by Tess Byrnes
Waking up with a Viscount
By Tess Byrnes
Copyright 2013 Tess Byrnes
Dedicated to the memory of Mr. Mybug
CHAPTER ONE
"But, Richard," Priscilla exclaimed in astonishment. “Now listen, my dear brother, how can you have accepted an offer for my hand? You do realize that I am turned twenty-one, and my own mistress," she reminded him.
Richard Pleasance, his plump, good-natured face now looking decidedly shamed, ran a stubby finger round his suddenly too-tight collar. He appeared to be acutely uncomfortable, his usually ruddy complexion darkening alarmingly.
“Yes, I am your brother, Priscilla. Your elder brother, in fact, and I do have your best interests at heart," he began.
His wife of two years rarely let her husband complete a statement unaided, and this was not to be one of those rare occurrences. "Which is more than you seem to do for yourself, Priscilla," Lady Carolyn Pleasance broke in sharply. "You completely wasted your season in London, callously refused two brilliant offers, and now you seem to be content to spend the rest of your life idling away on your brother's estate." She darted a meaningful look at her husband, who had begun tut-tutting at her strictures, and he obediently subsided. Carolyn paused for a moment, and then continued in a determinedly pleasant tone.
"It's time and more that you were mistress of your own establishment, Priscilla, and your brother has arranged it for you!" She looked to see what effect her words were having on her young sister-in-law, and her look of triumph fell a little at the detached air with which Priscilla was observing her.
Carolyn’s thin lips drew to an almost invisible line, and her sparse figure bristled with dislike.
“Did you hear what I just told you, Priscilla?” Carolyn asked acidly. “You are to be married.”
Priscilla sat calmly listening to her sister-in-law's words, a look of polite disinterest on her face. The very long two years of her brother’s marriage had taught Priscilla the futility of an emotional response in these types of exchange. Priscilla’s seeming tranquility clearly irked Carolyn, but it rarely provoked her venomous tongue. Priscilla turned pointedly from her sister-in-law and addressed her brother.
"Well, Richard," she asked him in a dispassionate voice, which contrasted strongly with Carolyn’s strident tones. "And to whom do I have the privilege of being betrothed?"
Once again Richard's face reddened, and once again Carolyn spoke first.
"Sir Harry Greenwood," she pronounced it triumphantly.
A hastily suppressed snort escaped Priscilla, which she tried to turn into a cough. She quickly suppressed her grin, and schooled her features into a more sober expression, but the damage was done. Carolyn saw the rueful twinkle lingering in Priscilla's mischievous eyes.
"It is a very respectable match," Carolyn stated shrilly. "Sir Greenwood is not a man to be snickered at! He owns a very respectable estate, more than respectable in fact, and is Master of the Hounds besides."
Priscilla lowered her head, her dusky curls falling forward so that Carolyn couldn't see the effect these words had on her. When she had mastered the desire to laugh, she looked up. She caught sight of her brother's hopeful expression, and her smile softened. He reminded her irresistibly of his own favorite spaniel hoping for a reward and not a reprimand.
“Richard," she said, a note of reproach in her musical voice. "Sir Greenwood is fifty-two years old, suffers from gout and has four daughters, one of them but a few years younger than myself! You must remember that he asked for my hand only last year, just before Papa died. How Papa and I laughed together at the vision of me as the squire's wife." She smiled roguishly at the memory, and an answering gleam awoke in Richard's rather dull eyes.
"Do you remember, Dickie," she continued with a glint, "the time he caught us picking apples from that old tree in his orchard and he chased us, puffing all the way back to the lane?" She chuckled infectiously at the memory, her sparkling blue eyes compelling Richard's understanding
"I should say I do remember, Scilla," Richard said with feeling. "He caught me a time or two with that hunting crop of his. Who would have thought an old man could move so quickly?" The resemblance between the brother and sister was most apparent when laughter crinkled their blue eyes. Richard laughed fruitily now at the shared memory, but the rueful smile left his eyes as he caught sight of Carolyn's frozen face, and the infelicitous nature of his remarks was brought home to him.
