Chapter 2 – Arrangenents

-        In which the scary aunt is scary – Priscilla (our not-so-noble protagonist) learns about the plans to engage not only her the coming summer – The young pretend they’re not flirting – The aunt is convinced

Meanwhile, Priscilla herself, being in possession of more insight than her guardian gave her credit for, anticipated an impending change in circumstance. Her eyes therefore were filled with some nostalgia as she gazed wistfully out of the drawing room window, across the grounds of the estate.

“Is not the country beautiful, my dear,” Lady Basington addressed Priscilla, finding the stretch of silence too excessive even for her taste.

“’Tis, m’lady,” Priscilla agreed, with a tad less reverence than Lady Basington was used to hearing. Hm, she sniffed.

“Not many fields like these up in Scotland I daresay,” Lady Basington remarked in her most innocent tone.

“No,” Priscilla managed to stifle a laugh respectably, “I daresay not, your ladyship.”

“When was the last time you were home?”

“This is my home, your ladyship.”

Lady Basington’s eyebrows raised.

“I’m sure you couldn't mean to be purposefully obstinate, dear.”

“I couldn’t dream of it, madam.”

“Naturally. And so?”

“I only meant-,” Miss Keane picked her words with the care of one selecting precious pebbles of a beach shore. “My childhood was pleasant though insignificant. My time in Westley Hall has been more formative than I could have originally hoped for. And with my father absent for most of my life, you could say I will not be closer to him anywhere as much as in the home of a beloved friend, where his memory walks the halls alongside the residents.”

“You could say that,” Lady Basington replied, aghast, “though I must say I wish you wouldn’t.” She gave a furtive glance around the room. “Had I known the place was possessed, I would have happily waited in the carriage.”

Once again, Miss Keane stopped herself from laughing just in time to avoid a lasting offence to the Baroness.

The start of spring should have been Priscilla’s favourite time of year. The transformation of the land was so unique, she felt her privilege at being in Westley Hall at its fullest. She loved to watch how the world blossomed around her, a striking contrast with her childhood home, which was both a blessing and a curse. But the season also took Sergeant Wincroft away from the house and into the city and so she quickly learned to despise the place that stole her guardian away.

Priscilla had moved into the house shortly after Michaelmas and passed a few short months of dizzying whiplash, adapting to the brighter winter months. She had spent a fortnight missing the clouds, wishing for that thick mist which used to permeate through to her bones and feeling strangely ethereal without a strong gale to struggle against. As that first summer approached, talk of Sergeant Wincroft’s duties in town increased, and much as she disliked yet another change of scenery, she would have borne the discomfort admirably if it meant joining her guardians. Year after year however the trip eluded her like a slippery fish. When Sergeant Wincroft’s young protégé, Lord Angus Astley, had come to Westley Hall to visit his friend and share a trip to city, Priscilla had made one, or two, comments which caused the Viscount Astley to snort into his drink at dinner and choke loudly. Worried the girl might accidentally kill a noble without proper education, Lady Wincroft had argued for a year of lessons before introducing Priscilla into London society.

And yet, when the following year young Lord Astley came again and Priscilla managed to embody politeness itself, she was still left behind as the men rode off in their carriage for the season. Madam had been taken to her rooms with a high fever, making social engagements difficult and condemning Priscilla to endless piano lessons instead, which Miss Keane, making the most of her lack of oversight, chose to forego for extensive walks and riding in the grounds around the estate. When Sergeant Wincroft finally returned, he might have noticed her colour was several shades off from that of the high society ladies of town, but he never did have a mind for trifles and was too happy at the reunion for any admonition. In short, the closest Priscilla had been to London were the several odd weeks every year she spent around Angus Astley, playfully pulling at the threads of his composure, collecting the shades of vermillion she could make flood his unsuspecting face and enjoying the level of control she mastered over their interactions – close enough to rile, safe enough to smile at and move on.

When Angus had shown up this morning, a month early and with his aunt in tow, Priscilla felt a dangerous crackle in the air that even took the fun out of overly-complimenting his newly grown beard and watching him stutter an uncertain thanks, clearly reconsidering all recent life choices that had led him to this moment.

Lady Basington laid her tea cup in its saucer with a clang so unbecoming, Priscilla was certain it was intended to break her out of her reverie. Madam was clearly unpracticed in being continuously overlooked.

