Chapter 5 – Getting into the Spirit of Things

-        Priscilla’s expectations are shaken up; her first encounter with Astley Hall is more spirited than she expected;

As they rolled over the thickening gravel, Priscilla felt excitement bubbling up inside her chest despite herself. Her memory of the last trip she had taken to London was murky at best and aggrandised by time, lavish praise and anticipation.

She looked out of her window, expecting to see a forest of rooftops, pebbled along the grand roads to crowd her vision from afar. She expected to be suddenly overwhelmed, awed, perhaps even cowed. But the view changed all too gradually, the bumps making Lady Basington snore loudly in her sleep, the curves of the route sharpened and despite the loss of speed, Priscilla felt more nauseous in the first five minutes of riding through London grounds than during the entire trip thus far.

The biggest contributor to her discomfort however was the smell. The first recognisable street they passed through hit Priscilla with a recognisable wave of fish stench. Gutters, refuse, sewage, layers of dirt; it had been a long while since she had associated any real sensation with the words beyond an etymological definition. She tried to think back to her life with her mother, at their nice simple house, in their simple small town. She couldn't be sure if she was being overly generous with her memories of course, but she thought even now, that the air had always been crisp, fresh though perhaps a tad too wet at times. Determined to do fair justice to her expectations of London however, she tried to focus on to buildings instead. But even there, the disappointment was too overwhelming to be denied. The architecture was impressive, new, the views and sights more different than anything she had laid eyes on before. And yet there were so many of them, that she had dizziness to add to her nausea. The noise, the shrill voices, public houses, figures dashing in and out of the way.

Afraid that her expression would betray her if she kept her eyes on the streets for much longer, Priscilla readjusted on her seat and under the guise of rearranging her skirts, she focused her eyes on her lap.

“When was the last time you were in London?”

It took a moment for Priscilla to hear the words, her attention too busy ignoring the sounds of bed pans being emptied on the sidewalk.

“Priscilla?”

“Yes,” she spun around in a daze. “Almost ten years ago, my lord. My father had left and this time for a long while. My mother was feeling pressure.” Priscilla smiled a little to herself. “My father’s family was never very receptive of the city lass who failed to understand their ways and did not even bring a dowry with her to soften the blow. I was told a few of the local maidens were unhappy to have lost their shot as well.”

“From what I hear their regret was well warranted.”

At this, Priscilla's smile drew wide.

“Sergeant Wincroft is biased, but he is correct, it was. Though my mother's victory was not as sweet with my father away so frequently. Eventually, she worried about my prospects and decided to take a chance with her own parents. She thought perhaps time might have cured some of the injury to their pride.”

“And? Had it?”

“No. But not in the way you might think. Not in the way I thought in any case. My grandfather was old and ill, he barely recognised her when we visited. I was never allowed to see him. My grandmother was… distracted. She had other grand children then whom she loved better. Who would inherit. I was, perhaps not offensive, but certainly uninteresting to her. My aunts and uncles we met in passing. All had a similar vacant way of greeting us, which dismissed rather than invited further conversation. We came home after a week. It was a less dramatic adventure than I was expecting but quite as disappointing as anything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Some things are out-width even viscount Astley’s power of responsibility,” she laughed at him. “But you seem to be making up for it none the less,” she said, turning her face out the window again. “Your questions remind me how little I know of your family, viscount,” she said after a moment.

“There is not much to tell. My father I have already described as much as I would dare to anyone. My mother…” he hesitated, “died too soon."

"How did she die?"

"In the arms of her greatest love," Angus smiled at Priscilla and gestured at the far end of the street they were riding through, the evening sun glistening over a neat row of columns, "Astley Hall."

If, until that moment, Priscilla had thought the Astley's home would be nothing more than another grand house for her to ‘ahhh’ at, while struggling to keep her feet steady on the shiny floors, it was perhaps an understandable, yet unforgivable mistake.

The colonnade was a statement, a claim to status and exclusivity Priscilla would have thought impossible to find in a place were space was a rapidly vanishing resource. The marble towered over her, each column large enough to rival the trunks of Sergeant Wincroft's oldest trees. On the busy road around them, passing couples turned their heads after the crest on the carriage doors and whispered to each other with excitement. Priscilla had to arch her neck as they passed through marbled gate, her mouth agape, her attention so overwhelmed that she completely missed the knowing smiles viscount Astley exchanged with his aunt.

A different house might have benefitted from a direct comparison with its neighbours. It might have vanished in the spaciousness of a courtyard. But Astley Hall stood its ground, a protagonist in its own right, its place in the city seemed inevitable and overpowering.

It was difficult to even guess at the size of the gardens from the front, except by noting the broad horizon past the turrets, the conspicuous absence of neighbouring rooftops crowding the eye. Admittedly, the land would have been considered narrow for the countryside, but as they pulled up the long walkway to the front steps, buttressed by the neat lines of staff on either side, the noise of the city died away and Priscilla could have almost believed herself in the wilds again. In summer, she knew they could still have benefitted from the thick sunset light bathing the facade in welcoming swathes of gold. As it was, the late spring sun had overtaken the Viscount’s tired horses and single fragile rays broke into sharp fragments over the edges of the building. Shadows rose suddenly around the carriage like nocturnal guards rearing their tired forms from the depths to take their posts. In the countryside, the evening silence was light and welcoming, but now it weighed over the carriage like the ominous promise that nights here offer more than sleep.

