Waking Up With a Viscount

by Tess Byrnes

  Grateful for its cover tonight, Priscilla smiled covertly at Richard as he took his seat at the far end of the long table. He was dressed in formal dinner attire, his collar a little too tight, and his cravat arranged in the simplest style that would escape his wife’s censure. Priscilla knew her brother was more comfortable in the role of Country Squire than Town Exquisite, and would prefer a knotted kerchief round his neck to the tall cravat. But the siblings had reluctantly given up any thought of persuading Carolyn to resume the casual air their dinners had before their father’s death. Carolyn had made it clear from the first day that she had moved to Pleasance that though they lived in the country, and would always keep country hours, she would not stoop to such rustic ways as informal dinners in the breakfast parlor.

  Carolyn faced Richard across the wide table, dressed in a stiff pewter-colored silk gown, the high neck edged with a single row of lace as her only adornment. Priscilla had dressed in one of the frivolous evening dresses her father had loved to see her in. The soft blue silk, fretted with small embroidered white roses shone in the soft candlelight, and made her eyes seem impossibly blue. She moved to take her place at the table. Polite conversation was always difficult with Richard and Carolyn at one end of the table and Priscilla at a considerable distance down the length of the impressive edifice. Priscilla made a moue at the monstrous silver epergne in the center of the table, although she, too, was grateful for once for the constraint.

  As soon as the footmen had removed the first course, presented the second, and left the room, Carolyn spoke.

  "I hope you have been thinking about our earlier conversation, Priscilla," she began pointedly.

  "I have, indeed, Carolyn." Priscilla replied, preparing herself for the expected storm that would greet her words. "I have thought of little else. And I have been unable to come to any other conclusion than my first one. I cannot accept Sir Harry's offer." She spoke in the same cool tones she always used when addressing her sister-in-law. She never raised her voice, she never expressed herself passionately, but neither did she back down or ever show any signs of intimidation. It always annoyed Carolyn, but tonight Priscilla saw her sister-in-law almost bristling with anger at her calm refusal.

  "Have you tried some of this partridge, Scilla," Richard interjected desperately. "It's rather good. Bagged them myself m’dear, with the finest shot I’ve made all year. Wish you could have seen it."

  "For heaven's sake, Richard, do be quiet!" Carolyn snapped. "This matter will be closed tonight one way or another."

  "But, why?" Priscilla inquired, voicing the question that had been in her mind. “Why does this have to be decided tonight? Has something happened that makes it imperative that I leave Pleasance?”

  She glanced at Carolyn, then over at her brother and saw Richard catch his wife's eye, and then nod slightly. Her sister-in-law waited for a moment and then said in a voice in which satisfaction and disgust were equally blended, "We are expecting an interesting event in the late spring.” She hurried on as an unbecoming red flush stained her thin cheeks. “And although we do not speak often of such matters, Priscilla, the fact is that your father was not a careful manager. His interest in the estate always took a back seat to his pretenses for scholarship."

  Carolyn ignored the mumbling objection Richard was attempting to make against this slur on his father, and ruthlessly continued. "We must take steps now to put the estate in good heart for our own children, and it is time for you to move to an establishment of your own, and do the same. You need to make a home for yourself. Somewhere other than at Pleasance."

  Priscilla tried to hide the hurt that Carolyn's words caused, but cast a speaking glance toward her brother, who sat staring intently at his plate, pushing his food from one side to the other. He appeared absorbed in his task, and did not look up. Priscilla felt her last hopes that Carolyn and Richard would change their minds slipping away.

  "Is that so, Richard?" she asked quietly but insistently. "Do you feel that my presence here is an unwelcome burden to you?"

  Richard looked up miserably, with the air of a man caught in a trap.

