Epilogue
Christmas Day dawned clear and bright at Stonemont House, the morning sun casting diamond-like sparkles across the snow-covered garden.
In the small anteroom that had been set aside for her preparations, èibhlin stood before the mirror as Lucy made final adjustments to her wedding gown — a creation of rich green silk, the colour of Spring leaves, with delicate silver embroidery along the hem and neckline, hastily altered from one of the Duchess’ own youthful gowns.
Two days had passed since Niall’s proposal in Hyde Park — two whirlwind days of arguments, negotiations, and preparations.
The special licence had been secured that very afternoon, Niall riding out to speak personally with the Archbishop, whose Christmas charity was apparently enhanced by an ancient friendship with the Stonemont family.
“You look beautiful, Miss,” Lucy said, adjusting the small coronet of holly and white roses that crowned èibhlin’s carefully arranged curls. “Though I still can’t believe we’re having a wedding on Christmas Day itself!”
“Nor can I,” èibhlin admitted, smoothing nervous hands over the silk. “It seems almost a dream.”
Yet the sapphire ring on her finger, catching the light with each movement, was tangible proof that the events of the past few days were wonderfully, incredibly real.
From the moment that they had returned from Hyde Park, their betrothal announced by nothing more than their clasped hands and the joy which neither could quite conceal, the house had been thrown into a state of barely controlled chaos.
Aunt Muireall had been predictably horrified, her outrage finding expression in a stream of dire predictions about society’s reaction to such an ‘imprudent alliance’.
The Duchess had been coldly furious, her disapproval manifesting in rigid formality rather than open condemnation.
Yet neither woman’s opposition had swayed Niall in the slightest.
“We shall be married on Christmas Day,” he had declared, with the quiet authority that seemed so natural to him. “By special licence, here at Stonemont House, with whatever guests can be assembled on such short notice.”
A knock at the door interrupted èibhlin’s recollections. Aunt Muireall entered without waiting for a response, her expression a mixture of resignation and lingering disapproval despite her fine gown of dark purple silk.
“So you’re determined to go through with this madness,” she said, surveying èibhlin with critical eyes. “Marrying without your father’s presence or blessing, rushing into an alliance that will set all of London society talking. I’ve never known such impetuosity in all my years.”
“Father’s blessing was in his letter that came this morning, Aunt Muireall,” èibhlin reminded her gently, turning from the mirror.
“And the roads north are near impassible with snow, as you well know – it is a miracle that the mail coaches can get through at all. We could hardly expect him to risk his life attempting the journey.”
“You might have waited until spring,” her aunt retorted, though with less heat than her previous objections. “A proper betrothal, a proper ceremony, a proper trousseau — these things matter, èibhlin, whatever you and the Duke might think.”
“What matters,” èibhlin replied, taking her aunt’s hands in a gesture of reconciliation, “is that we are marrying with honest hearts and clear intentions. The rest is merely... circumstance.”
Aunt Muireall’s expression softened marginally.
“You always did have your mother’s romantic nature. Heaven help the Duke if you’ve inherited her stubborn streak as well.”
The mention of her mother brought a momentary pang of sadness.
How èibhlin wished that she could be here today, to see her daughter marry, not for advantage or connection, but for genuine love.
Yet perhaps, in some way, she was present — in the strength that she had instilled in èibhlin, in the values that she had taught her, in the courage to follow her heart, despite convention or expectation.
“It’s time,” Aunt Muireall said, glancing at the small clock on the mantelpiece. “Sir Thomas is waiting to escort you downstairs. At least the Duke had the sense to secure a respectable gentleman to give you away, in your father’s absence.”
“Sir Thomas has been most kind throughout,” èibhlin agreed, thinking of the older man’s steady support amid the tumult of the past days.
While others had whispered behind fans or raised eyebrows at the hasty arrangements, Sir Thomas had been a vocal advocate for the match, his approval lending weight that even the Duchess could not entirely dismiss.
