Chapter Nine
“Wildwood Manor is but an hour’s journey from London,” Niall explained as the carriage rolled through the city outskirts into the more open countryside beyond.
“Lord Dearborn has always been most generous in allowing friends to gather Christmas greenery from his estate. The holly there is particularly fine.”
He watched as èibhlin, seated opposite him, gazed out at the snow-dusted landscape, her expression brightening as buildings gave way to fields and woodland.
“It reminds me a little of home,” she said softly. “Though the hills here are gentler than our Scottish moors and mountains.”
“And considerably less bleak,” Miss Murchison added, adjusting her fur-lined pelisse against the chill that permeated the carriage, despite the warm bricks at their feet.
“I cannot imagine why His Grace could not have sent servants to perform this task. Surely gathering branches is hardly an appropriate activity for a Duke.”
“On the contrary, Miss Murchison,” Niall replied, his tone carefully light.
“Christmas traditions are worth preserving, regardless of one’s station.
My father always insisted on selecting the greenery for Stonemont House himself, and I see no reason to abandon the practice.
This is the second collection this year – the small amount that currently adorns parts of the house we came and gathered a month ago. ”
The mention of his father brought a momentary shadow to his features. èibhlin noticed it and felt an answering pang in her own heart. Loss had shaped them both, though in different ways.
“My mother was much the same,” she offered quietly. “She believed that Christmas decorations gathered with one’s own hands carried special meaning.”
Their eyes met briefly across the carriage, and a moment of shared understanding passed between them. Niall felt something stir in his chest — a warmth that had nothing to do with the fur rug across his knees. He turned his gaze to the window, uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy.
“Lord Dearborn has extensive mistletoe growing in his apple orchard,” he said, deliberately shifting the conversation to safer ground. “It is particularly fine this year, according to his letter.”
“Mistletoe,” Miss Murchison sniffed, with evident disapproval. “Such a pagan tradition. I cannot understand why proper Christian households persist in hanging it about.”
“It is merely festive, Aunt Muireall,” èibhlin said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Surely even in Scotland we allowed ourselves some harmless Christmas traditions?”
“There was nothing harmless about the way young Andrews from the village attempted to manoeuvre you beneath the mistletoe last Christmas,” her aunt retorted. “Most improper.”
A delicate flush coloured èibhlin’s cheeks.
“Mr Andrews was merely being playful, Aunt. He meant no disrespect.”
“Be that as it may,” Miss Murchison said firmly, “I trust that the young gentlemen of London society will display greater restraint, regardless of seasonal decorations.”
Niall found himself unexpectedly irritated by the thought of some village youth attempting to steal a kiss from èibhlin. The feeling was both irrational and inappropriate, yet he could not entirely suppress it.
“I assure you, Miss Murchison, that proper behaviour will be maintained at all times in Stonemont House.”
They fell into comfortable silence after that, broken only by the rhythmic clip of the horses’ hooves and the occasional comment on the passing scenery. Niall found his gaze drawn repeatedly to èibhlin, who had returned to watching the winter landscape with evident pleasure.
She wore a pelisse of pale blue wool over a morning dress of similar hue, the colour bringing out the rich auburn of her hair where it peeked from beneath her bonnet.
The cold had brought a becoming flush to her cheeks, making her appear younger, more carefree, than she had in the formal confines of Stonemont House.
He remembered suddenly, vividly, a day at Greenfell Holt when they had walked through snow-covered woods in search of holly and mistletoe for the Christmas decorations.
She had been twelve then, or perhaps just turned thirteen, her face alight with childish excitement, peppering him with questions about every tree and bird that they encountered.
He had found her curiosity endearing rather than tiresome, her enthusiasm infectious despite the difference in their ages.
Now, eight years later, that same quality remained, though tempered by the maturity and restraint expected of a young lady.
Yet occasionally, as now, he caught glimpses, beneath the poised exterior, of the girl she had been.
The thought brought an unexpected warmth to his chest, a feeling which he quickly suppressed.
Whatever childhood connection they had shared belonged firmly in the past. His responsibilities as Duke of Stonemont, her position as his mother’s guest — these were the realities that defined their relationship now.
And yet...
His musings were interrupted as the carriage turned onto a drive lined with winter bare trees, announcing their arrival at Wildwood Manor.
