Chapter Eleven #2
“Most impressive,” èibhlin acknowledged, wondering how to change the direction of the conversation without appearing rude.
She was saved by Mrs Graves approaching with a question about the refreshments to be served during the Ball, and for several minutes, the discussion turned to practical matters of the supper room arrangements.
As they moved through the house, directing the placement of holly, drapery, evergreen boughs, and the precious mistletoe balls, èibhlin found her thoughts continually returning to Niall.
She had glimpsed him earlier, in the morning room with the Duchess, their expressions suggesting a conversation of some intensity. Since their return from Wildwood Manor three days ago, she had exchanged few words with him, their paths rarely crossing within the busy household.
She missed him, she realised with a pang.
Missed the easy conversation they had shared among the apple trees, the sense that he gave her of being truly seen and heard rather than merely assessed and categorised.
In his company, she felt herself — not the Scottish visitor, not the Viscount’s daughter, not the potential bride for an ambitious young lord, but simply èibhlin, with her own thoughts and feelings that mattered for their own sake.
“We shall place another mistletoe ball in the garden corridor,” the Duchess declared, interrupting èibhlin’s reflections.
“It’s a traditional location for such decorations, though of course, kisses under the mistletoe should be limited to chaste brushes of the lips to the cheek, so that propriety is maintained. ”
The comment, delivered with pointed emphasis, brought a flush to èibhlin’s cheeks.
For in that very moment, her mind had conjured an image so vivid and improper that she feared the Duchess might somehow discern it from her expression - Niall and herself, standing beneath the mistletoe, his arms around her as they had been at Wildwood Manor, but this time drawing her closer, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that had nothing to do with propriety or tradition.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears. “Propriety must always be our guide.”
The Duchess gave her a searching look, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, before turning to instruct a footman on the placement of some drapery.
èibhlin took the opportunity to compose herself, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled slightly from the force of her imaginings.
What madness had taken hold of her, to entertain such thoughts while standing beside the Duchess herself?
It was one thing to write of her confused feelings in the privacy of her diary, quite another to indulge in improper fantasies in the midst of Christmas preparations. She was behaving like a romantic schoolgirl rather than a well-bred young woman of twenty.
“Miss èibhlin?” The Duchess’ voice recalled her to the present. “Let us examine the ballroom once more. I wish to ensure that the musicians’ gallery is properly arranged.”
As they moved through the grand rooms of Stonemont House, now transformed by evergreens, drapery, ribbons, and the warm glow of coloured lanterns, èibhlin could not help but contrast the elegance of these preparations with the simpler celebrations at Felldale Castle.
There, Christmas had been a more intimate affair — the household gathering in the great hall, servants and family alike sharing in the festivities, her father reading the Christmas story before a blazing fire, her mother leading them all in carols both sacred and secular.
Here, everything was arranged for display, to impress, for the assessment of critical eyes.
The Ball would be a spectacle of wealth and taste, designed to showcase the Stonemont position and influence.
Even the mistletoe, which at home had been a simple excuse for harmless holiday merriment, here became another element in a complex social choreography, its placement carefully calculated to allow for tradition while preventing impropriety.
“You seem pensive, Miss èibhlin,” the Duchess observed, as they paused in the ballroom to approve the arrangement of chairs along the walls. “Are you finding our preparations overwhelming?”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied, summoning a smile. “I was merely reflecting on the differences between Christmas in London and at Felldale.”
“Ah, yes. I imagine country celebrations are somewhat more... rustic.” The Duchess’ tone managed to make ‘rustic’ sound like a polite substitute for ‘primitive’. “Though I’m sure that they have their charm.”
“They do indeed,” èibhlin agreed, refusing to be baited into defending her home. “Though Stonemont House is magnificent in its Christmas finery. The Ball will be a triumph, I have no doubt.”
The Duchess inclined her head, accepting the compliment as her due.
“I have hosted Stonemont Christmas Balls for twenty-five years,” she said, a note of pride in her voice. “They have always been considered one of the highlights of the season. This year’s will be particularly special, of course, as it marks your introduction to wider society.”
“You are most generous to include me in such a significant event,” èibhlin said, genuinely touched, despite her reservations about the Duchess’ evident matchmaking efforts. “My father will be grateful for your sponsorship of me.”
“Viscount Felldale and I have known each other for many years,” the Duchess replied, her expression softening slightly at the mention of èibhlin’s father.