“I take it this is your first time enjoying the estate?” Miss Keane cleared her throat.

“Presumptuous of you to imply my enjoyment so confidently. I am calling on the Sergeant for the first time if that was your question.”

“Begging your pardon, madam. Certainly your vast experience of the country must take its own council when crowning a superlative region.”

Muriel Basington’s otherwise all-seeing eyes narrowed a fraction as she considered her opponent. The way the girl danced around a compliment bordered on the vulgar, though how she remained on the right side of charm was remarkable. It had been 8 years since Lady Muriel Basington was last impressed and, quite frankly, she thought it was about time.

“Indeed it must,” she smiled.

“And where would Westley Hall land in your ranking?”

“It’s impolite to ask. In fact, it’s almost as impolite as it would be of me to answer unfavourably, as a guest. Or were you trying to trap me between my manners and my honesty.”

“I assure you I meant no such thing,” Priscilla said. “As I have been confined to the present room for the past half decade I want nothing more than your honest opinion of the outside world, so I may know what I am missing and arrange my regrets and blessings accordingly in my prayers. Besides,” she continued, raising an eyebrow in a warm challenge. “We have almost finished our tea, what else may we withhold from you as punishment for whatever judgment you hesitate to pass.”

Her ladyship started to speak, presumably to reprimand either the estate or the girl next to her, but was spared the effort by the sudden entrance of her nephew, followed, at a considerably slower pace, by Frederick Wincroft, who tethered at the entrance of the room for a moment before crossing into enemy territory.

“Judgement?” Angus smiled, bravely taking the seat next to his aunt, negligent of the scorched air emanating from her. “Surely you could find nothing to judge after merely an hour, aunt.”

Lady Basington’s lips pursed in a flat line.

“I could not. And if I did, I wouldn’t dare utter it after Miss Keane’s fervent praise.”

“Well, she is biased,” Sergeant Wincroft’s face lit as he smiled warmly at Priscilla.

“And if she is, that only does you credit, Sergeant,” Lady Basington nodded. “Inspiring such loyalty in someone so young is no easy feat.”

“You inspire loyalty in me, dear aunt,” Angus proclaimed dutifully and was met with a withering gaze.

“I inspire fear in you, boy,” she corrected. “A less gracious emotion perhaps but far more reliable in my opinion. And at my age you have little time to waste on superfluous manners.

“For instance,” she continued,  addressing their host, before Angus had time to try and mollify her, “is it typical in these parts, Lord Wincroft, for one to abandon their guests immediately after their arrival like an unwanted delivery, and go gallivanting in woods or some such?”

“If you had seen the woods, your ladyship, I’m sure you would understand,” Priscilla added.

“I do apologise, Lady Basington,” the Sergeant bowed gently in her direction and Angus noted he had helped himself to a glass of whiskey in the meantime. “I’m afraid I required a personal favour of Viscount Astley and I thought I would use every tool at my disposal. I happen to know he is partial to a good bit of exercise. Had it been the shooting season I would have shamelessly leveraged all the game on the premises as well.”

“And what sort of unsavoury favour requires such nefarious means of solicitation?”

“Well,” Sergeant Wincroft cleared his throat nervously and threw a quick glance at Angus for emotional support. Priscilla found the sight endearing and worrying, as she had a feeling the next part of the conversation would affect her personally. “Well, as you are aware, or rather as I mentioned this morning.. the absence of.. that is-“ He cleared his throat again. “My wife has not been well enough to travel for the past few years and my dear Priscilla is left without a worthy chaperone. Much as I like to flatter myself in being good company, I am aware my connections in town are not the kind that would suit an accomplished young woman such as her.”

“And what kind of connections would those be?” Lady Basington asked, the temperature of her tone able to chill the Sergeant’s drink.

“A-khem.” Frederick Wincroft considered his words.

Here was the issue with Lady Basington. She was a survivor – and in a more literal way than many of his colleagues in the army. She had outlived a temperamental husband, a child taken in its infancy by cruel fate and poor medical advice, and a beloved sister 8 years ago, whose only son, Angus, had thereby become the sole heir of all remaining affection she had to give.

