rich auburn hair catching the weak winter sunlight.
She looked up suddenly, as if sensing his gaze, and for a brief moment their eyes met across the distance. Niall felt a jolt of connection, powerful enough to make him step back from the window, unsettled by his own reaction.
He knew where they were going.
His mother had outlined her plans at breakfast, before he had excused himself on the pretext of urgent business matters.
They would make morning calls to Lady Westmoreland and Mrs. Chamberlain — both influential matrons whose approval could ease èibhlin’s entry into society, or whose disapproval could make it nearly impossible.
He frowned, raking a hand through his hair. Lady Westmoreland was reasonable enough, if somewhat rigid in her adherence to social niceties.
But Mrs. Chamberlain was another matter entirely — sharp-tongued and quick to judge, particularly where young women from the periphery of society were concerned. And the fact that èibhlin was Scottish would only give Mrs. Chamberlain more ammunition.
“I should be there,” he muttered, turning back to his desk.
He found that thought somewhat startling – it was not any of his business to be involved in his mother’s efforts to introduce èibhlin to society, yet it was the thought which had immediately come to the surface of his mind. But he knew that his presence would only complicate matters.
His mother was already watching him too closely, as she did whenever he was in the proximity of a young lady, her sharp eyes noting every glance, every small courtesy he extended to èibhlin.
If he were to accompany them on these visits, showing particular attention to her, it would only fuel his mother’s suspicions — and potentially damage èibhlin’s standing before she’d had a chance to establish herself.
His mother’s determination to choose the woman that Niall would marry, and to prevent him from even having a friendship with a young woman that she considered unsuitable for him, was proving to be far more annoying than he had expected.
But this was not the time to set himself against his mother – to do so would benefit no one at this point.
No, better to stay away, to maintain the pretence of indifference while his mother introduced èibhlin to society.
It was the sensible course, the proper course.
Yet as he heard the carriage pull away, he could not shake the feeling that he was failing èibhlin somehow, leaving her to face the subtle cruelties of London society without his support.
He only hoped that her natural grace and intelligence would be sufficient armour against the barbs that she would inevitably face.
In truth, he didn’t understand why he cared so much, why he felt driven to speak with her, and to protect her. He had no reason to do so, after all. But then, even when she’d been still a child, he’d felt the need to protect her, as well as simply enjoy her genuine company.
With a sigh, he turned back to his neglected correspondence.
The sooner he finished his work, the sooner he might, perhaps, find a legitimate reason to seek her out upon her return, if only to reassure himself that she had suffered no ill effects from the focussed attention of the matrons of society.
*****
Two hours later, his correspondence was still incomplete, and Niall rose, irritated, and took himself off to his club.
Perhaps some quiet conversation with other gentlemen, about estate management, or hunting, or anything that wasn’t preparations for social events, and the assessment of which man might make a good match for èibhlin, would settle his mind and allow him to concentrate when he returned.