Chapter 10 – Her Ladyship, Katherine Astley, the Countess of Gloucester

- A bad dream; An unreliable candle; Stifling smell of lilies; A dashing Viscount and spirited encounter;

Priscilla Keane was a liar, though she considered the sin insignificant since it was committed in the name of pride and prudence. Despite assuring everyone within earshot of her indifference, she was developing a growing and unhealthy obsession with the house and its mistress. And, it had to be admitted (since we were in the realm of admittance), its newly arrived master.

It was for the first time since her arrival that Priscilla was not only grateful for the size of the estate but found herself wishing for even more corners she may be able to hide in. It was difficult to believe that one person could make such a difference.

The house seemed to struggle against the incessant push for ownership, and while Angus and the Baroness had been the more vocal candidates for the position, it was the Earl's presence that kept chasing Priscilla down hallways and echoing rooms. Despite being an infrequent visitor to Astley House, his bitter imprint permeated the shadows like toxic mould covered by a too thin layer paint, flaking at the edges.

Doing her best to avoid Lord Bertram, Priscilla agreed to a walk with the Baroness and the two stayed away for as long as they could that day. She also tried to extend the promenade in the faint hopes of running into Lord Foster. Since he seemed the least likely to take offence at questions about Rexington Smythe, he remained her best hope for information.

The park however was full of unfamiliar bright faced ladies, who, upon introduction, gazed upon Priscilla with the same disparaging looks as Lord Bertram and she was happy to escape them with a short bow and a tight smile.

On several occasions, she was almost brave enough to question Lady Basington about the Smythes, to admit to having spoken to the son even, but the Baroness' silence was strict and insisted on chaperoning them all the way home.

*

As soon as she stepped out of the carriage upon her return to Astley Hall, Priscilla felt the tension in the house crackle like a charge. Each step through the corridors was like tiptoeing through static. She was suddenly nauseous at the thought of running into Lord Bertram again and she rushed to her room, hiding in there through dinner. A tray was helpfully brought to her by Juliette who smiled with understanding.

Unable to rest in idleness, Priscilla busied herself with writing to her mother, whom she gave an account of events far shorter, more pragmatic and light than she felt. Even so the words struggled out of her pen like persnickety children refusing the leave their beds on a rainy morning.

She described the places, the people, the plans, the pending visitors. At the thought of Mademoiselle de Bonneville, Priscilla felt a sour trickle she chose not to examine too closely and moved on to dresses and accounts of desperate debutants.

This first letter finished all too quickly, she decided Sergeant Wincroft and Lady Wincroft would appreciate an update of their own. Here, Priscilla moved swiftly past impressions of the city, and focused instead on her interactions with Lord Foster and Rexington Smythe. As carefully and nonchalantly as she could she asked Sergeant Wincroft for more information on both. Hoping her interest wouldn't embarrass her, she moved to the topic of Angus' mother, eager for an outsider's view of the true owner of Astley Hall. Of the woman waltzing freely through the grounds as if carried by a light garden breeze. Katherine Crenshaw, Katherine Astley, Countess, queen of the nooks and crannies, guardian of the park’s winding pathways, gatekeeper of the building’s benevolence.

Priscilla explained how in Katherine’s absence, in defiance or rather blatant disproof of it, the gardens flourished, the ballrooms echoed with remnants of dizzying waltzes, the bright library rustled with the snickering turning of pages and the edges of her vision glistened with foggy flashes of the woman, her life, the flowers which adorned every room, every corner, the gardens which smelt of fresh spring and budding life. Her body tingled at the thought of the secret swing Angus had shared with her, the air blowing through her hair, the feeling of her feet leaving the ground, her hands clinging to the rope around her and Angus’ hands pushing her into oblivion, his face mere inches from hers as he smiled and leaned in to-

Priscilla startled awake, jumping in her seat, at the loud echo of a distant clamour. During a moment of panicked frenzy, she realised she had fallen asleep over the fresh draft of Sergeant Wincroft’s letter. She was just about to ensure the last few paragraphs were void of any inappropriate mentions of swings when a second clash, quieter but reverberating through the halls outside, shook her.

Priscilla put away her letter and creaked open her bedroom door, peeking out into the dark hall.

She could see no one.

“Angus?”

The moment his name escaped her lips, she cursed her tongue for speaking it. Frustrated with her own superciliousness, she returned inside only long enough to pick up the small candle from her desk and go back into the hallway, closing the door behind herself.

