Chapter Five
“Remember, my dear,” the Duchess said, adjusting her gloves as the carriage pulled away from Stonemont House, “Lady Westmoreland is an old friend of mine, but she is also a stickler for proper etiquette. Speak only when spoken to, and keep your answers brief but thoughtful.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied, smoothing her skirts nervously.
She wore her best day gown, having few options for morning calls, and hoped that it would be considered appropriate.
“And for heaven’s sake,” Aunt Muireall interjected, “do not mention those dreadful Latin texts of yours. Nothing frightens a potential suitor more than a young woman with ideas above her station. It’s also just the sort of thing that these ladies will certainly disapprove of.”
“I have no intention of discussing classical literature at a morning call, Aunt Muireall,” èibhlin said, trying to keep the edge from her voice.
The weight of expectation pressed on her from both sides — her aunt’s stern warnings and the Duchess’ careful instructions forming a cage of propriety around her.
As they travelled through the fashionable streets of Mayfair, èibhlin found herself wishing that Niall had accompanied them.
His presence would have been a comfort, a familiar anchor in these unfamiliar waters.
She had glimpsed him at the window as they departed, his tall figure framed by the morning light, his expression unreadable at such a distance.
Had he been watching for her? The thought brought a flutter of warmth to her chest, quickly suppressed as the carriage drew to a halt before an imposing townhouse.
“Lady Westmoreland’s residence,” the Duchess announced, as the footman opened the carriage door. “Remember, Miss èibhlin—measured speech, proper posture, and a modest demeanour.”
“And do not fidget with your gloves,” Aunt Muireall added sharply. “You have developed that habit of late, and it is most unseemly.”
èibhlin clasped her hands firmly together, determined to give neither woman cause for criticism. As they ascended the steps, she drew a deep breath, steadying herself for the ordeal ahead.
A butler received them with formal courtesy, conducting them to a drawing room where Lady Westmoreland awaited.
The room was elegantly appointed, with furniture of the finest quality and tasteful Christmas greenery arranged on the mantelpiece and windowsills.
A small fire burned in the grate, casting a warm glow over the scene.
Lady Westmoreland rose to greet them — a tall, stately woman with silver-streaked dark hair and keen eyes that missed nothing.
“Amelia, how delightful to see you,” she said, extending her hands to the Duchess. “And these must be your Scottish guests.”
“Indeed,” the Duchess replied. “May I present The Honourable Miss Murchison and her niece, The Honourable Miss èibhlin Murchison, daughter of Viscount Felldale. Ladies, the Countess of Westmoreland.”
èibhlin curtsied deeply, conscious of the Countess’ assessing gaze.
“It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Lady Westmoreland.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” the Countess replied, gesturing for them to be seated. “Scotland, is it? I have a cousin who married a Scottish Baronet. Found the climate quite intolerable, poor thing. Always wrapped in furs like a Russian Princess.”
“The Scottish climate builds character, my Lady.”
Aunt Muireall’s tone suggested that English character might benefit from such fortification.
The Countess’ eyebrows rose fractionally.
“Indeed? How... bracing. And you, Miss èibhlin — do you find London’s milder weather to your liking?”
“Very much so, my Lady,” èibhlin replied carefully. “Though there is a beauty to Scotland’s wild landscape that I do miss at times.”
“I imagine that it must seem quite plain here, without all of those picturesque mountains and glens,” the Countess said, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Such a shame you’ve arrived in winter. London is at its best in spring, when the Season is in full swing.”
“Miss èibhlin will be staying through the Season,” the Duchess interjected. “I have undertaken to sponsor her introduction to society.”
“How generous of you, Amelia,” Lady Westmoreland murmured, her gaze moving speculatively between the Duchess and èibhlin. “Though I confess that I’m surprised. You’ve never shown particular interest in sponsorship before.”
“Viscount Felldale is an old friend,” the Duchess replied smoothly. “When he expressed his wish for his daughter to experience London society, I could hardly refuse.”
“Of course not,” the Countess agreed, though her tone suggested that she found the explanation incomplete. “And how are you finding London society thus far, Miss èibhlin?”