"Very edifying," Carolyn snapped acidly. "But the decision has been made. Sir Greenwood will be here tomorrow morning, at eleven o'clock sharp, to make you a formal offer, Priscilla. You will receive him and accept that offer." The tone of her voice, and the look that accompanied, it brooked no argument.
Priscilla looked at her brother, who was refusing to meet her eyes. She felt a growing sense of alarm at the set look on his pudgy face. She looked from him to his triumphant spouse and shook her head.
"No, Carolyn.” Priscilla stated firmly. "I will definitely not be accepting Sir Greenwood’s offer.” She turned to her brother, who was studying his shoes intently. “Richard, look at me. You know that Papa said I need not marry for convenience, but should wait, like he and Mama did, for someone I could love." Her blue eyes looked at him beseechingly as she stood before him, hands clenched tightly before her. She made a very pretty picture. Dusky brown curls arranged simply with a blue ribbon framed a face that had indeed caused a stir during her one and only London Season. Sparkling blue eyes that inspired gentleman with a desire to protect her from even a harsh wind, and in the next instant transform into pools of mischievous laughter. Her lips were full and when she smiled a dimple appeared at one corner. Her ethereal looks were deceiving, however. Priscilla knew her own mind, and on more than one occasion her sister in law had found herself unable to influence her. Because Priscilla rarely made waves, it was always a bit of a shock to her relatives when they realized that they had not gotten their way. This had happened on the occasion of her two offers in London. Priscilla had thanked her suitors. She had been gracious and very kind. But she had been adamant in her refusals. Carolyn was determined that it would not happen again. As the older woman looked at the lovely girl before her, her resolve to see her married to Sir Greenwood, and out of her brother’s house, strengthened. She was not at all moved to compassion by Priscilla’s beauty.
"Love," Carolyn spat the word scornfully, and again Richard looked away, this time to hide the disappointment he felt every time his wife began to expound on her favorite topic. "Love is for the lower classes, Priscilla. You have had the privilege to be born into a better class; one in which duty and responsibility to our status dictate to us, instead of worthless sentiment." An ugly gleam came into Carolyn's narrow gray eyes. "Your responsibility is clear, I believe. You cannot continue to waste your time here, living at your brother’s expense." She saw that Priscilla was about to speak, and her shrill voice rose even higher. "The matter is closed. And quite frankly it's a better match than I'd ever hoped for you. Come, Richard."
Carolyn waited as her husband rose reluctantly, then took his arm in her firm grasp and marched him from the morning salon.
Priscilla stood for a stunned moment looking at the door that had closed behind them. Then, suddenly feeling suffocated by the atmosphere that lingered in the room, she hurried to the French windows and pulled them open, inhaling the cool, clean air that rushed in. She stepped through the windows, crossed the flagged courtyard, and ran lightly down the path to her favorite walk at the bottom of the formal garden. She reached the path, and walked along in the cool morning sunlight, dwarfed by the huge shadows cast by the dark Cyprus pines. She breathed the perfumed air slowly and deeply, her mind in a whirl.
"They cannot be serious," she thought to herself in disbelief. It had been obvious for some time that her sister-in-law didn't care for her. The little barbs and resentments sent her way had become a part of daily life with Carolyn. But this venomous dislike was new, and it baffled her. Priscilla was unable to see that Carolyn's hatred was rooted in simple jealousy. Priscilla, with her easy charm, and her ability to enjoy life, was a constant thorn in Carolyn's sour hide. Carolyn was a tall, thin-bosomed woman. She dressed plainly in somber colored round gowns when at home, and despised what she termed frivolity. Priscilla had come to learn that frivolity included everything that she herself loved. The beautiful dresses that her father had loved to see her wear. It included riding and exploring the countryside. It even included the library full of books that Priscilla had pored over with her father.