  "Now, Scilla," he began nervously, "you know it's not like that. But your portion is small, due in a large part to our father's neglect of the estates, and Harry Greenwood is a good match. You'll like having your own place, not taking a second seat to anyone." He warmed to his theme, sounding as if having convinced himself of this he could convince her as well. "You had your chance to establish yourself during your season in London, and you whistled it down the wind, my dear. You know that you like living in the country, and Greenwood's estate is not far from here." He met her eyes, usually so serene and now sincerely troubled. "You’ll be close enough to visit often, besides being mistress of your own home. Harry Greenwood is a rich man, m’dear. You’ll be able to buy all the books and hunters you could ever want. You'll like that, won't you, Scilla?" he said with a pleading look in his dull eyes.

  "Don’t be absurd, Richard. What Priscilla would or would not like has nothing to do with the matter. It is her duty," Carolyn said coldly, stressing the word and stabbing an inoffensive French olive with each syllable. "She will marry Sir Harry Greenwood. Now, let us finish our meal, and then Richard and I have some business to discuss. You will excuse us this evening, Priscilla. No doubt you will have plenty to occupy yourself." With that final pronouncement the meal finished in silence.

  Priscilla excused herself as soon as she could, and made her way to her bedchamber. She settled into the window seat, her legs curled up underneath herself in a way that would undoubtedly have called Carolyn's censure down upon her for unladylike behavior. She pulled the crumpled letter from Mrs. Hartfield from the bodice of her gown. What before dinner had been a far-fetched scheme was fast becoming her only possibility for salvation. Priscilla knew that in her world a woman without fortune or a husband held no real position. And after seeing Richard bend time and again beneath his wife’s strength, she held out little hope that her brother could champion her. Carolyn would allow her no say in the matter of her marriage. Refusal, even if it were allowed, would condemn her to a life lived under Carolyn’s domination and anger. Even if she could arrange to go to one of her aunts, or a friend, for another Season in London, it could not happen for more than a year. A year that would be very uncomfortable at Pleasance.

  Priscilla began to make her plan. As she carefully thought out all the details of her departure, she felt the mantle of gloom lifting, and a gleam of anticipation that she had not felt for a long time quickening within her.

  "This is much better," she thought to herself with her characteristic optimism. "I shall take my chances, and see if I can take care of myself." The image of Sir Harry Greenwood’s ruddy face was fading from her mind as she hastily began packing the bandboxes Jane had smuggled up to her room, conscious of a new feeling of hope for her future.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Priscilla and her fellow passengers swayed and bumped along as the mail coach rattled over the road. She had been fortunate to secure a seat at very short notice, for the coach's cramped interior was filled to capacity. Jane had risen even earlier than Priscilla and been waiting at the Lanyard Inn with her mistress’s trunk to get her name on the waybill as soon as a very sleepy steward had arrived. Priscilla had met her maid there, having smuggled herself and her bandboxes away from Pleasance before the rest of the staff stirred, and had bade her unwilling, tearful accomplice a quick goodbye before boarding the coach. Priscilla sat snugly in the corner seat, wedged between the scratchy horsehair upholstery and a portly gentleman redolent of beer and a breakfast in which onions seemed to have figured prominently. Nonetheless, Priscilla was unable to repress a bubble of excitement at having thrown over the traces and set out on her own. Her enchanting face, shining with excitement, was framed by her plainest bonnet from which all adornment had been ruthlessly removed, and which matched her grey alpaca traveling dress, an elegantly tailored garment which did not disguise the rounded youthfulness
of her figure. Reaching into her reticule, Priscilla once more pulled out the letter from Mrs. Hartfield, looking by now a fairly disreputable, and spread out the sheet to read it. The notice of confirmation requested her to present herself at Hartfield Manor no later than October thirtieth. Priscilla realized a little apprehensively that she would be several days earlier than that date. “Hopefully she will be pleased at my promptness and not too incommoded,” she thought as she folded the letter and replaced it into her reticule.

  Surreptitiously trying to stretch her cramped limbs, Priscilla glanced interestedly around the coach at the other travelers. She met the eyes of a thin, rather elderly woman seated directly opposite from her. The woman was dressed in a brown stuff traveling dress, accompanied by a plain straw hat. The only decoration visible was a small spray of artificial violets on the ribbon band of the hat. The older woman smiled nervously at Priscilla, as if afraid of importuning her.

