Chapter 7 - Lay of the Land

- Priscilla discovers the peculiar pleasure of swings; Angus shares memories of the late Countess, Lady Katherine Astley; The exercise leaves them both breathless

It had been a week since Lady Basington returned to the city with her nephew and she was finding the early re-settlement desperately unsettling so far.

To begin with was the obvious issue – Miss Keane’s …. Lady Basington’s lips pursed as she considered where to start with her complaints with the young guest. Well, there was her presence to begin with, her insatiable need for movement, her excitement, her spirit. Could it be harnessed as a weapon, Lady Basington would have had no fear of enemies for the rest of her life. As it was, the only target of the girl’s humour at the moment was only herself and her unsuspecting nephew. The poor boy was too oblivious for his own good.

The Baroness huffed over the breakfast and looked around the empty table with growing anxiety. It seemed over the years, the girl and her nephew had developed a deep teasing friendship complete with disparaging jests which revealed an unfortunate amount of each other’s secrets. The boy had finally grown into the respected savvy, heir she had known him to be and she could not let his reputation shatter because he allowed himself to be taken in by a nameless girl, from a nameless home who had made it to one and twenty without any significant friendships or respectable offers.  And besides, the Baroness had promised to help the girl, but what gentleman of status or money would take a wife who would embarrass him the way Miss Keane embarrassed Viscount Astley. No, the Baroness would have to ensure the two were kept as separate as the tight corners in this rotten city would allow.

“Kingsley, do you know if Miss Keane is up and about yet?” Lady Basington asked, forcing her voice into a cool stream although her feelings better matched the piping tea in front of her.

“I believe she is up, madam,” the steward responded with the readiness of a man who had the words prepared in anticipation. “Juliette finished with the young Miss earlier and is back downstairs this last hour.”

“Hour. Hm.” Lady Basington inhaled deeply reminding herself that heightened emotions before breakfast were reserved for animals and impatient men who considered a fifty-fifty chance of survival good enough. The Baroness, who would never play cards with a deck she had not arranged herself, considered the notion utterly ridiculous. No, drastic actions were the fastest shortcut to a shallow grave and Lord knew she had better things to do.

“Do you know where she is?”

At this question, Kingsley answered with a second’s delay and even determination:

“No, ma’am. She has not announced herself and Juliette did not see fit to track her without express directions to do so.”

The Baroness lift her head from her breakfast and levelled a look at the steward. The statement was a clear dare for her to issue a command, which of course she could not do without admitting herself to be nothing more than a crude bumpkin whose control over her dependents was so weak she would have to stoop so low as to have them tracked. The dirty sneak was judging her meddling. Hm, perhaps several decades of companionship had made her soft in his eyes. She would have to rectify that in near future.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous, Kingsley, I am merely asking the question.”

Miss Keane had been late for breakfast the last few mornings, an absence she had explained with some insolent remark about a presence or a feeling leading her astray along the corridors on her way to breakfast. The act was juvenile and disrespectful, but Lady Basington was not impatient for victory – she was sure that when Miss Keane saw that which could not be explained by conventional means, the Baroness would welcome her apology. Until such a time, she was steadily developing a headache the size of the King’s Coronation Orb.

“Is the Viscount up yet, Kingsley?”

Again, the answer came a fraction too late: “He is, my lady.”

The hesitation dragged the Baroness’ mind out of her buttered biscuit and up to the steward’s stony face in suspicion.

“Kingsley?”

“Yes, madam?”

“You could not possibly mean to hide my nephew’s whereabouts from me.”

“Not possibly, my lady,” Kingsley agreed with an earnestness that Lady Basington found affronting.

She set her knife aside with purpose and turned to him pointedly.

“Where is he?”

Kingsley cleared his throat.

“A wonderful question, my lady. As always your perceptive nature does you credit. Before answering however I would like to mention a quick reminder of an aspect that may have temporarily taken a back seat to your contextual notice.”

“Goodness gracious, just speak, Kingsley.”

“Your ladyship surely remembers that, albeit commissioning my services for a number of years after my mistress, the late Lady Astley, passed away, I no longer have the good fortune of working for you.”

“I beg your pardon, Kingsley? Are you actually refusing to answer my question?”

“No, your ladyship. Merely reminding you that I have an obligation to Viscount Astley and the orders he chooses to give me.”