The house itself soon came into view — a handsome stone building of moderate size, lacking the grandeur of Stonemont House, but possessing a comfortable charm that spoke of generations of careful stewardship.
“How lovely,” èibhlin remarked, leaning forward to better see through the carriage window. “It reminds me a little of Greenfell Holt, though on a smaller scale.”
“Lord Dearborn has always valued comfort over ostentation,” Niall replied, pleased by her appreciation. “The grounds are particularly fine in summer, though they have their own charm in winter as well.”
As the carriage drew to a halt before the house, a middle-aged man emerged from the entrance, accompanied by a pair of servants. Lord Dearborn — for so it was — greeted them with evident pleasure, his weathered face creasing in a smile as Niall descended and turned to assist the ladies.
“Your Grace! How delightful to see you,” he exclaimed, clasping Niall’s hand warmly. “And you’ve brought guests! Most welcome, most welcome indeed.”
Niall performed the introductions with formal courtesy.
“Lord Dearborn, may I present the Honourable Miss Murchison and her niece, the Honourable Miss èibhlin Murchison, daughter of Viscount Felldale. Ladies, Lord Dearborn, an old friend of my father’s.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lord Dearborn said, bowing over each lady’s hand in turn. “Any friend of the Duke’s is most welcome at Wildwood. Though I fear you find us in something of a muddle — my wife and daughters are visiting her sister in Bath, leaving me to bachelor solitude.”
“We have come to impose upon your generosity in the matter of Christmas greenery,” Niall explained. “The Duchess is planning a Ball, and Stonemont House requires suitable decoration.”
“Say no more, say no more,” Lord Dearborn replied, waving them towards the entrance. “You are welcome to whatever the grounds provide. But first, some refreshment, I think. The journey from London, though short, can be chilling in December.”
He spoke to the hovering butler, then they followed him into a comfortably appointed drawing room, where a fire blazed cheerfully in the grate. A maid appeared promptly with tea and biscuits, served in china of good quality, though lacking the exquisite delicacy of the Stonemont service.
As they warmed themselves with tea, Lord Dearborn engaged Miss Murchison in conversation about Scotland, displaying a genuine interest in the country that seemed to thaw her usual reserve.
èibhlin contributed occasionally to their discussion, but Niall noted her gaze wandering repeatedly to the window, where the gardens and woods beyond beckoned.
“Perhaps we might begin our expedition while the light remains strong,” he suggested, once the tea had been consumed. “The best holly is in the south wood, I believe?”
“Indeed it is,” Lord Dearborn agreed, rising from his chair. “And the mistletoe in the old orchard beyond. I’ve had the gardeners prepare some baskets and clippers for your use. Will you require assistance, or do you prefer to make your own selections?”
“If you could spare a gardener to direct us to the best locations, that would be most helpful,” Niall replied. “Though the actual gathering we can manage ourselves.”
Lord Dearborn nodded, then turned to Miss Murchison with a thoughtful expression.
“The path to the woods can be somewhat muddy after the recent snow, Miss Murchison. Perhaps you might prefer to remain here by the fire? I have some rather beautiful botanical texts from the Scottish Highlands that might interest you.”
Miss Murchison hesitated, clearly torn between her duty as chaperone and the temptation of comfortable warmth and intellectual conversation.
“That is most kind, Lord Dearborn, but propriety dictates—”
“I shall ensure that all proprieties are observed, Miss Murchison,” Niall interrupted smoothly. “My footman will accompany us, and we shall remain in full view of the house at all times.”
After a moment’s further hesitation, Miss Murchison nodded.
“Very well. But I expect you to return within the hour, èibhlin. These winter days grow dark quickly.”
“Of course, Aunt Muireall,” èibhlin replied, though Niall caught the flash of pleasure in her eyes at this unexpected freedom. “We shall be most expedient.”
Minutes later, they set out across the frost-hardened lawn, accompanied by two Stonemont footmen carrying baskets and clippers, and a weathered gardener who led the way towards the south wood. The air was crisp and cold, their breath forming small clouds before them as they walked.
“You seem pleased to escape the confines of the house,” Niall observed, matching his pace to èibhlin’s. “Has London grown tiresome already?”
She glanced at him, a smile lighting her features.