  "Rather cramped, wouldn't you say," the woman hazarded almost apologetically.

  "Yes, indeed it is," Priscilla replied readily, with a friendly smile.

  "It is a disgrace," the stout gentleman beside Priscilla broke in abruptly before the nervous woman had a chance to reply. "The way they pack these coaches is just criminal. Time was when traveling was almost enjoyable. But I suppose I have some old-fashioned notions."

  "Oh no, dear sir," the mousy woman quavered. "I’m sure you are quite right." She spoke in an almost reverent voice, as one who respects the male opinion above all else. Priscilla observed her with amused understanding, but the ensuing and rather one way conversation about the shocking state of the roadways soon lost her interest, and she turned her gaze to the passing countryside.

  Since the death of her father, Priscilla had been all but confined to the estates at Pleasance. Her brother and his wife entertained rarely, and when they did, it was usually a very somber card-party with the few couples in the area that Carolyn deemed worthy of an invitation to Pleasance. Priscilla had been very content with her brother and her father's company while he was alive, and so had not established many close friendships in the immediate neighborhood. Her dearest friend, Miss Theodora Hemphill, had recently made a most eligible marriage to a very wealthy gentleman whose only failing was that he was not a peer. She now lived in London during the Season and at her husband's estate near Bath during the long summer months.

  Dora had been quickly dubbed a flirt during the Season she and Priscilla had shared, a pair of twinkling brown eyes and a mischievous smile raising her from a plain girl who might not otherwise have received much attention. Priscilla had immediately warmed to Dora, and the two had been inseparable. Fortunately, her fair friend was a perfect foil for Priscilla’s brunette beauty. It was to Priscilla that the young bucks had flocked, filling her dance cards, and filling the mornings with calls and requests to take her riding in the park, yet Dora had never shown any jealousy. “Indeed, I think it may be all for the best, as I shall have my pick of the leftovers!” Dora had laughed.

  Together, the two girls had laughed over the overwrought poems written to Priscilla’s beauty by her young beaus, and whispered confidences behind their fans. Priscilla had attended all the routs and balls confident that one day a young man would come along and stand out among the sea of young bloods who thronged around her. But to everyone’s surprise it had been Dora who’d accepted an offer that season. Priscilla was never tempted to give her hand or her heart to any of her suitors.

  She smiled to herself as she reminisced about the fun she and Dora had that Season. But her thoughts were soon interrupted by the fact of the coach pulling into the busy yard of a posting house. Ostlers immediately ran out of the stables to change the steaming and sweating team of horses. A mob-capped maid stepped out of the posting house front door and nimbly picked her way across the yard, balancing a tray on which mugs of lemonade and beer and slices of bread generously spread with butter narrowly avoided tumbling over. Priscilla, anxious to see a sign proclaiming the name of the stop, leaned her head as far out of the window as she could. But there was no sign in sight, other than the colorfully painted inn sign depicting a fair haired girl stepping over a field of bluebells over the legend The Dancing Maiden.

  "Excuse me," Priscilla addressed the thin woman opposite her. "I didn't catch the name of this stop. Are we at Bluehaven yet?"

  "Oh dear me, yes, Miss," the woman replied. "I'm sure that's just what the man called out as we came into the yard. Yes, Bluehaven, he said for sure."

  The woman plucked nervously at the fabric of her skirt and looked about helplessly. Priscilla thanked her. Seeing the speed with which the team was being changed, and fearful lest she mistake her stop, she rose and made her way across the cramped interior of the coach, excusing herself politely as she trod on toes and bumped knees with her fellow travelers. She emerged from the coach, straightened her bonnet and looked around the yard for someone to corroborate the nervous woman's assurances that they had indeed arrived at Bluehaven.

  "Excuse me," she called to the maid carrying the tray. Priscilla looked hungrily at the food on the tray. She had neglected to bring any food with her, and it was well past luncheon time. But her anxiety not to mistake her stop took precedence. "Can you tell me the name of this stop?"