“What orders?” Lady Basington was refraining from standing up from the table with significant difficulty.

“That I hide my master’s location from your ladyship this morning.”

“In-deed?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Where is he, Kingsley?” the Baroness near hissed, her lips so tight.

“The garden, my lady.”

Lady Basington’s frame barely had time to relax before another unwelcome thought came to her. She looked at the steward again and was almost impressed to find he was not sweating yet. He was getting complacent, she thought. A good steward always had the decency to sweat under a master’s interrogation.

“And where is Miss Keane, Kingsley?”

In lieu of an answer, the man shifted his weight slightly as if the movement would help him dissipate the discomfort from the interaction.

“Go get them please,” her ladyship commanded, “the tea is getting cold, I wouldn't want them to miss out.”

As soon as Kingsley nodded and left the breakfast parlour, Lady Basington leaned heavily back into her chair and sighed.

Mademoiselle de Bonneville could not arrive soon enough.

-

“So this is where you have been hiding?” a voice sounded shockingly close to Priscilla’s left ear and she jumped.

“Lord Astley!” her breath wheezed out as soon as she’d caught it. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Well,” he fell into step with her and continued leisurely down the walkway, “in fairness to me, it is my house. And my gardens. I hope that gives me some right to intrude.”

“Many have intruded for less.”

“Ah, cutting as always. And here I was hoping you may have left the knives behind this early in the morning.”

Miss Keane gave him a sideways smile, but continued down the narrow pathway in lockstep with Angus.

“Aunt has missed you at breakfast these last few mornings,” he mentioned after a while, a forced nonchalance in his tone.

“I sincerely doubt your aunt could ever miss me, my lord. I dare say she wouldn't thank you for misrepresenting her so.”

“Fine, be as you wish. Your absence was noted, does that suffice?”

“Yes, that I find much easier to believe.”

Since he gave no further push they continued through the garden for a time in silence. An easy one on Priscilla’s side, while a rigid anticipation haunted Angus.

Gathering his strengths to challenge his friend, Angus took a moment to look around, realising it had been quite a while since he had last visited the place. The garden had been his mother’s project. She had overseen the design, chosen each flower bush, each sloping tree when she had first moved into Astley Hall. He had spent the majority of his childhood running around those very alleys.

He glanced at a flowering lilac bush and sighed in resignation. There was no use avoiding it.

“I must ask, Miss Keane, did you by any chance happen to explain your absence with supernatural reasons?”

“I may have. What is supernatural after all?”

He hated this and looked back into the house almost longingly wishing he could be back inside.

“Did you or did you not say you were misdirected by a spirit?”

“Hmm…”

“And that you could not remember how you got there once you made it to breakfast?”

“Those exact words don’t ring a bell,” she dragged, gazing over the far edge of the garden and the bright morning sun.

“Miss Keane,” he forced his voice into a more authoritative tone. “You blamed your tardiness on my late mother’s ghost.”

“I wasn’t tardy!” Priscilla finally rose to the challenge. “I was desperate to explore the house without chaperones. Lady Basington’s lessons are quite taxing you know. So I may have taken a liberty in return, if it could be helped I assure you it would be by someone stronger than me. Do you know, in Westley Hall I would sometimes raise up to see the dawn break on one of my early walks.”

“That would certainly raise some eyebrows in the city,” Angus nodded.

“Which is why I waited until after sunrise,” she pointed out.

“And while I appreciate your reserve, I must insist that you do not leave the grounds unchaperoned.”

“I didn’t-“

“And,” the Viscount interrupted her, “that you stop invoking my mother’s ghost in front of my aunt.”

Something in his voice made Priscilla stop mid-stride and turn to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Wait,” she put a gentle hand on his arm and forced him to face her. “Surely, you don’t believe there is a ghost?”

The Viscount inhaled deeply as if preparing for a speech, then seemed to think better of it and focused his eyes on the cool ground with a grimace.

“Angus!” Priscilla exclaimed and raised a hand to cover the distinctly unladylike “O” of her mouth.

“That is 'The Honourable Angus Bartholomew Astley' to you, Miss Keane,” Angus reprimanded mildly, feeling on safer ground where he could pretend to turn the exchange into a mere jibe between friends.

