Chapter One #2
“I trust these gatherings will be of an appropriate nature for a young woman of èibhlin’s breeding?”
The Duchess’s smile tightened.
“I assure you, Miss Murchison, that I would never expose Miss èibhlin to anything unsuitable. The festivities I have in mind are quite select and will serve to ease her into society gradually.”
èibhlin felt caught between opposing forces, like a small boat trapped between colliding waves.
She sought for something, anything, to say which might defuse the tension.
“I look forward to experiencing a London Christmas, Your Grace. I have heard that the decorations and celebrations here are quite different from our Scottish traditions.”
“Different, indeed,” the Duchess replied, some of the frost leaving her voice. “Though I imagine that you will find much to enjoy. The house will soon be adorned with holly and evergreens, as well as draperies, ribbons and more. We observe the old customs here — quite tastefully, of course.”
“We have mistletoe at Felldale Castle,” èibhlin offered, then immediately wished she hadn’t, when both older women gave her sharp looks.
“Yes, well,” the Duchess said after a moment, “mistletoe has its place in the Christmas tradition, though one must be careful about where it is hung. Young people can be so impulsive.”
The way she said it made èibhlin wonder if there was some specific incident that the Duchess was recalling. Before she could dwell on it, the drawing room door opened, and Hartwell appeared once more.
“Your Grace, the housekeeper inquires whether you wish to show the guests to their rooms now, or if I should summon a maid to do so? The luggage has been brought up.”
“Thank you, Hartwell. Yes, I shall guide them.” The Duchess rose, prompting èibhlin and her aunt to do the same.
“You must wish to refresh yourselves after your journey. I have arranged adjoining rooms for you in the east wing. They overlook the garden, which, while dormant now, will provide a pleasant view nonetheless.”
As they followed the Duchess from the room, èibhlin caught sight of a portrait hanging in the corridor — a handsome man in his forties, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to follow her movement. The Duke, she presumed, though not as she remembered him.
“His Grace, the late Duke of Stonemont,” the Duchess said, noticing èibhlin’s gaze. A shadow of grief passed across her face. “My husband passed away just over a year ago.”
“I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace,” èibhlin said sincerely, familiar with the pain of such grief.
The Duchess nodded, her composure quickly restored.
“Thank you. Our son now bears the title, of course. You will meet His Grace at dinner.” Our son.
The words sent an unexpected flutter through èibhlin’s chest. Surely she did not mean — “Your rooms,” the Duchess announced, gesturing to a pair of doors at the end of a carpeted corridor.
“Mrs Graves, our housekeeper, has assigned lady’s maids to attend you during your stay.
Dinner is served at seven. I shall leave you to rest until then. ”
With a graceful nod, the Duchess departed, leaving èibhlin standing with her aunt in the corridor.
“Well,” Aunt Muireall said, her voice low but sharp, “it seems that the Duchess of Stonemont believes herself the arbiter of all that is proper. Did you notice how she spoke of our home? As though Scotland were some barbaric wilderness.”
“Aunt, please,” èibhlin pleaded. “She has been kind to invite us.”
“Kind? Ha! She is doing this as a favour to your father, nothing more. Mark my words, she will make quite certain that we know our place during our stay.”
èibhlin sighed.
“Regardless of her reasons, we are here now, and I intend to make the best of it. Father believes that this opportunity will benefit me.”
“Your father,” Aunt Muireall said with a sniff, “has been hiding away at Felldale since your mother died. What does he know of a young woman’s needs? But never mind. I am tired and wish to rest before dinner.”
As her aunt disappeared into her assigned room, èibhlin took a moment to gather herself before entering her own.
The chamber was as elegant as the rest of the house, with a canopied bed, delicate furnishings, and windows that indeed overlooked a formal garden, now sleeping beneath a light dusting of snow.
A young woman curtsied as she entered.
“Miss Murchison? I’m Lucy, I’m assigned to be your lady’s maid during your stay.”
“Thank you, Lucy.” èibhlin smiled, grateful for the friendly face. “I’m afraid that I’m not accustomed to having a lady’s maid at home. We live quite simply at Felldale.”
Lucy’s eyes widened slightly, but her smile remained.
“Not to worry, Miss. I’ll help you with whatever you need.”
As Lucy busied herself unpacking èibhlin’s trunks, èibhlin moved to the window, gazing out at the winter garden below. London sprawled beyond, vast and unknown, a maze of opportunity and potential misstep.
And somewhere in this very house was the current Duke of Stonemont.
His son, the Duchess had said. Could it truly be Niall?
The boy who had shown her how to skip stones across the loch, who had helped her build a fort in the heather, who had once rescued her kitten from a tree?
The memories were eight years old now, but remained crystal clear, preserved like the mistletoe leaves between the pages of her diary.
The possibility that she might see him again after all these years sent a strange thrill through her. Would he remember her? Would he still have that crooked smile, those stormy blue eyes that had seemed to see right through her childish pretences?
“Miss?” Lucy’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Which dress would you like prepared for dinner?”
èibhlin turned from the window, reality rushing back.
“The green silk, I think. It’s one of my best.”
As Lucy laid out the dress, èibhlin’s thoughts returned to the Duchess’ words. His Grace. The Duke of Stonemont. Tonight, she would meet him. Tonight, she would discover if the boy from her memories was still there, or if coming into the title had changed him beyond recognition.
Her heartbeat quickened at the thought, a mixture of anticipation and dread churning in her stomach.
It was silly to feel so affected by the prospect of meeting someone she had known as a child.
Yet she could not deny the strange sense of destiny that had settled over her since the moment they had crossed the threshold of Stonemont House.
In just a few hours, she would know if her childhood friend had changed, in becoming the Duke.
Would he even recall the red-haired Scottish girl who had once followed him about like an eager puppy?
Or would he see her as the Duchess clearly did — a provincial nobody to be politely tolerated for the sake of old acquaintance?
èibhlin sat at the dressing table as Lucy began to brush out her travel-tangled hair. Whatever the evening might bring, she would face it with the dignity her mother had taught her. She was the daughter and heir of Viscount Felldale, and no amount of London grandeur would make her forget that.
But deep in her heart, a small voice whispered a different truth: she desperately hoped that Niall Smythe would remember her — and that the years had not erased whatever tenuous bond they had once shared.