  "Lemonade, Miss?" came the frazzled reply. "Bread and butter, p'raps?" The young woman turned and began passing her wares to the occupants of the coach. Turning from her, Priscilla walked briskly into the Inn. The air in the interior of the hall was cool and smelled of freshly baked bread and lemons.

  Looking around Priscilla saw a round form disappearing through a door at the end of the hall and hurried after it.

  "Excuse me!" she called.

  The form halted and turned around. Priscilla found herself looking at a very rotund little woman with a pink complexion, graying hair tied up into a knot from which strands were escaping, and light blue eyes that disappeared into a dimpled smile

  "What can I do for you, my pretty miss?" the woman asked kindly. Her eyes, although almost hidden in her smiling cheeks, noted the traveling dress which was in the first style of this year's fashion, of excellent cut and fashioned from costly alpaca. Nor had she missed the quiet, cultured tone in which Priscilla addressed her. But more than just seeing a delightfully pretty young gentlewoman, she saw the touch of apprehension in Priscilla’s blue eyes.

  "You'll want to come through to the front parlor, dearie," she began with maternal smile and a bobbing curtsy.

  "Oh, no, but thank you,” Priscilla said hastily with her friendly smile. "I'm traveling on the mail coach, and just wanted to ask the name of this stop! My destination is Bluehaven and one of the other passengers said this was it. But I couldn't see a sign."

  "Bluehaven, did you say? No, my dear. This is Crowhaven, and wait until I see why my John hasn't replaced that sign. It came down with the big wind last week and more. You have several more hours travel I'm sad to say, My Lady. Let me fetch you a nice glass of lemonade and get you back on the coach. Although what the Quality want with the mail coach is beyond me. Nasty, cramped things. I traveled on one once myself, when my Bessie had her second boy. Oh, I wouldn't do so again. There was a lad with a badger. What are they about to let a nasty, smelly creature like that on a common coach, I ask you!" The innkeeper's wife kept up in this style while she filled a mug with lemonade, watched Priscilla take several sips, and then bustled her out the front door into the yard.

  Priscilla thanked her with a smile, enjoying the woman's disjointed reminiscences, and turned to see the mail coach disappearing down a curve in the road.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Sir Greenwood,” Carolyn gave him her hand and a tight smile. “I do hope we haven’t kept you waiting,”

  “Not at all, not at all!” Harry Greenwood rubbed his fat hands together and gave Carolyn a broad wink. “I fear I was rather early. I am somewhat eager for this particular interview, don’t you know.”

  “I’m sure Priscilla will be most f
lattered by your punctuality,” Carolyn replied. She signaled to the footman. “Please let Miss Pleasance know that Sir Harry is arrived. And send in tea.” She indicated a set of chairs by the window, seating herself so that her guest could do the same.

  “I am so sorry my husband isn’t here as well,” she continued with some constraint. “He was called out on some business to do with the estate.”

  In point of fact, Richard had refused to have anything further to do with the arrangement of his sister’s marriage. In a very uncharacteristic burst of confidence, he had informed his wife that Priscilla deserved a better match. But more true to form, he then took out his gun and spaniel, determined not to return home until dusk at the earliest. That was fine, Carolyn thought. She would fare much better without his interference. Sir Harry settled onto one of the ornate chairs, easing his bulk down and sighing as the chair took his weight without collapsing. The slight creaking sounds that could be heard came from Sir Harry’s corset, not the over-burdened chair.

  Carolyn pretended not to notice, making a show instead of arranging her skirts. She glanced over at Priscilla’s suitor and felt a sense of satisfaction. Sir Harry looked every day of his fifty-two years. He was not a tall man, and he had grown very stout over the last several years. His face was ruddy from years of outdoor sports, and his conversation centered entirely around hunting and shooting, although his reputation as a horseman was not very flattering. He was dressed as befitted a country squire, but his waistcoat had flakes of tobacco adorning it, and the white hair of his mustache was touched with yellow from his snuff habit.

  “Drat it,” Carolyn thought. “What is keeping the girl?” She cleared her throat, as cast around her mind for an appropriate topic of conversation. “The weather, I understand, should stay clear for the County Hunt,” she produced finally.