“Oh, my dearest Viscount Astley,” she whispered through a giggle. “You couldn’t possibly believe in spirits, please tell me you continue to stand on the side of reason, I beg of you.”

Instead of answering, Lord Astley turned onto a pathway so small, Priscilla had not even noticed it through the overgrown bushes on either side. She followed with significant difficulty as the hem of her dress threatened to tear at the sight of every stray branch in its way. After a few steps, Angus turned, a distant smile peaking through the layers of discomfort enveloping him like heavy mist.

“Have you discovered the swing yet?” he asked.

“Swing?”

But without as much as a word, Angus rushed a few steps ahead, widening the space for her to follow. Despite her apprehension of being stolen away from Westley Hall, Priscilla had to admit herself impressed with the grounds of Astley Hall. Where she had expected a large townhouse (another remnant impression from her visit with her mother, super-imposed over the present), she was met with a castle. The structure itself was scarcely smaller than any mansion she had seen in the country, and the extensive grounds were more than she could have dared hope for when she left Sergeant Wincroft’s care. The gardens, sitting directly under the South wing windows, were large enough that Priscilla struggled to make out the size of them at a glance. Since her first night, she had craved for a chance to look over the grounds through those master bedroom shutters and gaze over the whole estate. She had even thought of asking Angus for the favour once she had proved herself to be an appreciative enough guest though it seemed like that possibility was increasingly fading from view.

Priscilla tried to hurry after Angus, but as she suddenly found herself deep into the overgrown hedge, she stopped hesitantly. There was clearly more to the garden past the narrow break in the boxhedge but she could not, in good consciousness, risk Sergeant Wincroft’s investment in her gowns quite so brazenly. Noticing her hesitation, the Viscount walked back and offered Miss Keane a hand from the other side of the wall of branches.

“Here, it’s easier once you cross this part,” he promised and let her lean onto his hand as she lifted her skirts and took a wide step over the thick web of roots.

“I must ask, Lord Astley, is this some elaborate tactic you have of getting a woman to show you her ankles?” Priscilla panted as she closely avoided tripping and gathered herself on the other side.

Angus chuckled and guided her along the narrow path, a hand lowering carefully to her back, where she was more aware of its closeness than able to feel it.

“I assure you, Miss Keane, your ankles are the least interesting thing about you. Besides,” he moved a low branch from the hanging ivy and they bent their heads close together to move under the arch, “I have seen them already. You ran down the hill to the house to meet Sergeant Wincroft the first summer I came to visit, after you had moved in.”

“Scandalous!”

“Of you, yes.”

“Scandalous of you to look, my lord. Worse even – to remember. Good memory is quite unpardonable among friends.”

“Ah, but you were not my friend then. In fact, I was convinced you were an overly enthusiastic maid.”

“Well, if you neglect to tell your aunt I sometimes run with my ankles on show, I might conveniently forget to tell her you looked at them.”

“You will make a good business partner, Miss Keane, I may have to ask your opinion on some of the family contracts.”

The two had come on the other side of the dirt trail and, emerging from another set of low-hanging branches, Priscilla found herself in a veritable oasis. Forgetting the damage she was doing to her shoes, she let go of Angus’ arm and moved forward with an audible 'awww'. The grass under her feet came to the bank of a very small pond, perfectly murky, wild with growing weeds, fallen leaves floating on its muddy surface and the row of flat stones offering passage to the other side. The opposite bank, was slightly raised by the root system of a large oak tree. True to Angus’ words, a wooden swing was hanging off its lowest branch.

“I thought you might like it,” Angus smiled seeing her expression. He took a lead over the flat stones and helped her to the other side. “This was my mother’s favourite place. She was not native to the city, her family was noble, though their means proved insufficient to support her father’s lavish lifestyle and she was raised in their country home. Not so much unlike yourself,” he inclined his head to Priscilla and, having conveyed her to the tree in one piece, he helped her onto the swing.

“So she made her new home resemble her old home?” she guessed, stifling a gasp as the first push lift her feet off the ground.

“Yes, and no. My mother had a fraught relationship with her childhood. According to aunt Muriel, she couldn’t wait to escape their home. The distance from my grandparents must have come as a relief. Lady Basington says my mother’s first years in Astley Hall were the happiest she’s ever seen her.”

