Chapter 9 – A Gathering of Clouds

- The arrival of another ghost;

The outing was dubbed an unequivocal success. Lady Basington congratulated Priscilla on her clear success and was ready to start picking wedding dates when Lord Foster called into Astley Hall the very next day.

The visit had been too short for refreshments, and not even long enough for him to take a seat. He had additionally, made it clear he was passing by to meet with the Viscount, a statement which Lady Basington immediately dismissed as nothing more than an excuse until, several long minutes later, Viscount Astley himself appeared in the parlour and, greeting his old friend, the two excused themselves to speak privately.

The Baroness cursed her nephew’s unfortunate timing continuously in front of Priscilla, who nodded politely at all the right points, and then vented her frustrations directly to Angus as soon as he re-entered the room.

“Ah, aunt,” he greeted, a slight surprise in his voice, as he returned to the parlour. “I thought you would be trying to take advantage of every chance for a promenade before the ball.”

“Oh, now everyone’s a plotter,” she raised her hands in exasperation. “Weren't you taking every chance you could to finish your business before de Bonnevilles’ arrival.”

Angus scrunched his eyebrows, pausing halfway between reaching for his tea with confusion.

“Are you,” he looked at his aunt, almost aghast, “trying to imply I am unwelcome in my own home, aunt?”

“I am stating you are unwelcome in this room, when you distract from my plans for Miss Keane's future.”

“Come, aunt, as if anyone who came to see Priscilla could be tempted by me.”

“They just were.”

This took Angus a second.

“Foster?”

“Of course Foster, who else could I mean?”

“But,” Angus stuttered in confusion and before he could speak further, Lady Basington put him out his misery:

“While you have been off doing lord knows what, we have been hard at work too. Sebastian Foster and Miss Keane met yesterday at the park. Miss Keane performed admirably enough-“

“Yes, I managed a full turn about the lake without falling in it, I think I deserve applause quite frankly,” Priscilla interjected and Angus clapped while Lady Basington added:

“Admirably enough that even his mother gave her blessing for the two to dance at the Ball.”

“No!” Angus gasped with mock shock.

“In my defence,” Priscilla said, “the majority of my conversation with Lord Foster was conducted away from his mother’s ears.”

“Ah, that is what we in the business world call cheating, Miss Keane,” Angus teased.

“I do not know of your business, Viscount. I am in the business of getting husbands.”

“Plural?”

“As many as are left after you finish taking them away from me.”

“I assure you I have no intention of marrying Sebastian Foster,” the Viscount declared chivalrously.

“Then I am to be his consolation prize after you rejected him?”

“Marriage is an affair of compromise, Miss Keane, you best start early.”

“That is quite enough,” Lady Basington spoke up suddenly, her voice steady but cutting through the ensuing dance between the two. “This will not do, not with all that is at stake. For both of you. For all of us.” The Baroness straightened in her chair and pointed to a gold tray sitting at the nearby table for Angus. “The post came. I think you will find a letter from the Earl tucked in there, Angus.”

The Viscount started towards the table as his aunt continued:

“He is coming tonight.”

“Tonight?” he paused suddenly, turning a suspicious gaze to the unflinching Baroness. “I thought you said you would never read my letters, aunt.”

“I do not read your letters, Angus, because I do not need to. I have other sources.”

“What sources? Are you a spy now, aunt.”

“I will be whatever I need to be to take care of this family. This means, I need to assure your father that your future is settled and his business in Astley Hall is finished. That your marriage, your fortune, your home – are all settled. You will be the next Earl of Gloucester, Viscount,” she landed on the title with some weight, “if I have to marry you to Henry de Bonneville himself.”

“I’m not sure Monsieur would approve of that plan,” Angus muttered but bit the inside of his mouth noticing the deep embers burning in his aunt’s eyes, who turned to Priscilla next:

“And Miss Keane will marry, quickly, honourably and happily. In order for all of those things to happen you are both required to start taking this a lot more seriously. No more jokes, no more frivolous quips that make you seem juvenile or unreliable.” Sensing her audience was still primed for revolt, the Baroness decided to take pointed shots at them one by one:

“Miss Keane, do you know how many young women will be presented at court this year? A dozen girls, younger, better titled and richer than you. You cannot compete with them, certainly not on their terms. But your age could be a boon if you only use it correctly. If you choose to showcase experience, grace, thoughtfulness, rather than act as a petulant child. And I am quite certain that you, Angus, would rather not leave your father under the impression you need help managing the business.”

Clearly disgruntled, the Viscount set his cup back down with a sharp clank and and stood up, making his way towards the small table with the mail.