Lucy handed èibhlin a small bouquet of winter roses and holly, their scent fresh and rich. With a final adjustment to her veil — a piece of Honiton lace that had belonged to Niall’s grandmother — èibhlin left the anteroom, Aunt Muireall and Lucy following close behind.
Sir Thomas waited at the foot of the stairs, resplendent in formal attire, his kind face alight with genuine pleasure at the sight of her.
“My dear Miss èibhlin,” he said, bowing over her hand, “you are a vision worthy of this blessed day. The Duke is a fortunate man indeed.”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas,” she replied, taking his offered arm. “For everything.”
The drawing room, where the ceremony would take place, had been transformed with evergreen garlands, white winter roses, and dozens of candles that cast a warm, golden glow over the assembled guests.
Though hastily arranged, the wedding had drawn a surprising number of attendees — friends of the family, curious members of the ton (invited to ensure that the gossip was positive), and a selection of servants who had also been invited to witness the occasion.
At the far end of the room, before the fireplace decorated with holly and mistletoe, stood Niall and the clergyman who would perform the ceremony.
èibhlin’s heart caught at the sight of her soon-to-be husband, so handsome in his formal attire, his expression one of barely contained joy as their eyes met across the room.
The small orchestra fell silent, and all heads turned as Sir Thomas led her forward.
èibhlin was conscious of the Duchess watching from the front row, her bearing regal despite the circumstances she had opposed so vigorously.
Beside her sat several of Niall’s closest friends, their presence a testament to loyalty that transcended social considerations.
When they reached the makeshift altar, Sir Thomas placed èibhlin’s hand in Niall’s with formal dignity.
“I give you this young lady with great pleasure, Your Grace,” he said, a twinkle in his eye belying the solemnity of the moment. “Though I trust that you already know what a treasure you receive.”
“I do indeed, Sir Thomas,” Niall replied, his fingers warm and steady around èibhlin’s. “And I shall endeavour to prove worthy of her every day henceforth.”
The ceremony itself passed in a blur of ancient words and sacred promises, the familiar Christmas setting lending an additional layer of meaning to the traditional vows.
As Niall slipped a wedding band onto her finger to join the betrothal ring, èibhlin felt a sense of rightness that removed all doubt or uncertainty.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the clergyman declared, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed room.
Niall turned to èibhlin and pressed a butterfly soft kiss to her lips, a fleeting touch that held the promise of all that would come later.
When they turned to face the assembled guests, now officially Duke and Duchess of Stonemont, the applause that greeted them was genuine if somewhat reserved — a reflection, perhaps, of society’s mixed reaction to their unexpected union.
The celebration that followed was both festive and intimate - Christmas dinner served in the dining room which was adorned with even more elaborate decorations than usual.
Conversation flowed more easily than might have been expected, Sir Thomas and Niall’s friends ensuring that awkward silences were quickly filled with good-humoured anecdotes or seasonal observations.
It was during this meal that the Duchess surprised èibhlin by taking the seat beside her while Niall was engaged in conversation with Sir Thomas.
For a moment, neither woman spoke, the weight of past conflicts hanging between them.
“You must think me terribly cold-hearted,” the Duchess said finally, her voice low enough that only èibhlin could hear. “Opposing a match that clearly brings my son such happiness.”
“I think that you wished to protect what you love,” èibhlin replied carefully. “The Dukedom, its standing, its future — these are precious to you, as they should be.”
The Duchess studied her with new attention, as if seeing her properly for the first time.
“You are more generous than I deserve, perhaps. And more perceptive than I initially gave you credit for.” She glanced towards Niall, her expression softening as she observed his animated conversation.
“He has not smiled so freely since before his father’s death.
That alone suggests that I may have been.
.. hasty... in my judgment of your suitability. ”
“I cannot promise that society will embrace our match without reservation,” èibhlin said, meeting the Duchess’ gaze directly. “But I can promise to be a true partner to your son, in all things and at all times.”
“A partner,” the Duchess echoed, considering the word.
“Yes, I begin to see that now. You are well-mannered and educated, with a natural dignity that may indeed compensate for what some might perceive as disadvantages of birth. And when your father passes, you will inherit the Felldale title in your own right — a circumstance which will certainly enhance your standing in certain circles.”
