Chapter 4 – Fools rush in; Cowards take the scenic route

-        The weary travellers plan – A warning

It took three days to get to London from Frederick Wincroft’s home in the country. With Baroness Basington in the carriage it would take four (and not without struggle). This was of course no great loss to Priscilla who was happy for the extra time to absorb the change in scenery and attempt to compose herself so as to better blend in. To give better justice to her character it might be worth adding she would have been just as happy to be swept away in a mad rush that would no room for dread to settle in her bones. As it was, Lady Basington’s presence (and continuous questioning) was leaving little room for errant emotions to enter their bumpy carriage let alone settle in the nervous spaces between the occupants.

“Angus, sit straight, will you?” her deep baritone commanded absently. “One would think your mother never once disciplined your shoulders with a bamboo stick to iron that curve out your back.”

“She didn't,” Angus replied, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth, “she instructed the help to do it.”

This earned him a slow, measured look from his aunt and he promptly shuffled his limbs in an acceptable arrangement until she expelled slight huff. This was the highest level of approval Lady Bradshaw bestowed on anyone. Her famed fan came out then and, in an apparently disinterested way, she addressed the final occupant of the carriage:

“Miss Keane, you may now move next to my nephew, that seat is quite freed I dare say.”

Miss Keane exchanged a smile with Angus and deftly relocated herself next to him, leaving the baroness the benefit of the entire back of the carriage.

“So, Miss Keane,” Angus started in a low voice, “are you looking forward to your first season?”

“This is not my first season, Mr. Astley.”

“Lord Astley,” he corrected with mock severity.

“So you have been introduced to good society before?” the Baroness asked Priscilla, determined not to leave enough room for idle chatter this time.

“I would say so, your ladyship. I was introduced to all nobility in my father’s county up north. I even danced with the son of an Earl in the first ball of the season when I was but 15.”

“Oh dear, was he old and lost?” Lord Astley asked with visible concern. “Was he perhaps asking for directions and you misunderstood?”

“Yes, my lord, he then married me from gratitude and I was sadly widowed a year later. Did I never mention my dear Herbert before?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mention Herbert in town,” Lady Basington interrupted her nephew before he could respond and continued in complete ignorance of the joke. “It would only highlight your age and the fact you are sadly not 15 anymore.”

“Yes, aunt, perhaps we should focus on finding Miss Keane a coffin instead of a paramour in town,” Angus jibed.

“A paramour?” The Baroness was scandalised. “What do you think this is, a brothel? A respectable husband will do, you may paramour in your own secret time, if you please.” She exhaled with a troubled expression and turned back to Miss Keane, trying desperately to circle back to the task at hand.

“Any aunts or uncles?” Lady Basington asked with the purpose of someone carrying a long list of queries to get through and a limited amount of time to do it.

Priscilla wondered vaguely if her answers truly mattered or if this was merely a way for her ladyship to pass the time; she was sure the Baroness would do as she wished regardless. She turned searchingly to Angus who merely laughed quietly and raised both hands in a show of defence:

“Hey, don’t look at me. I had to endure my own cross examination on the way down without any help.”

Reminding herself of her recent determination to see this task through, Priscilla took a deep breath and decided to make the most of the interview with the Baroness. It had not taken her long to realise that despite holding the lowest title of Angus’ extended family, Lady Basington would be a powerful social ally to have. Or a personal ally to have.

“None important enough to mention, your ladyship,” she answered.

“Because you would not claim their acquaintance or because they would not claim yours?”

Priscilla took a moment to think over her answer.

“On my mother’s side there are six cousins currently residing in the city,” she counted, “however they find it difficult to acknowledge the existence of human life north of York. My mother’s subsequent decision to marry my father and move up with him was the equivalent to death, social or otherwise. I wouldn't be surprised if they had an actual burial and cleansed the house of her remaining items. On my father’s side…” she hesitated. “Well, I suppose you could say they had difficulty seeing past the scandal my mother brought to their doorstep. And besides, after her disinheritance, she was a worse match for the Keane clan than a milkmaid.”

Lady Basington’s eyes bore into Priscilla with such intensity, she found herself desperate to fill the silence:

“I mean, a milkmaid would have brought her own goat at least.”

The Baroness’ eyes squinted a fraction, but she remained otherwise silent.

“My father liked goats,” Priscilla added, struggling to assess just how much trouble she was already in. “We had a few-“

“That’s enough. I do not need to know the names of your farm animals, as I can safely say we will not be listing them among your social circle this season. Hm,” the Baroness focused her gaze in the distance through the carriage window, a look Priscilla was beginning to associate with scheming. “No cousins then. No father.”

“Well, I wouldn’t-“

Lady Basington raised a hand.

“No father we can leverage.”