“He was always a man of principle, if somewhat... unconventional... in his approach to certain matters. I imagine that he has raised you with similar values.”
There was a question in the observation, and èibhlin considered her response carefully.
“My father believes in judging people by their character rather than their circumstances,” she said finally. “It is a perspective I have found valuable, particularly since coming to London.”
“Character is important, certainly,” the Duchess acknowledged, as they moved towards the supper room to inspect the arrangements there. “But so too are practical considerations — position, fortune, connection. These are the foundations upon which stable futures are built.”
It was a familiar refrain, one èibhlin had heard from Aunt Muireall with increasing frequency since Lord Gregory’s attentions had become marked. Yet coming from the Duchess, with her immense social influence and clear expectations, the words carried a weight that her aunt’s could not match.
“I understand the importance of such considerations, Your Grace,” she replied, keeping her tone respectful despite her inner resistance. “Though I believe that mutual respect and shared values are equally essential for any lasting connection.”
“Naturally,” the Duchess agreed, though her expression suggested that she found such concerns secondary.
“And I am sure that you will find that Lord Gregory possesses both the practical advantages and the personal qualities to make him a most suitable match. His interest in you is both flattering and fortuitous.”
As twilight deepened outside the windows, servants moved through the house lighting candles and drawing curtains against the chill.
The house had taken on a different character with its Christmas decorations — the evergreens softening the formal elegance of the furnishings, the extra candles and lanterns casting a warm glow that made even the most imposing rooms feel somehow more intimate.
And everywhere, the mistletoe hung in its strategic locations, each ball a silent invitation, a promise of momentary connection beneath its white berries and green leaves.
èibhlin found her gaze drawn to one such ball, suspended in the archway that led to the garden corridor.
In just a week’s time, that corridor and the rooms beyond would be filled with guests, music would echo through the house, and she would stand beneath similar decorations with Lord Gregory, fulfilling the expectation that she would dance with him.
Yet in her mind, it was not Lord Gregory who occupied her thoughts, but Niall — his stormy blue eyes, his rare smile that transformed his serious features, his hands steadying her among the apple trees at Wildwood Manor.
The memory sent a warmth through her that heated her far more than the fire blazing in the grate.
“You seem distracted, Miss èibhlin,” the Duchess observed, her keen gaze missing nothing. “Are you unwell?”
“Merely a little tired, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied, forcing her attention back to the present. “The preparations have been most comprehensive.”
“Indeed they have,” the Duchess agreed, with the air of one who has reached a satisfactory conclusion. “And now they are essentially complete, thanks in no small part to your assistance. The Ball will be everything we could wish for, I have no doubt.”
As the Duchess swept from the room, leaving èibhlin alone with her thoughts, those words lingered in the air like a prediction — or perhaps a warning.
The Ball would indeed be a significant event, not just for the Stonemont household or for èibhlin’s introduction to society, but for the resolution of the increasingly complex emotions that had taken root in her heart.
In just seven days, she would, most likely, stand beneath the mistletoe with whichever gentleman claimed her hand for each dance, would suffer the brush of their lips to her cheek, and perhaps their attempts to claim more than that, watched by the Duchess, by Aunt Muireall, and — most significantly of all — by Niall himself.
Whatever happened that night would set the course for the remainder of her stay in London, perhaps for her future beyond it.
The thought should have filled her with anxiety, yet as she gazed at the mistletoe hanging in the archway, illuminated by candlelight against the gathering darkness, èibhlin felt an unexpected sense of anticipation.
For good or ill, the Ball would bring clarity — and clarity, even if painful, was preferable to the sweet, uncertain limbo in which she now existed.
*****
Niall’s conversation with his mother had haunted him all day.
She had a definite talent for asking unanswerable questions, and those questions still had no good answers in his thoughts.
He sipped the brandy he held, seated at the desk in his study, and tried, for what must have been at least the tenth time that day, to find those answers.
Just what had prompted his sudden interest in the foundations of marital happiness?
And… why were èibhlin’s preferences when it came to marriage of such interest to him?
He did not know why, in either case, his thoughts had suddenly become fixed on the more emotional aspects of marriage alliances, but the fact that he was thinking about such things, in a way that was far removed from purely practical, was extremely alarming.
It made him contemplate things that he really wasn’t ready to admit to, even to himself.