It was a grudging acceptance rather than a wholehearted blessing, yet èibhlin recognised the significant concession it represented.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said simply. “For this, and for raising the man who has become my husband.”
Later that evening, as the celebrations continued around them, Niall drew èibhlin into a quiet alcove off the main drawing room.
“Are you happy, my love?” he asked, his eyes searching hers with tender concern. “Despite the haste, the whispers, my mother’s reservations?”
“Happier than I ever imagined possible,” she assured him, reaching up to touch his face with gentle fingers. “Though I do regret that my father could not be here.”
“As do I,” Niall said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Though his letter was most gracious, all things considered. I’ve sent another by express messenger, explaining our reasons for proceeding so quickly and asking his forgiveness for the fait accompli.”
“He will understand,” èibhlin said, confident in her father’s generous nature. “He has always valued happiness above convention. It is one of the many things I love about him.”
“A trait he has clearly passed to his daughter,” Niall observed, smiling. “Along with courage, intelligence, and a refreshing disregard for artificial constraints.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, filled with the distant sounds of music and laughter from the drawing room. Outside the windows, snow had begun to fall again, adding fresh layers to the white blanket that covered London.
“I have something for you,” èibhlin said, reaching into the small pocket concealed within the folds of her gown. “A Christmas gift, though perhaps an unconventional one.”
She placed a small package in his hands, wrapped in silver paper, and tied with ribbon and a sprig of mistletoe.
Niall unwrapped it carefully to reveal her diary — the one in which she had pressed the mistletoe leaves from that long-ago Christmas at Greenfell Holt, and later, the leaves from their expedition to Wildwood Manor.
“Open it,” she encouraged, as he looked at her questioningly.
Inside, pressed between the pages where she had recorded her most private thoughts and feelings, lay the mistletoe leaves — those from their childhood, those from Wildwood Manor, and now, a new addition from the tree in Hyde Park beneath which he had proposed.
“A record of our journey,” she explained, as he traced gentle fingers over the fragile leaves. “From past to present, and now into our future.”
“èibhlin,” he murmured, her name a caress on his lips.
“This is precious beyond measure. Thank you.” He closed the diary carefully, returning it to her hands with the reverence it deserved.
“Keep it safe, my love. And perhaps, in years to come, we might add more leaves to its pages — markers of anniversaries, of children, of all the moments that will form our life together.”
“I should like that very much,” she agreed, tucking the diary back into her pocket as a familiar chord sounded from the drawing room.
“I believe that they’re beginning the dancing.
Shall we join them? It is Christmas, after all, and your mother has arranged quite the celebration, despite her reservations. ”
“In a moment,” Niall said, drawing her closer. “First, I believe there’s another tradition to observe.”
He glanced upward, and èibhlin followed his gaze to discover a small ball of mistletoe suspended from the alcove’s archway. “You arranged this,” she accused, laughing.
“Perhaps,” he admitted, his eyes crinkling with mischief. “Or perhaps the tradition simply knows where it’s needed most.”
As his lips met hers in a kiss that held all the promise of their future together, èibhlin thought of the long, unlikely path that had led them to this moment — from childhood friendship at Greenfell Holt to society scandal at Stonemont House, from pressed mistletoe leaves in a diary to a Christmas wedding that defied convention.
Whatever challenges lay ahead — whatever whispers might follow them through London’s drawing rooms, whatever adjustments their unconventional match might require — they would face them together, their connection a testament to the truth that genuine love transcends all artificial boundaries.
Outside, the snow continued to fall on Christmas Day, transforming London into a wonderland of white, while inside Stonemont House, the Duke and his Scottish Duchess celebrated the beginning of their life together, surrounded by evergreens, mistletoe, and the timeless magic of the season.
The End
I hope that you enjoyed
‘Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories’!
After the ‘About the Author’ section of this book, you’ll find a preview of another of my Christmas books,
‘The Duke’s Christmas Vow.’