As a dull prickling ran over Priscilla's back, she looked at the building with eager anticipation, as if its form might move before her eyes. Astley Hall was much more than a stage of action, a casual backdrop for entertaining frivolity or even the home of tragic hubris. The building was a leading lady, a brave hero, a dazzling rascal, grand and gorgeous by day, and a faithful friend, sanguine and secretive, by night.

Angus, for his part, was easily satisfied with the polite but distracted compliments his guest managed, perhaps understanding the awe of first-time encounter with his home. He smiled and thanked and helped her out graciously, introducing her to the welcoming staff who had arranged a proper, if slightly stiff, welcome. Priscilla couldn’t help but notice how the stony face of the steward softened a fraction as Angus shook his hand. She tried not to give the Viscount too much credit for his ability to melt everyone he set his mind to. This train of thought quickly put Priscilla in mind of Mademoiselle de Bonneville and caused har a surprising but undeniable bout of heart burn, which she was determined to ignore. So instead, she turned to the steward, as the Viscount presented him.

"Miss Keane, may I present William Kingsley. He's been with us for... well, longer than I can remember, I suppose."  

If Mr Kingsley was taller than her, it could not have been by much. He was a visibly old but solid man. Priscilla had noticed this strange phenomenon - how time seemed to take years away from some people like layers peeled off an onion, until they were left with nothing but a fragile weepy centre. Others however, like Lady Basington and the man before her, time seemed to densify. To penetrate and fill from the inside, strengthen, solidify.

Even if Angus had not said Mr Kingsley had been at is service for long, there was something in his posture that betrayed a comfort that can only come from decades of service. Priscilla tried to mimic the smile which had melted the man's expression a moment ago, but it appeared, from a foreigner, to be unsuccessful.

"M'lady," he bowed, low but stiff, mouth drawn into a line that said his judgement was inevitable though he might do her the courtesy of reserving it for later.

"Kingsley," the Baroness greeted and again the steward's demeanour changed. As he bowed deeply at her ladyship, the look that passed between them was of more than familiarity. It was one of shared past and secrets. "Take the round case up first," the Baroness instructed and busied herself with putting her gloves on. "I need a bath no later than it takes to heat the water and I'll take dinner in my rooms tonight."

"Any other commands for my staff, aunt, or are you quite finished?" Angus smiled.

"I'm sure more will come to mind. But we can re-group in the morning."

The viscount laughed good-naturedly, "How about you, Miss Keane, would you prefer to be by yourself tonight or would you join me in the dining room for a nightcap?"

"I am not so tired as to struggle with your company, my lord, though I'm afraid I would require a guide," Priscilla threw another apprehensive look at the house.

"I suppose you were capable of navigating Sergeant Wincroft's estate?" the Baroness said impatiently. "Or have we overestimated your intelligence."

"No, ma'am," Priscilla started to apologise, but Angus interrupted her.

"Miss Keane was simply trying to pay me a compliment, aunt. Though perhaps you couldn't tell as she is so out of practice."

"I have high standards, my lord, perhaps you should be glad you meet them at all, however seldom it may be."

"Or perhaps you should practice more," the Baroness commanded impatiently and as Priscilla curtsied a polite "yes ma'am" she saw Kingsley's face, from the corner of her eye, give the slightest of approving nods. “Miss Keane’s luggage is to be taken to the West wing,” Lady Basington declared and she started moving towards the entrance with purpose.

Before the young man, at whom the direction was addressed, could move however, Angus rushed in:

“Wait. I would rather Miss Keane is settled into the yellow room in the South wing.”

Although the words were not addressed to her, they made the Baroness stop sharply and turn with a stormy expression to her nephew. A look passed between them that charged the air with crackling tension and made Priscilla prickle with the sense of looming storm.

Several long seconds passed during which the Baroness was clearly anticipating some sort of concession from her nephew. Angus however simply squared his shoulders and stood his ground. Then she turned her eyes on to the steward, still standing between them, his hands clasped diligently behind his back. Catching the mute suggestion in Lady Basington's eyes Kingsley coughed slightly and said:

"The blue room is all prepared, my lord. Juliet put fresh lavender on the windowsill this morning."

"Just the same-"

"I only mean to say we have not opened the yellow room in quite a while, it will perhaps take some time to bring it up to standard for madame's taste."

Eager to dispel the raising tension though unsure of its origin, Priscilla rushed to assure everyone:

"Oh, I have no pretensions to-"

"She'll stay in the blue room," the Baroness cut through the discussion. "It was good enough for countess Wyndham last year, it will be good enough for Sergeant Wincroft's ward too."

"Aunt."

"Angus."

The two stared at each other in another round of mute challenge.

"It's been long enough," Angus said quietly.