“Everyone has been most welcoming, my Lady,” èibhlin said, hoping that the slight tremor in her voice wasn’t noticeable. “The Duchess has been exceedingly kind.”
“Amelia is known for her... selective kindness,” Lady Westmoreland remarked, with a pointed glance at the Duchess. “I understand that she is again planning a Ball before Christmas? Quite an honour for a young lady’s first introduction to society.”
“The Christmas season provides an ideal opportunity for more intimate gatherings,” the Duchess said, her voice carrying a note of defensiveness that èibhlin had not heard before. “Miss èibhlin has already made a favourable impression on Sir Thomas Thornfield, among others.”
“Sir Thomas?” The Countess’ interest visibly sharpened. “How interesting. He has been widowed for some time now, has he not? And is actively seeking a new wife, if the gossip is to be believed.”
The implication — that èibhlin was being positioned as a potential bride for Sir Thomas — hung uncomfortably in the air. èibhlin kept her expression carefully neutral, though inwardly she recoiled at the idea of being discussed as if she were merchandise to be bartered.
“Sir Thomas has no doubt shown interest in many young ladies,” Aunt Muireall said sharply. “My niece has no particular attachment to the gentleman.”
Lady Westmoreland’s gaze moved to Aunt Muireall with new interest.
“Indeed? Perhaps her affections lie elsewhere? Or has she developed that modern notion of independence that seems so fashionable among certain young women today?”
“My niece understands her duty,” Aunt Muireall replied stiffly. “But she will not be rushed into an unsuitable match merely for the sake of convenience.”
The atmosphere in the room grew noticeably cooler. The Duchess shot a warning glance at Aunt Muireall before turning to Lady Westmoreland with a forced smile.
“Miss èibhlin is simply taking time to acquaint herself with London society before considering any particular attachment. As is entirely proper for a young woman of her station.”
“Quite right,” Lady Westmoreland agreed, though her expression suggested that she found the situation curious. “One must know the field before choosing where to plant one’s flag, mustn’t one?”
The conversation moved to more general topics — the weather, the upcoming Christmas festivities, the latest on-dit from Lady Jersey’s salon.
èibhlin contributed only when directly addressed, keenly aware of the undercurrents flowing beneath the surface of polite conversation.
Lady Westmoreland’s questions, though cordial enough, often carried subtle barbs — references to èibhlin’s provincial upbringing, her Scottish heritage, her father’s relative obscurity in London circles.
When at last they took their leave, èibhlin felt drained, as if she had been engaged in some complex form of combat rather than a simple morning call. In the carriage, travelling towards their next destination, Aunt Muireall wasted no time in expressing her displeasure.
“Such condescension! Did you hear how she spoke of Scotland? As if we were some barbarous outpost beyond the reaches of civilisation! And the way that she looked at èibhlin — like a curiosity to be examined, rather than a young lady of good family.”
“Lady Westmoreland is influential in society,” the Duchess replied coldly. “Her approval is essential if Miss èibhlin is to be accepted in the better circles. You would do well to remember that, Miss Murchison, before speaking so... freely... in her presence.”
“I will not sit silently while my niece is insulted,” Aunt Muireall retorted. “If that is what is required for acceptance in your ‘better circles’, then perhaps we would be better served returning to Scotland.”
èibhlin intervened, as was becoming necessary increasingly often, before the argument could escalate further.
“I am sure that Lady Westmoreland meant no offence, Aunt Muireall. And I am grateful to the Duchess for making the introduction.”
Her aunt subsided with a sniff, while the Duchess regarded her with something that might have been approval.
“You presented yourself well, Miss èibhlin. Lady Westmoreland can be... testing... with new acquaintances. But she is fundamentally fair-minded. If you continue to comport yourself with such dignity, you will win her over in time.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied, though inwardly she wondered if such ‘testing’ was worth the effort it required.
If Lady Westmoreland, a friend of the Duchess, could be so subtly cutting, what reception awaited her from those who had no reason to show her favour?
The thought of the upcoming Ball filled her with a new anxiety.
If a simple morning call could contain so many pitfalls, how would she navigate an entire evening surrounded by strangers, all watching for any misstep, any indication that she did not belong among them?