Priscilla didn’t think the clarification improved the statement but she decided not to pursue that particular battle. This was one of those practical conversations she knew would benefit her in the long run.

“Maternal heritage, but none-“

“None we can leverage,” Priscilla continued in unison.

“No uncles, no aunts,” she continued methodically. “Sergeant Wincroft’s voice would carry a distance but not as far as to win you an Earl. Nor a Viscount.”

“I’m unsure if I should be offended,” Angus chimed in.

“I would be,” Priscilla nodded at him.

“I think if I officially disavow you that might improve my standing,” he mused.

“But then who would stand with me at one of your balls?” Priscilla said, forcing her features into a painfully pathetic grimace.

“I wouldn’t be much use there regardless, until I receive some advice from that coat hanger you were so fond of.”

“You make a good point, perhaps I should commission one of my father’s old goats.”

“Sebastian Foster!” the Baroness exclaimed with a tad more zeal than could be easily contained within the tiny carriage and Priscilla and Angus both jumped in surprise.

“Is he a king?” Priscilla asked after a moment and won herself a scowl from her ladyship. “Well, you said Viscounts were out of the question,” she muttered, “so I thought -“

“He’s the third son of a Baron,” Lord Astley supplied.

“Not as good as a king, as far as I understand it, but I can make some concessions.”

“He’s- married,” Angus turned to his aunt, a confused look on his face.

“He is not,” Lady Basington corrected triumphantly. “Much better. He is jilted.”

“Maybe not for him,” Priscilla murmured.

“His inheritance is slim to none-” the Baroness started listing, her gaze unfocused as she ran the benefits of the match in front of the only judge that mattered – herself.

“Yes, his summer cottage has under a dozen bedrooms and the south wing flooded last winter,” Angus whispered conspiratorially to Priscilla.

“He is unlikely to make a match with anyone of consequence,” Lady Basington continued.

“Now I should be offended, I think?” Priscilla whispered back to Angus.

“Besides,” the aunt continued ignorant of their quiet sedition, “he is not in possession of enough charm to trick a nobleman into disposing of one of his daughters and donating a dowry for nothing in return.”

“Well then why would I want him?” Priscilla laughed.

“Because you have no money, dear. Being jilted makes him an unsavoury purchase for any lady of consequence. And he is not so young that he could afford to wait much longer.”

“I bet those goats are starting to look mighty tempting about now,” Angus smirked quietly, but his aunt’s attention finally landed on him and forced him back into his side of the seat.

“Miss Keane, you would need to show an impressive amount of finesse and,” the Baroness pull a face of distaste, “restraint, hopefully. However, with some luck and a substantial amount of effort I believe we can escape the season victorious,” she proclaimed with satisfaction.

As Angus dared exchange a mocking smile with Priscilla, his aunt directed her full attention back to him again.

“I should hope you would start taking this a lot more seriously very soon. At this rate you would be lucky to get the third daughter of a Baron with a leaky roof as dowry. Let alone the heiress of the Bonneville fortune.”

Angus sighed.

“I do not need to marry Henry de Bonneville’s daughter to keep his business, aunt.”

“Let us hope not,” she replied thoughtfully. “In any case, it couldn’t hurt.”

Miss Keane looked between Lady Basington and her nephew and just as she was about to ask for clarification, at the very least because she felt like was missing ample opportunities at mocking Angus. But at that exact moment, the Baroness noticed they had neared civilisation and exclaimed in a tone that would not be denied: “Lunch!”

                                                                        -

According to Angus they would arrive at Astley Hall near sundown, something which he apologised for profusely as apparently the grand house’s western exposition was rendered in the best light by a mid-afternoon sun. Priscilla had difficulty pretending she could expertly assess the structural assets of any building at whichever light happened to shine on it, but she gave it her best shot since Lady Basington was within earshot and still assessing her chances of ‘landing’ a Baron’s superfluous offspring.

Some time in the afternoon, as the carriage started its progress through the distant outskirts of the city, the Baroness’ stomach finally outmatched her mind and demanded enough rest to digest her lunch.

When the threesome had first come on board the carriage, lowly Miss Priscilla Keane had thought it was the most lavish transport she’s laid eyes on. The carriage was remarkably spacious for a box on wheels, a fact which Angus continuously complained about as a smaller coach would have travelled faster. Now, on the fourth and last day of their trip, she was feeling more than a little claustrophobic. She thought longingly of the horses outside and how much better she would feel if she were allowed to ride atop one of them instead of shifting uncomfortably next to Lady Basington’s generous form.

As with most other ladies in nobility, Priscilla was having difficulty seeing where the Baroness’ dress ended and the woman began. She spent several long hours worried about potentially having to fit herself into something as lavish when they got to parade her at one of those balls she’d heard so much about. And after she had exhausted that particular train of thought he mind wandered to a curious place…

“So Mademoiselle de Bonneville,” she said in a low whisper so as not to disturb Lady Basington, whose rest seemed precarious considering the state of the road.

