Chapter Five #2
And Niall — would he stand by her then, or maintain the careful distance he had established since their reunion?
The memory of his eyes meeting hers from the window that morning lingered, a tantalising hint of connection that left her both comforted and confused.
It was, she supposed, unreasonable of her to expect his support and attention – she had arrived in London as his mother’s guest, and was, no doubt, a disruption to the normal flow of his life.
Their second call, to Mrs Chamberlain’s elegant townhouse in Berkeley Square, proved even more challenging than the first. Mrs Chamberlain was a small, sharp-featured woman with a deceptively sweet voice and a talent for delivering insults disguised as compliments.
“Miss èibhlin,” she said, after the introductions had been made, “what an unusual name. Is it common in Scotland?”
“It is a traditional Gaelic name, ma’am,” èibhlin replied, keeping her tone even. “Though I believe it is not particularly common anywhere. The English equivalent is Evelyn.”
“How charming. And do you speak that... language? Gaelic, is it? So quaint that such ancient tongues survive in the more... remote regions.”
“I have some knowledge of it,” èibhlin acknowledged, choosing to ignore the implied slight. “My father believes in preserving our cultural heritage.”
“How very... patriotic of him.” Mrs Chamberlain’s smile was as sharp as a blade. “Though I imagine such skills have limited utility in London society. Here, we value more practical accomplishments. Music, drawing, the art of conversation.”
“Miss èibhlin is quite accomplished in those areas as well,” the Duchess interjected smoothly. “She plays the pianoforte beautifully and has a natural gift for conversation, as you can see.”
“Indeed?” Mrs Chamberlain’s gaze moved assessingly over èibhlin, as if searching for flaws. “And what of her dancing? The Christmas Ball you’re planning will require a certain proficiency in that area, will it not?”
“My niece was instructed in all the proper dances,” Aunt Muireall said stiffly. “She will not embarrass herself or her hosts.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Mrs Chamberlain replied, with a smile that was more predatory than consoling. “Nothing is more painful to watch than a young lady stumbling through a cotillion, particularly one who already draws attention by virtue of her... exotic origins.”
èibhlin felt her cheeks warm, but maintained her composure.
“I assure you, Mrs Chamberlain, I have no wish to draw undue attention. My only desire is to observe and learn from London society.”
“How refreshingly modest,” Mrs Chamberlain murmured, though her expression suggested that she found such modesty suspect. “Though I wonder if such passive participation will satisfy a young woman accustomed to the... freedoms... of country life.”
The conversation continued in this vein, each of Mrs Chamberlain’s questions or observations containing some veiled criticism or doubt. èibhlin answered as best she could, maintaining her dignity despite the growing knot of tension in her stomach.
Beside her, Aunt Muireall grew increasingly rigid, while the Duchess attempted to steer the conversation towards safer topics.
When they finally took their leave, èibhlin felt as if she had undergone an interrogation rather than a social call. In the carriage, Aunt Muireall exploded the moment that the door closed behind them.
“That woman! That insufferable, patronising woman! How dare she speak to my niece in such a manner? ‘Exotic origins’ indeed! As if Scotland were some remote colony, rather than an integral part of Great Britain!”
“Mrs Chamberlain can be somewhat... direct,” the Duchess acknowledged, her own expression suggesting that she had found the visit trying. “But her influence is considerable. Many doors open at her word — and close at her displeasure.”
“Then I pity those who must dance attendance on such a spiteful creature for the sake of social advancement,” Aunt Muireall declared. “In Scotland, we value honest speech and genuine character above such artificial considerations.”
“In London,” the Duchess replied icily, “we understand that society functions through a complex system of alliances and influences. Mrs Chamberlain may not be to your taste, Miss Murchison, but her approval would significantly ease Miss èibhlin’s path.”
“And is that worth the cost of enduring such thinly veiled insults?” Aunt Muireall demanded. “èibhlin is the daughter and heir of Viscount Felldale, not some provincial nobody to be condescended to by these English matrons!”
èibhlin, caught between these opposing forces, felt her earlier anxiety deepen into genuine distress.
“Please,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I appreciate both your concerns, but I am not a child to be argued over. I understood the challenges of entering London society before we came, and I am prepared to face them.”
Both older women fell silent, regarding her with surprise. The Duchess was the first to recover.
“Well said, Miss èibhlin. You show more maturity than many women twice your age. And I assure you, not all of London society will be as... challenging... as Mrs Chamberlain.”
“I should hope not,” Aunt Muireall muttered, though some of the fire had gone out of her voice. “Or we shall be forced to reconsider the wisdom of this entire endeavour.”
As the carriage returned to Stonemont House, èibhlin gazed out at the passing streets, her thoughts in turmoil.
The morning’s visits had revealed the precarious nature of her position — neither fully accepted, nor openly rejected, but held in a kind of social limbo while London’s arbiters of taste decided her fate.
Would the Ball be more of the same? A hundred Mrs Chamberlains and Lady Westmorelands, all watching for any misstep, any confirmation of their pre-existing prejudices about Scottish nobility?
The thought was enough to make her long for the simplicity of Felldale Castle, for the comfort of her father’s library, and the wild freedom of the moors.
But there was Niall to consider. Niall, whose rare smiles lit something within her that she had not known existed.
Niall, who remembered details of their childhood conversations that she herself had half-forgotten.
Niall, who had defended her subtly but unmistakably during dinner with Sir Thomas Thornfield.
As the carriage pulled up before Stonemont House, èibhlin straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
She would face whatever challenges London society presented, not for the sake of securing a suitable match or pleasing her father, but because here in this grand, cold city was the boy she had once known — now a man whose approval meant more to her than that of a hundred society matrons.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he might be watching for her return from his window above.