When he first began courting, Richard had mistaken Carolyn’s stern nature for dependability and security. Richard’s was not a strong personality, and having depended on Priscilla’s quick wits in their childhood whenever a decision had to be made, it had seemed as if he had found a substitute in his strong-willed betrothed. It was not until he had brought his new bride home, and seen her beside his enchanting sister, that Richard had realized his mistake. Time and again, Carolyn's ungenerous nature was revealed when placed in contrast with Priscilla's kindness. And Carolyn's plain exterior was almost cruelly contrasted with Priscilla's polished perfection. From the dark curls which sprang naturally from her smooth, white brow to her dainty foot, Priscilla could not have been more different from Carolyn. Both women had slim figures, but where Priscilla was alluringly rounded, Carolyn was angular. Both women were fair of complexion, but Carolyn had none of the rosy blush that set off Priscilla’s aristocratic cheekbones. Priscilla’s small, straight nose wrinkled enchantingly with the smile that lit her sparkling blue eyes and dimpled her rosy cheek. Carolyn rarely smiled.
But the eyes that could convey such gentle laughter were now genuinely worried as Priscilla contemplated the future Carolyn had chosen for her. Marriage to a man more than twice her age, whom she not only could not love, indeed could not even like!
Priscilla wandered distractedly along the bordered path that eventually led down to the lake. This had been her childhood home. All her memories were wrapped up in these lovely acres. Pleasance. A modest estate, the rose-bricked Elizabethan house had been purchased by her father, the second son of a well-to-do Baron, upon the occasion of his marriage to Priscilla's mother. He had brought her to Pleasance on their wedding night. She had only lived six more years, but Priscilla's father had described those years often as holding enough memories for a lifetime.
"Is it any wonder," Priscilla pondered silently, "that I should want that same sort of life for myself?" She had dreamed often of a man who would love and cherish her, one in whom she could place all the pent-up love of her twenty-one years. A man with whom she could laugh, who would delight in the ridiculous, and with whom she could be herself. During her season in London, Priscilla had been ardently pursued by many suitors. There were sporting-mad young men or older men looking for a wife to adorn their estates and provide heirs. Many of them were handsome and rich, and two very flattering offers had been made for her hand. But Priscilla, with her heart untouched, had refused them without regret.
The red-faced image of Sir Harry Greenwood swam into her mind and, despite herself, Priscilla couldn’t repress a laugh. It was absurd to think of accepting that offer. Priscilla and her brother had plagued the life out of their neighboring squire in their youth. From picking his apples, to playing at hide and seek in his woods, Sir Harry was not amused by any of the young duo’s antics. Each encounter with the Squire ended in Sir Harry furious, and Priscilla and Richard running for the safety of Pleasance, weak with laughter.
Lost in her thoughts, Priscilla entered the little wooden gazebo that stood at the foot of the path. It afforded a lovely view of the ornamental lake, bordered with rhododendrons which in the spring were mirrored in the still blue waters of the lake. They had long finished flowering now, and the heavy green leaves cast dark, gloomy shadows instead. Priscilla stood gazing out over the quiet of the lake.
Marriage to Sir Harry Greenwood, step-mama to his four promising daughters? No, that was not the future that Priscilla envisioned for herself. As she looked out over the dark blue water the worried look faded away, to be replaced by a look of pure determination that would have caused Richard to quake in his boots.
#
“Oh Miss, I know I should never let you do this,” Priscilla’s maid exclaimed, her hands gripping her apron tightly.
Priscilla rose with decision from the small stool in front of the dressing table.
“My mind is completely made up, Jane,” she told her maid firmly, pushing her loose curls back from her shoulders and deftly threading a silk ribbon through the dusky tresses. The cornflower blue of the ribbon exactly matched her eyes, shining now with an intent purpose.
“At least let me come with you,” Jane pleaded, wringing her hands in her apron.
Priscilla crossed to a small secretaire set in an alcove between the tall windows which looked out over the formal gardens. Taking a key from the vase on the writing desk, she unlocked the center drawer and drew forth an envelope, addressed to a fictitious Miss Priscilla Hawksworth.