The Viscount Astley had been using the brief moment of silence to stare out of the window in nervous anticipation of approaching familiar scenery. It therefore took him a moment to realise Priscilla had spoken and turned to her in surprise.

When she failed to elaborate, his eyebrows raised expectantly:

“I’m sorry, was that meant to be phrased as a question, or did you skip a few words?”

Not quite sure herself why the darned phrase escaped her lips, Priscilla decided to fall back on a familiar ground:

“Oh yes, it was actually in french. I was testing you to make sure you were fluent enough for your.. fiancée? Which I suppose you have?”

Angus rolled his eyes with a lot more freedom he would have dared show in front of his aunt.

“C’est pas tout à fait decidé; ne vous enquietez pas.”

There was a pause and the Viscount laughed:

“I could not have possibly impressed you this easily.”

Priscilla gave his arm a sharp pat and gestured to the opposite side of carriage warning him to keep his voice low.

“Apologies,” he amended in a deeper baritone.

“And I am not impressed,” Miss Keane insisted. “Simply surprised. You, a-khem, never mentioned,” she hesitated, “speaking french before.”

“Why would I? Your english is quite good enough for conversation,” he smirked. “Or insults. I hardly needed to involve another language into the mix.”

“Coward.”

“I spent some time in France as a child,” he continued, the smile wilting a tad from his face. “Henry de Bonneville controls the largest wine import from France. The Astleys handle the import and distribution on our side of the channel,” he inclined his head looking thoughtful. “My father would never admit this, considering how much value he puts in his title, status, estates, relationship with the king,” the Viscount listed with what could pass as confusion though Priscilla suspected was really distaste, “but the income from de Bonnevilles has become increasingly welcome over the last few decades.”

“I see.”

“You do?” Angus raised an eyebrow and Priscilla let out a quiet chuckle.

“I am a wild northerner, my lord. I grew up with goats or did you not hear? I understand the value of money better than yourself.”

Angus snorted.

“I am honestly surprised aunt did not stop the carriage and have you thrown out immediately after the goat speech.”

“Me too,” she admitted and Angus considered her a curious expression lighting his face.

“I think you are glad.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you’re glad she didn’t. Miss Priscilla Keane,” he pronounced with a triumphant smile, “are you looking forward to a season in the city? To the balls and the dresses?”

“How dare you, your lordship!” she gasped theatrically.

“Ah, you are just too afraid of aunt to risk disappointing her then?”

Priscilla considered arguing but what was the point.

“Even we, northerners, are raised with a healthy sense of self preservation, Lord Astley. I believe it would be the sure mark of a foolish mind not to fear your aunt.”

The Viscount smiled:

“That’s good. You have come to this conclusion early and now have a fighting chance of surviving the rest of the season.”

“And yourself?” Priscilla asked, once again wondering to herself why she pressed the topic which was certainly none of her business. “Are you going marry Mademoiselle de Bonneville or risk death by the hand of the Baroness?”

She could tell Lord Astley was not thrilled about her persistence on the topic. In the end, he answered with a shrug that was a notch too tight for the nonchalance he was trying to mimic.

“I believe the decision might not rest with me in the end.”

The careful phrasing of his answer took Priscilla aback.

“Oh. You are worried she may reject you.” Somehow the possibility hadn’t quite landed with her until that moment. She gave her head a sharp shake and composed herself. Already Lady Basington’s influence was improving her self control, Priscilla thought with satisfaction.

“Go on,” Angus nudged her with a smile.

“What?”

“Make the joke, I can see it fighting to burst out of you. I would rather you not make a mess of the carriage.”

“I think I may actually be too stunned to mock you. It never occurred to me there might be a woman in a position to deny a Viscount, and heir to the Astley fortune to boot.”

“Really? I would have thought you in possession of a full collection of arguments against The Viscount Astley over the last few years.”

Priscilla scoffed:

“None that I could make in public.”

“Miss Keane, offend my person if you must, but not my memory - you have made many arguments against me in public. The last of which, if I remember correctly, had to do with my beard?”

“Oh but you bear it so well, it’s hard to resist,” she laughed.

“The comments or the beard?”

“Now you force me to cruelty. Your aunt will have her work cut out for her with the two of us, I’m afraid. Me with my wicked tongue and you with your.. beard.” She cocked her head musingly. “Although, who knows, la mademoiselle is french after all, she may enjoy it.”

The Viscount’s face twisted in a grimace Priscilla could not quite read.

“I wouldn’t count on it. I promise you, Miss Keane, the engagement we will all be focusing on this summer is yours.”

This time Priscilla forced her lips shut before she continued a topic that offered no merit to being chased.