"Long enough for who?" his aunt narrowed her eyebrows at him, her voice papery light over the fallen quiet. "For you? Not for her, I assure you. Not for me either." The last words were so low Priscilla could not be sure she heard correctly, but by the time she had gone over the words to make sense of them, the Baroness had turned around and disappeared in the entrance.

“What was that all about,” Priscilla turned to Angus when she felt safely out of earshot. She didn't think she was imagining the discomfort in him as he avoided her eyes.

“My aunt,” he ran a hand through his messy, travel-worn hair, “thinks Astley Hall is haunted.”

Several minutes, or what felt like it, passed.

“Is this yours too, Miss?” a footman spoke somewhere near Priscilla’s left and broke her reverie quite abruptly.

She looked around, a bit at a loss, and nodded to the young man:

“Yes, thank you.” She then shook her head and tuned back to the Viscount. “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that, my lord, I think the road has won over me and I perhaps misheard you?”

Angus gave a furtive look around the drive to ensure nothing else needed his attention and offered his arm to Priscilla leading her inside. As soon as she joined him and they started moving towards the front entrance, he repeated quietly:

“My aunt is under the impression that Astley Hall is haunted. She is,” he lowered his head, “quite passionate about it I’m afraid. It has... been an unfortunate point of contention over the years.” He attempted a smile. “It makes hosting quite difficult sometimes. As you can tell.”

“Oh.” Miss Keane still struggled to take him seriously. If she didn't know him any better she would have thought the confession a joke. But she could never believe Lady Basington capable of such a ludicrous prank. “And this ghost is meant to live in the South wing?” she asked only because she couldn’t think of anything else to say for the moment.

“Indeed.”

“Has she, or anyone, seen this spectral resident?”

They walked into the grand entrance hall where, in under normal circumstances, Priscilla would have oooooh-ed and aaaaah-ed at the marble, the staircases (for she could see at least two out of the corner of her eye) and asked pressing questions about the frankly obscene amount of flowers which decorated every surface in sight to the point where Priscilla felt more as if she had walked into a garden, than the inside of a house in the city. Unfortunately, she was still too preoccupied with the recent reveal that she was about to share lodgings with a spirit to appreciate the lavish interior.

So instead of allowing herself to be led on a tour through the corridors, she stopped dead in the middle of the hall and turned to face Angus, who was evidently trying to avoid her question.

“You must understand,” he ran a hand over the back of his neck, “even in London, entertainment can sometimes seem scarce. Fanciful scandal like this doesn't need to be supported by facts to travel.”

Miss Keane narrowed her eyes.

“You are not exactly answering my question, Viscount,” she accused, making him sigh.

“There were some frivolous rumours a while back, unexpected noise, light, moving objects. All ridiculous of course, but again – stories like these thrive on lack of proof. I would not worry about it too much.”

“I wouldn’t! Except you have closed off the entire wing? That gives me some pause, I have to say.”

“Well,” he hesitated again lowering his voice as a few of the footmen passed around them carrying Lady Basington’s suitcases with visible difficulty, “we had to. After a while it seemed like that might help ease everyone’s… well, spirits, if you’ll pardon the play on words. The staff was getting fidgety and paranoid. They talk, word spread, after a while the whole town wanted to come see the haunted house. Besides,” his face twisted again “I don't know if you’ve heard but belonging to a cursed family is not great for social engagements.”

Priscilla’s nose scrunched uncomfortably.

“You’re the only son of the Earl of Gloucester. You’ve had tea with the queen-“

“Actually, it was just her second cousin, the queen didn't show up.”

“Surely, there’s no dance card you would struggle to make- Oh!” she exclaimed at the realisation but lowered her voice. “Is this why Mademoiselle-“

“No,” Angus, waved her suggestion off, but his tone was too brusque to fool Priscilla, “it really couldn't matter less. I am only trying to say it seemed like the prudent decision to close the wing.”

“No, that one is to be washed,” a deep commanding voice sounded behind them as Kingsley re-directed one of the cases. “Oh, my lord, I apologise,” the steward bowed suddenly noticing the couple lingering in the foyer. “I assumed you would be preparing for dinner already.”

“Would hate to keep you waiting,” Angus smiled. " Miss Priscilla Keane," he gestured to his companion, “we got interrupted before I could introduce her properly. She is a friend of Sargent Wincroft’s and she will be staying with us for a while.”

“Very well, sir. Shall I arrange the blue room?”

“Yes, thank you, Kingsley. And could you call on Juliette to help Miss Keane with her things?”

“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“No, as you were.”

“Yes, sir,” the man gave another short bow and hurried off to the servants’ quarters with surprising speed.

Priscilla waited as long as she could before drawing breath to pick up the discarded topic, but her intention was too transparent and Angus interrupted her:

“Well, I hope you will find the house to your liking regardless of my aunt’s superciliousness. Juliette will show you to your suite and make sure you have everything you need.” He was clearly anxious to leave but before they could be interrupted by the impending arrival of said Juliette, Priscilla asked:

“My lord,” she lowered her voice. “You never said. Who is meant to be haunting the South wing?”

Angus looked frantically around damning Juliette’s tardiness. At last, he sighed and met her eyes:

“Lady Katherine Astley. My mother.”