As Priscilla sat in her chair, trying to focus on the teacup in her hands rather than the weight of the guilt building inside her, Angus went through the stack of letters.

“Friday,” he announced after a short moment of reading. “Father is coming Friday, a day before the ball. And,” a bitter laugh escaped him as his eyes made their way lower down the page, “Monsieur de Bonneville is also arriving on the same day.”

“Does it say how long he is staying?” Lady Basington asked wearily.

“No. Just that we will need to talk. Underlined three times. It is unclear if he means just him and me or if he wants the three of us to arrange for a round table.”

“All the more reason to take care of any cause for conversation.”

“It certainly sounds as if the two of them have already made arrangements without me.”

“Something which you wouldn’t have to worry about if you could hear the news from your wife.”

Lady Basington and Angus both turned to Priscilla shocked that the dreamy sentence had come out her mouth. She looked for a moment as if she wasn’t even aware she had spoken, then straightened up and, squaring her shoulders, faced their quizzical gazes directly.

“Your aunt is right, Viscount Astley,” she said cooly, “we’ve both made promises we need to keep. You seem to depend quite a lot on a relationship with Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Bonneville. I won’t pretend to understand the full extent of why and I don’t have to. You are my friend, if marriage to Hélène de Bonneville is important to you, it is my duty to support you. And I have promised Lord Wincroft to… find a different household.”

“Priscilla-“ Angus started, pity softening his features, but she interrupted him before she might let the endearing informality sway her determination.

“No, this is for the best. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and arrange a fitting outfit for the ball so I can have a hope of competing with those darling debutantes your aunt spoke of.”

At that, Priscilla stood up and excused herself. She was suddenly very aware of the largeness of the house, of her small and very temporary place in it. The ball would be in four short days and she was determined not to undermine the Baroness’ attempts for it.

She spent the next few days primarily locked in the halls, walking the cool grounds and wishing, for the first time since she’d made it to the city, that she could ride again.

Increasingly, she found herself encircling the South wing like a tornado, drawn to a nuclear centre. She traced the doors with fingers as if hoping they open for her; she looked up the windows from her walks in the garden and tried to make out shapes, past the curtains. She wondered if it was her fate to experience the comfort of Lady Katherine in this house or her demise in it.

*

On the morning of that dreaded Friday, she was dressed into one of her best new day dresses and waiting at the front of the house near Angus and Lady Basington, waiting for the Earl of Gloucester to arrive. The incessant whispers about the Earl had strung Priscilla’s nerves quite tightly and since news of his arrival had reached the staff of Astley Hall, the overall mood in the house had shifted to frosty panic. Deliveries had started arriving with alarming frequency and everyone had become irritable and overly cautious.

It had been 20 minutes since they started waiting. There was no hint at an arrival. 30 minutes after, and starting to feel cold and uncomfortable, Priscilla asked if they should worry, if they should perhaps send someone out to try and confirm the Earl’s constitution.

Angus and Lady Basington however merely sniffed and shook their heads in defeat. They all went inside, taking tea in the front room, waiting to see the carriage as soon as it appeared on the horizon.

It was another hour before one of the footmen hurried in to announce he had spotted the coach arriving in the distance. Angus rushed out and Lady Basington followed at her own pace, making it outside just in time to see the large carriage stop in the driveway and Angus’s father come out leisurely.

The Earl was a large man. As she thought it, Priscilla realised the word was too often used inappropriately to merely point to a significant gut. Bertram Astley however was not a fat man. He was a large one. He was tall, muscled even in his old age, a heavy moustache hanging over his upper lip and a large coat even though spring had certainly made its mark on the land by now. He looked around with the air of a man judging a hovel, not his own large estate. His underwhelmed eyes bore almost no signs of recognition as they glazed over Angus and Priscilla would have thought he had forgotten his son if he hadn’t addressed him.

“You’re here.” The line puzzled Priscilla as, as far as she knew, there was nowhere else for Angus to be.

“You’re late,” his son retorted, taking a single but determined step forward. “We were expecting you a few hours ago.”

“I decided to have a late start to the day. Besides, I should think you would have more important things to concern yourself with than waiting,” the Earl said, leisurely making his way past the welcoming party and acknowledging no one on his way. As the footmen busied themselves with unloading his luggage and taking care of the carriage, the rest of the staff scuttled away with clear speed and relief at not being scrutinised. The only exception was Kingsley who waited for the Viscount and Baroness to follow the Lord of the estate inside so he could join at the back of the queue. For a brief moment he and Priscilla came at a stalemate, as Priscilla hoped beyond hope that she could follow behind the steward and remain invisible, but alas, Kingsley’s patience was infinite and at last she sighed and followed after the Baroness’ slow form.