The hallway was cold and draft carried the echo of her footfalls trechurously over the cool tiles. Without thinking she slipped off her shoes and continued towards the noise. When she made it to the end of the hallway without hearing another sound she wondered if it had perhaps been her imagination which had woken her, if her mind her rebelled against the unconscionable dream and rallied her awake in defiance. Perhaps she might do best to simply return to her room, she thought. But just then, another shatter sounded from her far right, within the depths of the South wing. Priscilla shuddered, her skin prickling with sudden fear, the air growing stagnant in her petrified lungs.

She forced herself to inhale and took another step forward, repeating to herself that the South wing was in fact occupied, that if there was any disturbance it was most likely from the Earl himself, rather than any supernatural presence. She took another decisive stride in direct opposition to her hammering heart.

Approaching the South Wing, she noticed the double doors, which had been closed since her arrival at Astley Hall, were now wide open. Yet the darkness beyond them was so thick as to seem as impenetrable as the doors themselves had been. The light coming out of her almost burnt out candle was meagre and impotent in the face of the dark void ahead. A cool swirl of air tangled itself like a ribbon around her skirts, lifting loose strands of hair around her face and, before she could even gasp, extinguished her candle with the precision of a predator stalking its next meal in the night. Priscilla turned around, frantically trying to make out the shape moving around her, not knowing herself if she would prefer a human adversary or an other-worldly presence.

She heard steps from her left and turned to the sound but saw nothing. The steps halted and returned directly behind her. Twisting desperately, Priscilla squinted into the darkness and held onto the candleholder as if it were a weapon. A sudden smell of sweet lilies hit her with almost the strength of a physical blow and brought tears to her eyes. She held a hand over her face fighting through the dizziness of the smell and the stinging in her eyes, she took a reflexive step back and brought her body within the echoing arch of the Masters’ corridor. Risking another small inhale she found a whole bouquet of aromas this time, a smooth leather at the base of her throat, acrid smoke grating her nostrils, and the lilies still swirling around inside her head causing her to grow fainter and fainter. She raised a helpless hand to catch herself before she fell, but finding no hard surface, she kept stumbling in the darkness until suddenly she crashed into a wall.

Except this wall encircled her with a stony grip. Feeling tight fingers press into her back and clasp her firmly to its hard surface, Priscilla screamed. Her arms raised with a spark of adrenalin to fight off the assailant, or ghost, or spirit, which taken a hold of her for she was determined, if this was her end, that she would not let herself be taken to the afterlife without a fight.

“Priscilla,” a whisper sounded, low, buried deep in her hair and she stilled in recognition.

“Angus?” she said, unsure if it was hope or dread raising in her stomach. When the voice nodded a breathless Yes into her hair once more, the blood drained from her head and right into her heels, this time with distinct mortification.

She was suddenly painfully aware for the very human arm holding her steady, of the plains of his body she had been pressed to, of the heat coming from his chest and thin fabric of his nightshirt. She thanked her lucky stars she had not ran out of her room in her bedclothes.

With what she considered true supernatural strength, Priscilla forced her limbs into operation and stepped away from the Viscount, hopeful that she appeared more steady on her feet than she felt. As soon as she broke away from his arms, she saw with relief that his other arm, the one that had not been holding her, was carrying a candle. With somewhat less of a relief she noticed that he was, in fact, distinctly underdressed. The collar of his shirt gaped open in an obscene manner, which rudely reminded her that, despite her jokes, the Viscount was an older, and more fit, man than she would give him credit for. Trying not to focus on his raising chest, she promised herself never to mock his beard, or any other bit of hair on his body, again.

“Are you feeling alright, Miss Keane?” he asked, still trying to catch his breath after the collision.

“Yes of course, why do you ask?”

“You’re fanning yourself,” he pointed to her hand.

“Oh, yes,” she ran her sweaty palm over her skirts and lift her chin, deciding that offence might be a better tactic than sheepishness. “There was the smell. Was that you also?”

“Smell? What smell?”

“Lilies. It was overwhelming, I couldn’t breathe.”

Angus’ brow furrowed in concern.

“Lilies?” He took a half step closer to her and peered into her face as a doctor might do a particularly unnerving patient. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Miss Keane,” he reached out with his free hand as if to lay it on her shoulder in a soothing way, but she pushed back stubbornly.

“Yes, I am sure,” her whispers were growing more frantic and she was just about to accuse him of something or other but at that point another shatter sounded somewhere above them and Priscilla turned instinctively towards the noise.