“That sounds sad,” Priscilla mused, wondering vaguely if the air caught in her lungs so tightly because of the weightless swaying or Angus’ story.

“I’m sure it does. To you or me. But I’m glad to know she found peace somewhere, even if it wasn't at her birthplace. Certainly, every memory I have of her has taken place within ten miles of this place,” he said quietly, catching the retreating swing and the words fell directly into Priscilla’s ear, with barely any space between the Viscount’s lips to cushion their impact. Her breath hitched again and as she was propelled into thin air, happy Angus couldn’t see her reddening cheeks.

“How did she die?” Priscilla asked two swings later, once she thought she could trust her voice again and the next push propelled her further yet, her feet dangling dangerously far from solid earth.

“I wasn’t there. I was,” something tangled in Angus’ voice then, tripping the words, hitching itself onto vowels like a hook in fresh meet, “I was in service by then. My father’s insistence. I only have his account of events. He says it was a sudden infection. That she got weak. That she would fall a lot. Then taken to bed.” He pushed again, not with force but with controlled strength she could feel in the grasp of the rope knots. “I wouldn't have made it to the funeral if it wasn’t for my aunt’s letter.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure if the words were even audible as they escaped her, but she whispered them anyway.

A few quiet moments later the Viscount continued, his voice a fraction closer to normal than before.

“So you see, Miss Keane, this house is all that’s left of my mother. She poured every ounce of happiness she had of herself into it and then she was taken before she could enjoy the fruits of her labour. Now, I may not be a superstitious man, I have not attended séances or searched for her face in oddly shaped clouds. But if a piece of her remains in this realm, I know it would linger here. In this place. A little longer.”

Closing her eyes as she reached the peak of yet another arch into weightlessness, Priscilla sighed involuntarily. Then, as she descended back into the ground and right into Angus’ ready hands, she dug the toes of her shoes into the soft ground.

“You’re wrong,” she said quietly and twisted slightly on the seat so she could meet his eyes. “This is a beautiful house and a beautiful garden and,” she smiled, a wink of wickedness flashing across her features, “I cannot believe how much I have missed by never having been on a swing before. But I can think of better reasons why your mother might be partial to this place.”

So negligible was the space between them that by the time her lips uttered the last word, Priscilla had forgotten the reason she’d started speaking in the first place. She was suddenly trying to remember if she had ever been this close to someone outside of the rare hug with an absent parent. She could actually see Angus take a deep breath and swallow as he studied her, hands still grasping the edges of the bench where it met the tight rope. Somewhere, in the back of her brain, she noted there was a fitting metaphor to be arranged around a tightrope and this very moment, but she was unable to quite grasp it, being suddenly preoccupied of her own breath and how thick it felt in her throat.

“And what are those?” he asked, the warmth of the question tickling her cheeks and, after a long breathless moment of studying the differences between the cloudless sky behind Angus and the blue of his eyes, Priscilla had to shake her head clear of the fog and remember what she had been saying a moment before.

“You.” The word felt too revealing in the open space and she felt the need to dress it in further explanation. “I mean, I’m sure she misses you. Would miss you. If she- I mean,” she cleared her throat, a tad desperate for sense to return to her at this point. “What I meant is, I know I would.”

For a second she worried he might not answer. But with an audible exhale which seemed, absurdly, to tighten his frame around the swing even further, he smiled a little:

“I think that may be the nicest thing you have said about me, Miss Keane.”

“I’m sure that cannot be true.”

“I would have remembered.”

Priscilla’s mouth opened slightly, she knew not what for, a tease or a testimony, but before she could say another word, a voice sounded from the opposite side of the pond.

“My lord.” Kingsley announced the phrase as if it was an answer to a question no one had asked. He then waited politely for the two to break out of the trans which had rooted them to the spot. “Your aunt was looking for you in the breakfast parlour.”

The Viscount straightened and let go of the swing if not too abruptly, at least abruptly enough that Priscilla almost lost her balance and grasped the rope for balance.

“Of course, Kingsley, certainly” Angus nodded, suddenly back to his old self and turned to offer a hand to Miss Keane to escort her back over the flat stones with such civility she found it almost uncivil. Determined to show she would not be outdone in reigning herself in, she straightened and passed by Angus, skipping lightly over the pond without a backwards glance at the Viscount.