By the time Priscilla reached the front parlour, the Earl had taken his gloves off and thrown them briskly on a nearby couch. Hands free, he headed to the small table at the far corner of the room, found it empty, then turned to his son, the colour rising in his cheeks.

“I see you have moved things,” he said, his jaw working so hard under the moustache Priscilla thought it looked like he was chewing the words before spitting them out. “I remember keeping my brandy there.”

There was palpable threat in his voice and Priscilla was impressed to find Angus looking entirely unflustered, if a tad more rigid than usual:

“I thought it was best not to greet guests with liquor from the doorstep, father.”

“Did you? From the way you conduct business, it would seem the use of a little liquor would not go amiss.”

“I assure you, business is in hand, father.”

“Is it?” Lord Bertram Astley, in stark contrast with his son’s steady composition, seemed like a man at war, his gestures growing more and more impatient and aggressive, as if he were trying to battle the air itself. “Kingsley! Where in the devil is the little dickens hiding?”

Seeming completely unperturbed by the address, the steward moved forward from behind the group and gave a low bow:

“Over here, my lord.”

“Ah. I see you continue to resist your impending demise then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, fetch me the bourbon, will you, my son’s modern living does not quite suit me.”

“Right away, sir.” Kingsley turned out of the room at the same leisurely pace and the Earl was once again free to turn his attention to his son.

“Business is in hand then, you say?” he asked tightly finally causing a small crack in Angus’ composure, who cleared his throat before answering:

“It is, my lord,” he nodded formally, stretching his lips into a thin smile.

“Don’t try and con me, boy!” Lord Bertram bellowed, the force of his voice almost physically pushing Priscilla a step back. “I don’t know what nonsense you’ve been up to here, but I have certainly let you get away with it for far too long.”

Remaining unflinchingly stoic with the exception of a persistent muscle twinge at the corner of his jaw, Angus said, his voice even:

“I am not certain what you have heard, sir, but I assure you-“

“You assure me!? It’s not what I’ve heard, you child, it’s who I heard it from! You think I expected to be receiving letters from small men, trying to make themselves larger by stepping on my shoulders!?” the Earl’s voice now easily resonating across the whole house. “And you,” he continued, near snarling,” you, sit here, providing them the ladder.”

Her breath bated, Priscilla almost jumped out of her skin as she felt the sudden shuffle of Kingsley, returning with the requested tray and Lord Bertram snatched the glass from the air barely waiting for it to be set down. As Angus spoke again, Priscilla noted his eyes were now fixed on the wall ahead. She could tell the effort was starting to cost her friend.

“If you are referring to Monsieur de Bonneville, my lord, I assure you his visit is no cause for concern. His trip has been planned these past two years for the renewal of contracts and reviewing our terms.”

“No, I don't mean Henry de Bonneville, you child,” he muttered, the alcohol clearly abating his anger though not his disdain. “I mean Lord Smythe.”

At the mention of the name, and for the first time this morning, Angus’ well contained façade finally appeared shaken. His mouth hung helplessly open and the blood drained from his face.

“Rexington Smythe?” Angus whispered, bringing the man’s image immediately to Priscilla’s disbelieving mind. Were they really speaking of the young man who had approached her in the park only a few days ago?

But Lord Bertram merely scoffed.

“As if. Yet another spineless boy. No, Angus, his father wrote me. Percy Smythe,” Lord Bertram pronounced the name with bitter comedy as if it were the punchline of an incredulous joke. “Sir- No, Mr. Percy Smythe. Not a title to his sorry name and yet he wrote to me, letting me know how poorly you have been managing my affairs in my absence. So poorly in fact that he has had to step in and take over the business the Astleys seem to have dropped on the street.”

Having rendered his son satisfactorily speechless, the Earl continued.

“Tell me, boy, have we gotten in the charity business since I left? Are we invested in helping out nameless Mr. Smythe and his offspring?”

“Ah- I-“ Angus stuttered and after a few moments Lady Basington joined in, clearly deciding it was about time she put her nephew out of his misery.

“I don’t think this is the best time to discuss business, your lordship. Perhaps this conversation can wait until you have settled. And you and the Viscount are alone,” she added suggestively.

With a sudden squint and a visible reset of his emotions, which Priscilla found truly dazzling, Lord Bertram acknowledged his sister in law’s presence for the first time since arriving.

“Muriel,” sour amusement crept up the corners of his lip, never quite spreading farther up his cheeks. “Fancy seeing you here. Especially since I thought we’d seen the last of you after the funeral.”

“Charming as usual, Bertram,” Lady Basington returned the cool smile, her eyes sparking with venom.