In the low light of Angus’ candle, she saw that the double doors did not simply open to the master bedrooms but merely to an ornate alcove with a short winding staircase. Angus turned towards the stairs but Priscilla grabbed the back of his arm and held him with another whisper:

“Wait, my candle!” she said, showing him the extinguished candle she was still holding onto.

He met her eyes with infuriating impatient incomprehension.

“What?”

“Light my candle first!” she leaned her wick towards the flame in his hand but he pulled away.

“Wait, you’re not coming with me.”

“Of course I’m coming with you, don’t be ridiculous!”

The Viscount opened his mouth to object but was interrupted by an infuriated yell above them. In the split second which took his attention away from Priscilla, she relit her candle and pushed him forward as if he were merely an object standing in the way of her research. Providing her with an expressive eyeroll, Angus rushed up with a frustrated whisper:

“Okay, but stay close.” He started up the stairs, his free hand stretched back towards Priscilla, resting gently on her arm, as if he wanted to make sure he knew where she was at all times.

The stairs did not go on for as long as Priscilla feared, the raise was barely a half floor and created a mere symbolic separation between the master chambers and the rest of the residents in the house. Symbolic but significant, Priscilla thought, seeing, even in the feeble candle light, the opulence of the rooms. There was more marble, gold, heavy carpets which felt soft and velvety under her feet and rows of expensive paintings hanging along the broad walls. The circular morning room they found themselves in after reaching the top step was filled with lounge chairs, small ornate tea tables, book cases and conspicuously empty vases. There were grand windows spanning the entirety of the back wall, which Priscilla recognised instantly as the same windows she had been looking up at during her long walks in the garden. On either side she could see arching doorways leading to what she guessed were the master and mistress suites. It did not take long for her to realise the sounds that had brought them were coming from the room to the right and were most definitely human in nature.

A slew of pungent swear words issued in what Priscilla recognised as Lord Bertram’s voice and as she tried to peer around Angus' shoulder, he stepped in front of her. Feeling her frustration he threw her a quick look and she saw the curve of his brows, twisted in the same kind of concern she had seen on the morning of his father's arrival. All apology and plea.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered just as the Earl came out of his chambers, shortly preceded by a flying vase vase which came clashing into the opposite corner of the room. The crash send a spray of broken china through the floor, right at Priscilla’s feet.

“Where are damned-“ Lord Bertram started, but seeing Angus he redirected his attention to his son.

“Ah! You. Perhaps you can tell me why no servants seem to be answering, I’ve been ringing for Kingsley these 20 minutes at least. Or are you helping out the staff now? Earning your inheritance,” he added, smirking at his own joke.

Rather than answer his father, Angus took a step forward and demanded:

“What on earth is going on?”

“I’ve been attacked, that’s what’s going on, you useless brat. I could have been killed, I could have been-“

“Attacked by who?” Angus interrupted as the Earl’s advancing frame came face-to-face with him.

“I don’t know, do I? Maybe, if this place wasn’t managed as an absolute circus we would have the culprit by now. You mark my words, boy, this has the rascal Kingsley’s fingerprints all over it!” Seeing his son start to disagree, Lord Bertram continued undeterred: “Either it was him or he was being purposefully negligent and cares nothing about the master of this house. Either way he will be out of this house tonight.”

Lord Bertram made to push past Angus and get down the stairs, but found himself running straight into Priscilla.

“You?” he looked between her and his son, his eyes narrowing. “You’re stupider than I thought,” he sneered at Angus.

“Father-“

“Just make sure you keep her out of the away when a real prospect comes along, understand?”

Priscilla and Angus both near lunged at the Earl but by the time the words tripped out of their mouths and over each other, their target was down the stairs and out of the way.

Priscilla was ready redirect her anger but felt it dissipate as soon as she noticed fresh tension building on Angus' face. She saw him take a deep breath like a man surfacing from the depths of the ocean and realised he was about to apologise. Before he could utter a word, she put a gentle hand on his arm and said:

“Do you really think someone was here?”

For a second, Angus’ features tensed further in surprise and he looked at her, brows raised, his eyes searching for reprimand, almost hoping for it. When he found none, a grateful smile warmed his face in the light of the flame and he sighed, focusing on the mess around them.

“Of course not,” he answered, sounding tired now. “No one could have got this far into the house without being let in and despite my father’s contempt of Kingsley, he would never do anything to disrespect my mother’s rooms.”