With hands that trembled slightly she removed the enclosed letter, contemplating seriously for the first time a step which she had taken almost at a whim. The letter was a confirmation of employment to the posting of governess for the two children of a Mrs. Fanny Hartfield, widow. She looked up at her devoted maid, smiling with understanding at the horror she saw there.
“Now Jane,” she chided. “You know you can not come with me. How many governesses arrive at their new job accompanied by a maid of their own? I would be found out at once!” She smiled at Jane as she spoke but won no smile in response. “But you can help me get away. In fact, I won’t be able to do any of this without your assistance.”
“Oh, Miss Priscilla,” Jane wailed. “I wish my master was alive to stop you. Lord knows I’ve never been able to.”
“Not to worry, Jane,” Priscilla consoled bracingly. “I have a really good feeling about this.” She smiled encouragingly at her maid, who remained unconvinced.
Priscilla, having seen the advertisement in the county paper one day after a particularly unpleasant scolding from Carolyn, and imagining herself free of Carolyn's barbed dislike, independently employed, and mistress of her own future, had written a response. She knew that Carolyn was not pleased to have priscilla continually at Pleasance, and indeed threw out many hints that Priscilla might like to visit her uncle, perhaps, or stay for a time with one of her London friends. Richard had always stood by his sister, insisting that Pleasance was her home for as long as she should care to consider it so. priscilla knew, however, that by rights pleasance belonged to Carolyn now, and that it behooved her to either marry or leave.
The germ of an idea of seeking employment had in fact been with her since the end of her London season. Her good natured, but weak, brother was no match for his determined, sharp-tongued wife. Priscilla knew that seeking a position as a governess would remove her forever from her rightful social sphere, but when she reviewed her options, paid employment stood out above the others. She had a dear great-uncle living in Scotland who would give her a home without a question. But to make her home with him would relegate her to the status of poor relation. That was a step she was unwilling to take, having seen in too many households the life such women led. It would also mean unutterable boredom. Staying with friends was at best a temporary solution. She had a modest portion, but her brother, and now in effect his wife, controlled it until she was twenty-five, and she had little hope of winning their support in setting up her own domicile. Priscilla knew that an independent life was the best solution to her uncomfortable situation. There was no point in repining, but she knew a pang when she remembered her father’s affection, and how d
ifferent life had been while he had been master at Pleasance. She sniffed and stiffened her spine. This was a time for resolution, not tears.
Papa had felt strongly about Priscilla's education, and had spent many hours with her by the fireside in the library imparting to her the mysteries and wonders to be found in the volumes there. Priscilla saw herself passing this same love of learning on to someone else, and at the same time taking control of her own life. She had never given any real thought as to how this could be accomplished until she had seen Mrs. Hartfield's advertisement.
Wondering how she would fare if she were to apply for such a posting, Priscilla had written herself a letter of recommendation, listed her accomplishments, and, assuming the name of her own dear nurse, Nanny Hawksworth, had mailed off a reply to the advertisement. She had been surprised and pleased to receive the letter of confirmation a week later, and had intended to send a polite note of refusal, feeling a bit foolish that she had let Carolyn’s rancor lead her to take such a ridiculous step in the first place. Instead, Priscilla now slipped the paper into the bodice of her gown, patted it once for courage, and, giving the worried Jane a comforting hug, went down to join Richard and Carolyn for dinner.
The evening meal at Pleasance was served at precisely five o'clock every evening, as Carolyn despised city hours. Gone were the days of a cozy dinner in the breakfast parlor, which was the arrangement that Papa had always preferred. Immediately after his death, Carolyn had redecorated the dining room, had the thirty foot table polished until it shone, and the rather threadbare hangings replaced with slightly brash, but brand new, red velvet. A formal epergne, an immense silver affair unearthed by Carolyn from some dark cupboard, obscured those dining on opposite sides of the table from each other’s view. Carolyn’s correct manners did not allow conversation across the table, even at an informal family meal anyway.