Angus, for as long as Wincroft had known him, had been a good-natured, loyal friend and nephew, but.. what was a generous way to put this? Malleable. Despite his privilege, the only thing Angus had inherited from his father was a title and a desperate need to prove himself. Lord Bertram Astley had reared his offspring on a strict diet of conditional attention and, when his efforts were under threat to be undercut by the boy’s mother, Lord Bertram had dispatched his son to military service. There he relied on the natural order of things to take over and instil a sense of discipline in Angus. Instead, the boy had ran straight into Sergeant Wincroft’s welcoming arms. Unlike Frederick Wincroft however, who could always be relied on for unconditional support, Lady Basington’s influence over her nephew took the shape of well meaning, but definitive advice and demanding attention. Over time, Sergeant Wincroft had borne witness to many of the Baroness’ ambitious plans for her nephew and each time he had counted himself lucky to be in agreement with her ladyship, as he feared what it would mean for him be her enemy.

Now, taking furtive glances at her sharp eyes, he thought he had been right to speak to Angus privately this morning. The conversation might have taken a different turn under the strict scrutiny or the Baroness.

“In short,” he continued, repeating his argument and praying it would work a second time, “Priscilla is in need of an escort, someone who could-“

“An escort!?” The Baroness exclaimed. This was not a good sign, the Sergeant thought. He’d not even gotten to the bad part yet.

“A friend,” he amended. “Somebody to introduce her to-“

“Eligible bachelors,” Lady Basington continued for him.

“Good society,” Wincroft finished, a tad lamely. “Gentlemen, yes, but also other young ladies. Someone she could connect with. You must agree, your ladyship, I should not be allowed to call myself her closest acquaintance for much longer.”

The Baroness scrunched her lips, seemingly unhappy to hear a good point made against her. It was bordering on uncivil.

Taking advantage of the momentary silence and no longer able to contain her raising alarm at hearing her life discussed so crudely, Priscilla decided to speak.

“I-“

Unfortunately, her dictionary chose this exact moment to take a deep dive out of her head and leave her but a few measly syllables to spare.

“But- Surely-“ Frustrated at herself, she decided to engage the only other person she trusted would share in her agony. “Angus?!”

The room responded in various ways. Sergeant Wincroft sighed in resignation, Lord Astley gave her an apologetic, fidgety look, several stern ladies in nearby portraits fainted in shock and the Baroness Basington herself stiffened against such insolence in abject horror.

“The Honourable Angus Bartholomew Astley, Viscount and heir apparent to the 1st  Earl of Gloucester to you, Miss Keane,” she recited in strict reprimand.

“Aunt,” Angus started, blushing feverishly under his newly grown and very fine beard, but was not allowed to continue.

“No, that’s alright, I must- I do apologise, I forgot myself” Priscilla said. “But really. Surely I must be allowed an opinion in all this.”

“Hm,” Lady Basington sniffed and turned to Sergeant Wincroft. “Her education must not have been that thorough if she feels entitled to an opinion in the company of nobility,” she sanctioned.

“All the more reason she could benefit by your guidance, my lady,” Sergeant Wincroft bowed to her.

“Flattery,” she scoffed, though not troubling to hide a small smirk. “Well. Of course she would benefit by my guidance, but since that applies to most of society perhaps we shouldn’t base all our plans solely on that.”

“And you agreed to this, my lord?” Priscilla addressed Angus again, feeling he might still be her best chance at an ally.

Whether it was the shock of hearing rare deference from Priscilla or finally being asked his opinion in all this, Angus stood a little straighter at the question:

“Yes.” He smiled a little at her, for once enjoying the imbalance of their relationship reversing to his benefit. “Come now, it wouldn’t be all bad. Those parties and balls are quite dull, I think I would enjoy seeing you get scolded some more. Or perhaps step on some unsuspecting Baron’s feet?”

Priscilla narrowed her eyes.

“I would have you know I am a great dancer.”

“Is that so?” He glanced pointedly around the room. “Have you been practicing with a coatrack?”

“I have not, but I could put you in touch with one if you are looking for advice on gallantry, your highness.”

“Or on standing with you and surviving the encounter,” Angus raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure you will need no such advice. We are quite unlikely to stand with each other, I dare say.”

“Take care, dear friend. Had I not known any better, I would have sworn there’s regret in your voice.”

“Lucky for both of us you know me so well then,” Priscilla stretched her lips in a cutting facsimile of a smile.