“But if he didn’t answer the bells-“

“All the bells from the master suites were disconnected several years ago,” Angus interrupted moving into the centre of the room and looking around as if searching for evidence of foul play, though Priscilla had the distinct impression he was also trying to create some distance between them. “Shortly after my mother’s funeral, events in the South wing became a little… untethered to reality. The bells would ring often in the middle of the night, randomly, echoing through the halls sometimes in unnatural patterns. It was disturbing and disruptive, the staff was convinced it was a supernatural presence. Then of course there was everything else – the noise, the visions-“

“The smells,” Priscilla finished in a small voice and the Viscount turned to her in confusion.

“The smells?”

“Lilies,” she said, remembering the cloud of perfume that had almost claimed her consciousness downstairs.

“Yes, you said that before,” there was a quizzical note in his voice again and he brought the candle closer to examine her face once more. “There are no lilies in Astley Hall, Miss Keane.”

“Of course there are,” she could almost laugh at the nonsensical response. “I know a lily when I smell one. Especially at that proximity and volume.”

“Lilies were my mother’s favourite flowers. My father had them all removed from the grounds after the funeral and we never replanted after she left. Not even Kingsley would bring one in the house.”

“But- I smelled lilies. I almost choked on lilies.” Seeing the weariness in his suddenly rigid posture, Priscilla raised her voice a fraction. “I’m not lying, I know the flowers, we had to move them all around Westley Hall since they started giving Lady Wincroft headaches.”

“Okay. Well… maybe someone did break in,” Angus suggested tentatively, but Priscilla could tell he was merely trying to placate her and fisted her hands in frustration. Instead of dignifying his pity with an answer, she turned away and stomped her way through to Lord Bertram’s bedroom forsaking all sense of impropriety.

“Wait,” Angus called after her in frustration, “I believe you. I do.”

“You’ll need to learn to lie better, if you are to secure yourself a better prospect, my lord. Even I can tell you that much.”

“Miss Keane!” he rushed to catch her arm before she could enter his father's room, but she evaded him swiftly, crossed the threshold and immediately stopped short, gasping.

The room was in tatters. It was difficult to say how much of the mess was the mad Earl’s own doing and how much was caused by an outside presence, be it a thief, intruder, or the malevolent spirit of a deceased spouse.

The majority of the furniture was overturned, chairs broken, a chest drawers at the far corner was hanging on its side, its insides gutted and strewn about the room and judging by its weight and size Priscilla thought that was at least one of the thuds she had heard all the way from her room. Another was probably caused by the broken curtain banister, the thick wooden column was probably size of Angus’ forearms Priscilla thought, trying not to make much out of the ease with which the image of her friend’s arms returned to her mind.

Approaching the ground near the window she saw the orbed edge of the banister had actually cracked the ground in its fall and she wondered briefly what kind of force might have caused  it to disengage from the ceiling. Surely not just any man could have done this. If it were a man at all. She exhaled trying to expel the irrational fear but the chill which had enveloped her since the moment she left her bedchamber tonight refused to unwind from her prickly skin.

“Dear God,” Angus’ quiet gasp brought her back to the present and she turned to follow his eyes. He was facing the opposite wall and was holding his candle towards the space above the large four poster bed. The curtains around the bed itself had suffered a similar amount of destruction as the rest of the room and hung limp and torn around the floor but through the remaining rags she found it difficult to tell what exactly he was looking at.

She tried to move closer, but yelled in pain almost immediately when her shoeless foot stepped on the raged edge of stray porcelain. Judging by the soggy puddle at her feet, the piece must have come from another broken vase, its contents spilled around her.

“Priscilla!” Angus exclaimed, turning to catch her just as she doubled over in pain.

She leaned on his arm for a second time that night and allowed herself to be carried to the bed with an unsteady limp.

Repeating her name as if it were a spell that could break the bleak curse of the night, Angus dropped to his knees as soon as she was seated, set his candle aside and focused on finding the source of the pain. A jolt of electricity travelled up Priscilla’s calves and tingled all the way up her back. the feeling had nothing to do with the cutting agony in the arch of her foot, but with his hands, which grazed the edges of her skirt and her Achilles’ heel. A breathless sigh escaped her lips and she cleared her throat, appalled by her own body’s audacious treachery.

“Good God, Priscilla,” he swore as he saw the blood slick on his fingers, trailing the ground. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” he accused in a tone, which she found completely inappropriate considering her miserable state.

“Excuse me!? I heard noises and I came to investigate. I think you’ll find there’s quite a lot that needs investigating.”

“You came to investigate in your stockings?”

“I left my shoes behind, I was worried they would interfere with my ability to pass by any danger unheard.”