“Here’s a thought, Baroness, if you do not approve of the way I act within my own home, you are more than welcome to quit it. And pray take your dreaded butler with you, I’m sure he’s trying to kill me.”

“If he were you would be dead, my lord. You may question his motives but not his ability, if you please.”

Lord Bertram smirked, though his attention, once broken from his son seemed free to roam now and finally landed on Priscilla herself who was pressed firmly with her back to the wall.

“And you,” he squinted at her, his expression growing more confused and he looked at the other two expecting an explanation to the obvious intruder. “Who’s this then? A new maid? What are you paying the staff, Angus, that they can dress so well?”

Something about the statement brought Angus back to life and his expression re-focused politely.

“Father, may I present Miss Priscilla Keane, she is staying with us for the season. Miss Keane,” he turned to Priscilla, his tone softening tangibly, “my father, Lord Bertram Astley, the Earl of Gloucester,” Angus' teeth ground together by the time he finished introducing the Earl and he added sardonically. “The pleasure is all his, I’m sure.”

“Miss Keane, is it? And whence do you hail, Miss Keane? Which happy wind blew you to our doorstep?”

“The north wind, my lord,” Priscilla curtsied, doing her best to keep her voice level. “All the way from Sergeant Wincroft’s and with his blessing.”

“Wincroft,” Lord Bertram sniffed disparagingly and if Priscilla had no other information about the Earl, his dismissal of her dear friend and guardian would have been enough to form her opinion.

“Sir, Sergeant Wincroft is a friend of mine. I agreed to host Priscilla as a favour, as a friend-“ Angus started but was quickly interrupted.

“A favour? You’re not going to marry the girl as a favour are you, boy? Or are you merely using her to make the de Bonneville girl jealous?”

“That’s enough I think,” Lady Basington cut in, taking a step forward and placing herself directly between Lord Bertram and Angus, who was in turn doing his best to shield Priscilla either from his father or from getting a direct view into his pale face. “You have managed to prove yourself inhospitable in every possible sense and in a record amount of time may I add. An achievement I am sure you are proud of but you best save some venom for our guests tomorrow night, de Bonneville being one of them. I’m sure he’ll be happy with the welcome you’ve practiced here today.

“Miss Keane, why don’t you go change and we can take a late turn about the park, I’m sure some fresh air would do us all good.”

Grateful for the command, Priscilla waited for no further encouragement, but took a short bow sparing a last look at Angus whose eyes were clouded by embarrassment and bore a pained plea for forgiveness. She forced her lips into as generous a curve as she could manage before turning on an eager heel and escaping out into the hallway.

Near the other side of the door, she saw Kingsley standing to attention, ready to be called in. Just as she was about to pass him, something occurred to her.

“You know, I must admit, Mr Kingsley, a part of me thought all this anxiety around the Earl's arrival was exaggerated. But I think understand the need for preparation now. And whoever gave the household some warning has earned everyone's thanks.”

Considering his answer for only a moment, Kingsley said:

“A Lord may conceal his plans from his family, but not from his staff, my lady.”

“I’m sure no one could conceal anything from you, even should they wish it,” Priscilla smiled. And then something else occurred to her: “How long had you worked for the Baroness? It must have been long, since you seem to have her full trust,” she mused, not quite a question, but the steward answered anyway.

“I only served the Baroness for three years, Miss. I used to be head steward of Astley Hall at the time when Lady Katherine Crenshaw became the Countess Astley.” After another pensive second he added: “She was a great lady. The Baroness merely ensured I stayed with the family.”

"Why wouldn't you--" Priscilla started to ask but the memory of Lord Astley's disdain of the steward was still clear in her mind. More to the point, she was sure if the man was half as devoted to the late Lady Astley as he was to her sister, Lord Bertram Astley would have a hard time stomaching his presence.

She was just about to express her sympathy to Kingsley when a resonant call came from the room behind them. The Earl stormed out, blazing past them without a second glance. He had made it nearly out of the long corridor before he stopped and turned to Kingsley.

“Have my things set up in the South Wing, will you?

“Sir, I-“

“It’s still my house, Kingsley. Other people are just living in it.”

The steward swallowed, paling.

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Bertram carried down the hall and, hearing a deep sigh come from the steward, Priscilla turned to face him, expected to see defeated expression on the old face. Instead, she was startled by the bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You don’t seem to share Lady Bassington’s concerns about the South wing?” she asked.

“I have no concerns, Miss. If my Lord Bertram would like a reunion with the Countess, that is his prerogative,” he said quietly with a bow, which she suspected was more of a useful tool at hiding his increasing smile. “I advise you to lock your door tonight, Miss Keane,” he added before turning to the servants’ quarters.