Lord Wincroft had returned to his drink during this exchange feeling increasingly like the meeting was getting away from him and only a miracle could save his well laid plans now.

Lady Basington, on the other hand, had followed the interaction with the vested interest of a betting woman at a tennis match. She was beginning to realise, with growing concern, that there might be a bigger danger here than a passing inconvenience to her- their, she corrected herself mentally, plans for the season. It was best she intervened before things got entirely out of hand.

“It was very generous of you, Angus, to accept Lord Wincroft’s proposal so fast, though I’m not sure you’ve had time to consider all your upcoming engagements,” the last word reached him with the pull of a swift undercurrent and drained all flush away from his cheeks in a quick moment.

Satisfied her nephew seemed to have caught her meaning, Lady Basington turned to their hosts and pronounced with decided finality.

“Lord Wincroft, I’m afraid in his effort to be helpful, my nephew has forgotten to mention that he is already committed to being someone else’s escort and special guide around London in the coming months.”

“Oh?” the Sergeant looked at his friend with puzzlement. “You never mentioned anything like that.”

Angus, who seemed to be going through all the colours of the rainbow since the start of the conference, had suddenly landed on a pale green and looked as if he would very much enjoy storming out, getting into his carriage and riding off to town without a backwards glance at any one of their traitorous faces.

“If you are referring to Monsieur de Bonneville and his daughter,” he addressed his aunt tightly, “I assure you, their presence in town will present very little hinderance to our plans.”

“And if you are implying, dear nephew, that the company of your betrothed will pose little change to your social calendar or make no difference to your dance card for that matter, then you promise to make either a very naïve or very cruel husband.”

Wincroft and Priscilla both stared at Angus who was torn between an urge to explain himself to his friends and a desire to bury the subject with his aunt.

“Hélène and I are not engaged, aunt,” he said finally, his jaw still clenched a little tighter than usual.

“Are you not?” she exclaimed. “That might be news to her father you know, since he is coming all the way from France to deliver her to you.”

This made Angus outright roll his eyes in exasperation.

“Deliver her? Good gracious, madam, you make her sound like a spare bit of mail.” Angus raised to his feet, propelled by the emotion, and perhaps an unconscious desire to edge closer to Sergeant Wincroft's liquor table.

“She isn't being delivered,” he continued. “Helene de Bonneville is a wilful young woman, as fortunate with her position as she is bored and is joining her father for a change of scenery.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Angus, who travels across the channel for a change of scenery?”

“Someone who is tired of vacationing with the French?”

“Oh, don’t be so obnoxiously British, Angus, the king can start his own wars if he wishes it. Hélène is coming to London for a husband.”

“I can promise you, aunt, the Hélène de Bonneville I knew had little desire to share her father’s empire with anyone. I doubt very much that has changed over the years.”

“Well, then all the more pressure for you to finally change her mind, isn’t it?”

“Hélène and I have known each other for over a decade and you are either doing her a major injustice by thinking her so fickle or giving me too much credit if you think I have improved so much since our last meeting that I can persuade her from a longstanding conviction.”

“Well you have managed to finally grow a beard,” Priscilla interjected quietly, unable to help herself and Sergeant Wincroft sighed in dejection.

“Angus, you know I would never do anything to jeopardise your happiness,” Wincroft said. “If you truly cannot help Priscilla without detriment to your plans of course we will make other arrangements.” Lady Basington’s shoulders relaxed visibly. “However,” he continued, sending a jolt of tension back through the lady's frame. “If your aim is to woe Lady Bonneville-“

“Hardly.“

“Hear me out, Angus,” Sergeant Wincroft raised a placating hand. “If you are already playing host and tour guide to someone, Priscilla would hardly be in the way.”

“Yes, she is known for her timidity and discretion,” Viscount Astley replied bitterly, not quite sure why he was sabotaging this welcome interruption to his aunt’s match-making schemes and, also, why his words would make Priscilla blush. It was probably just the light, he told himself.

“Then surely her company would be even more welcome,” his mentor continued, speaking the Viscount’s own thoughts. “Either way, Priscilla offers you simultaneously a convenient distraction, a way to pique Mademoiselle’s interest and a front to spend more time with her should you need it.”