“So what should I expect of Astley Hall,” she cleared her throat. “Any secret passages I should know about?”

To her surprise, the change of topic did not bring about the expected relief to the Viscount’s face. If anything his cheeks drained from the extra colour gathered over the conversation about Mademoiselle de Bonneville.

“No, no passages. In fact,” he tried to force a smile, faltered, grimaced and turned his face away from Priscilla, before she could get a better read on his discomfort.

“In fact?” she prompted him a little perplexed now.

“Yes, well—In fact, you may have to prepare yourself for a somewhat reduced level of comfort after spending 5 years at Westley Hall.”

“Oh indeed?” her eyebrows knit closely. “You know, my lord, I’m starting to think this grand city life I was told I’m undeserving of may not be quite as glamorous as advertised.”

“You wouldn’t be the first young lady to find her hopes dashed by the reality of the city.”

Priscila frowned at this. A soured mood was as unusual in Angus as snow in summer… Or as a sparse moustache… or a secret French fiancée. Hmm, perhaps she would have to allow she knew her friend a lot less than she thought. A dark pit formed at the bottom of her stomach at the thought of what possible future discoveries were awaiting her in London. She felt like a rotting fuzzy peach.

“Is Astley Hall so very dreadful, viscount?”

“Only to some. And only in certain light I suppose.”

At this, Priscilla finally found herself impatient with her friend’s unusual mysticism.

“Angus, what has gotten into you?”

“My apologies, Miss Keane,” he smiled, her reproach seeming to steel him. “I would like to blame the state of the road for my mood but I fear there is more to address.”

“Well, this is severe indeed. Whatever can you mean? Did we run over somebody while I was sleeping?”

Once again, she failed to make him smile. A third time and she would begin to take real offence.

“There is something I must warn you of, Miss Keane, before we arrive at Astley Hall tonight. It is possible that my warning may prove either unnecessary or otherwise insufficient depending on your stay, but I feel I must give it just the same.”

“Warning? Angus, you are staring to frighten me.”

“I didn’t-- well-- It’s my father,” the viscount pronounced finally and quickly as if the word was a hot coal burning his tongue on the way out. “For many years now my father has made our country home his permanent residence, his visits to town tend to be brief and efficient. He trusts me with the day to day running of the estate and thought the best way to confirm my ability was step back and let me manage matters alone,” he finished with a nod.

There was a strain to the speech, a studied stiffness which rocked the words over a buoyant undercurrent of some emotion or other until they almost broke their meaning before they reached Priscilla.

“If you are attempting to apologise for your father’s absence, viscount, I assure that is unnecessary. Despite what I said to your aunt, I have no expectation of the Earl’s changing his plans for my benefit. I hardly expect it of you.”

“No, that is not it,” Angus paused and she wasn’t sure if it was because he needed a moment to compose a lie or because the truth was too painful to speak. “It seems Monsieur de Bonneville’s arrival is causing my father to reconsider the long leash he’s allowed me to run on.” There was no mistaking it this time – the slight purse of his lips told Priscilla this sentence must be directly taken from the Earl’s mouth. For his part, Angus, annoyed at having let slip quite a bit more than he had to his aunt, attempted to reign in his emotions. “What I mean to say is – between the surprise visit, the stress of business and—well, there are a number of things that might displease my father over the coming months. I just wanted to assure you you were not on that list despite anything you might witness.”

Priscilla was unsure how take this. Her education seemed to be failing her. Her instincts were violently torn between a need to make light of the situation and chastise her friend for what she was sure was a gross overstating of the issue and a sudden wish to comfort him, which worried her. She stuck to familiar ground.

“There’s no need to concern yourself with me, my lord. I assure you lady and lord Wincroft have done enough for my understanding to teach me the onus if being likeable falls on us poor folk, not on the persons of greatness.”

Since her tone was light Angus saw it fitting to laugh.

“I would remind you, Miss Keane, before you continue to write me off as an entitled snob, that I too am being warmly encouraged to marry for money.”

“Oh yes, our situations truly are one and the same, how perceptive you are. Indeed, I would not trade places with you for the world.”

“I can assure you, madam, a title has not made me any more impervious to disappointment than you. Causing or receiving for that matter.”

“Perhaps not, but I have heard money helps with disappointment.”

“Not really,” he laughed. “But it does grant patience with which to bear it.”

“And let’s hope enough goodwill to tolerate the jilted third son of a baron.”

“I doubt there is enough money to prepare you for the horrors that await you, Miss Keane. I do not think Sebastian Foster owns a single goat.”

At that Priscilla smiled coyly.

“Perfect. Your aunt would rejoice, here is finally something I could bring to a marriage.”

The two smiled at each other, enjoying the late afternoon sun as the carriage rattled over the outskirts of the city, finally bringing them within distant view of Astley Hall.