“Indeed, but right through the sharp objects of course.”

“Well that was hardly my fault! I did not break them did I?”

“At least it explains why I did not hear you until I bumped into you earlier,” Angus muttered, lifting her foot carefully onto his knee to examine it.

“See?” she tried not to wince. “Perfect plan.”

“You took your shoes off so you could bump into me?” he asked absently, bringing the light over to locate the bit of ceramic lodged in her arch. “It’s just one piece,” he muttered, “I’ll have to take it out, prepare yourself.”

“Just do it,” she huffed and bit her lips against the sudden pain. “And for your information, my lord, if I wanted to bump into you I would simply need to stop avoiding you and trust your natural clumsiness to do the rest.”

“Strong words from the invalid reliant on my rescue,” he smiled lightly, tearing a long stretch of the fallen bedclothes near them and starting to wind it around her foot gingerly.

“How unchivalrous of you, Viscount, to lord your unrequested support over me. I think I would rather take the pain next time if this is the cost of your assistance.”

“I sincerely hope there will be no next time,” he said sombrely and tightened the bit of fabric over her foot causing her to issue another gasp. Laying a soothing hand over her foot, he looked up into her eyes. “Miss Keane, you have to promise me, if you ever hear another sound you will remain in your room and allow us to take care of the issue.”

“That’s a might condescending, don’t you think? And besides, what if there is a fire, am I to remain locked in my room then too and burn in the safety of my bed?”

“If there is a fire, Miss Keane, you have my word, I will run to you and carry you out myself.”

“That seems quite unnecessary,” Priscilla countered though the words were coming out a tad breathy as she was increasingly conscious of his warm hands still holding her foot. The fingers brushing her ankle were getting more difficult to ignore by the second.

“Oh I don’t know about that, I think I may have to carry you out of this room at this rate.”

“Certainly not!”

“I feel obliged to point out, Miss Keane, for the sake of my aunt’s plans, that you will be completely unable to dance at the ball if you insist on your stubbornness and end up with two bandaged feet.”

Rolling her eyes, Priscilla sniffed. “I am starting to develop the impression I would have more luck gaining a husband by playing the helpless damsel, lounging in a gilded settee and looking mysterious.”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt, though I’m afraid that would leave too much opportunity for you to scare the contenders with your tongue.”

“So I see my warnings have been well headed then,” a disapproving voice boomed from the entrance of the suite and startled Angus into a standing position.

Lowering her leg gently, Priscilla turned to the looming figure and blushed under Lady Basington’s disapproving gaze.

“Am I interrupting,” the Baroness prompted when neither could find words to speak.

“Miss Keane cut her foot, aunt,” Angus clarified. “I was just trying to help-“

“Are you a surgeon, Viscount Astley?”

“No, madam,” he lowered his head in a clear sign of guilt.

“Then I suggest you call one next time, before you cover yourself in a young woman’s blood. And you,” Lady Basington turned to Priscilla,” are you a gazelle, Miss Keane?”

“No, madam.”

“Then I suggest you wear shoes in the future.”

When the sheepish couple remained silent, the Baroness sighed and continued in a tired voice, eyeing the destruction in the room.

“Kingsley is on his way up to sort this mess out. He’ll call Juliette to take you safely to your room, Miss Keane. Angus, call doctor Graham, will you, I’m sure your skills are anything but lacking but it’s probably still a good idea to have a professional take care of the injury. As you pointed out, there is quite a lot hanging in the balance with the ball tomorrow.”

“Is Kingsley-“ Angus started, but his aunt waved the concern away.

“He’s not going anywhere. It’ll take more than a delusional man’s midnight lunacy to overturn my will. Even if it’s not my house,” she finished her voice growing barely audible, crushed by some dark emotion Priscilla struggled to pinpoint. She watched as the Baroness took a quiet turn about the room, taking long sour looks at random items. Priscilla found herself wondering if any of the broken items belonged to Muriel Basington’s sister.

Finally, after encircling the room with a look of dark reminiscence, the Broness’ gaze fell on the wall over Priscilla’s head. The wall Angus had been consumed by the moment Priscilla had cut her foot. Suddenly remembering the very reason for her carelessness, she twisted on the bed and looked up.

There, on the wall itself, in dark red letters drawn with a liquid which dripped slightly at the edges, was a message which echoed through Priscilla’s veins and chilled her blood as it went along.

'Murderer'

Shook and unsure what to think she turned first to Angus, whose features had returned to their previous pained expression and then to Lady Basington, who, amazingly, was smiling.