Miss Keane gasped at the speech, unsettled by such pragmatic coldness from her guardian who she had grown accustomed to thinking of as all warm generosity. The thing that shocked her was that he would speak so directly, it showed a level of desperation Priscilla was uncomfortable at discovering in her guardian. She hated to think she was causing him this much worry when he had offered her more than she could have ever hoped for under the circumstances. For perhaps the first time in her life, Priscilla Keane chose not to fight, but instead lowered her gaze and decided to make the most of what destiny had in store for her.

It seemed the practical appeal had also made a difference with the Baroness, who took a long measuring look at the Sergeant and considered the argument for its subtle benefits.

“Unexpected moving parts trouble me, but I admit there could be something to that idea.” She turned to Miss Keane thoughtfully. “I suppose I will be there to take care of it if things go awry. But I would still like some reassurance that you are aware of the significance of your visit and that your actions would reflect on Angus.”

For a moment, eyes still lowered to the carpet, Priscilla did not realise she was expected to actually provide an answer.

She looked up directly into Viscount Astley’s curious gaze. He had momentarily abandoned the affront sparked by the argument with his aunt and was staring at her as though for the first time since they met he was unsure what she might do.

Priscilla exhaled and turned to Lady Basington with a surprising sense of resolve.

“I admit, your ladyship, my ability to impress nobility could use a little work. Dear Lord Wincroft has spared no expense in ensuring my improvement in all manner of areas I had never given much thought to before, so he should not be held accountable for any failing. But as your nephew helpfully pointed out my most frequent companions in recent years have been books and the inanimate objects they sit on.  

“Before you reject me as your companion however, you should consider three things. First, I am unpolished but not ungrateful, and I can assure you I would do everything in my power to represent Sergeant Wincroft as well as he deserves. Secondly, even though I have only met you this morning, I have no doubt you are more than capable of bringing every potential hidden within me to the forefront or editing any situation to your liking.

“And finally,” Priscilla took a deep breath, aware this last point was going to be a gamble and promised herself that if it worked it would be the last gamble she took until she walked down the isle with the first gentleman she found less than insolent. “Finally, you must consider that as genteel as Viscount Astley is, he is unlikely to make a sufficiently strong enough case for himself and steal the affection of a wilful heiress. The heiress however might listen to the advice of a friend and allow herself to be stollen.”

Lady Basington considered this as Miss Keane waited for the verdict with bated breath, trying to remind herself that she had grown indifferent of London over the years. She was also putting an admirable amount of effort not to meat Angus’ eyes which were piercing enough, she was sure would find burn marks on her dress later.

“Your ability to scheme will certainly prove helpful in town, Miss Keane. It’s certainly been a while since I heard a decent play.”

“Thank you, my lady. I blame the novels.”

“I would not rush with your thanks, I haven’t quite finished yet.” Lady Basington rearranged her skirts with surreptitious precision, Priscilla surmised, to give herself time to compose a condition to her benevolence. “I should warn you I am an exigent teacher, Miss Keane, but I will give you this lesson for free – the appearance of innocence is the best trick. The rest you will have to earn.”

“I assure you, my lady, if nothing else comes out of my summer in the city but bearing witness to Angus’ happiness and benefitting from your wisdom I would consider myself too lucky to put into words,” Priscilla smiled neatly, suddenly wondering what her mother would think if she could see her now – giving a passable lady-like performance to a Baroness. All those lessons were finally paying off, and better late than never.

The Baroness nodded with a satisfied smile:   

“Better,” she declared.

“All to your credit, your ladyship.”

“Alright, well don't overdo it for god’s sake,” Lady Basington huffed and stood up, clearly having had enough of their company. “Lord Wincroft, thank you for your generous hospitality. Even if it came with certain unexpected strings.” The Sergeant gave her a slight bow, relieved to escape the encounter without visible marks to show for it. She turned to her nephew next: “Angus, I will need to rest before dinner, I advise you to keep out of the woods in the mean time lest you walk yourself right into any other bear traps they have laying around the estate and jeopardise your future.” Viscount Astley hoped he didn't seem quite as sheepish as he felt.

Finally, the Baroness turned to Miss Keane, who straightened expecting the worst. If she didn't know better she would have thought the following words caused Muriel Basington physical pain.

“And you. I suggest you start packing, Miss Keane. And If you don’t know the proper way to fold a dress, you better learn fast.”