Chapter 1 – Debts exchange

     - In which Sergeant Wincroft blackmails a good friend to set up his ward in marriage – The ward’s wishes on the subject are conveniently omitted to avoid confusion – In the end, the threat of an aunt – Lovely weather

8 years later

Miss Priscilla Keane, daughter of no one in particular, had always found that the mark of an estate was measured in terms of its proximity to the throne room and whoever’s head happen to incidentally lay under the crown. She measured it by the number of trees on the grounds and the way the rustle of their leaves made her heart flutter.

Currently she gazed over the grounds she’d learned to call home over the latter half decade of her life.

Although not formally her home, Priscilla had spent the last 5 years walking the remote parks surrounding Westley Hall, crossing its bright corridors, reading its books, smelling its flowers and basking in the rare generosity of its owner – Sergeant Major Frederick Wincroft. The Sergeant, a largely expendable third child, had been sent to service as his parents found themselves a tad too blessed. With heirs to spare and a lack of calamities to necessitate them, it became increasingly apparent Frederick would need to make his own fortune. Luckily, a life of exertion and social interactions comparatively stripped of ceremony suited Wincroft just fine and he prospered beyond even his brothers.

When Wincroft had met Priscilla’s father 8 years ago, the latter had been a man of deserving nature and inconsequential origins. The combination, much too frequent at the time, appealed particularly to Frederick Wincroft and the two had become fast friends until Lieutenant Keane passed away from an infection that had been allowed to remain as unchecked as the man himself. His only daughter had little prospects with no one left to provide for her and the Sergeant had taken it upon himself to ensure the girl’s future.

In the beginning, the Sergeant had limited his involvement, much like most men of means, to providing for the girl financially, but money meant little to Priscilla without a society to spend it in. His trips up north increased in frequency as in length and, not being blessed with children of their own, Frederick Wincroft and his wife found in Priscilla a welcome addition to their family. Priscilla’s own mother had given her blessing in sending her daughter to the Wincrofts, with too much gratitude to grant the residual pain any recognition.

Over the last several summers, Priscilla had blossomed under improved education, elevated company and a barrage of positive reinforcement from her easily pleased guardians. And if the flint in her eyes and spark in her tongue flashed a little too hot from time to time, Sergeant Wincroft merely smiled wistfully and said, Like father like daughter. I wish your father could be here, to tell you how proud he is, my dear, but since he cannot I will do it for him.

The comfortable isolation of Westley Hall however and less than frequent attendance to social events was once again threatening to leave Priscilla at the same disadvantage Sergeant Wincroft had promised himself to rescue her from. It seemed some creativity was going to be necessary ensure his ward’s future prospects.

Presently, Frederick Wincroft was walking the grounds at a leisurely pace accompanied by a young man, who, much like Priscilla, had the privilege of finding himself in the Sergeant’s debt in more than one occasion.

“I’m glad you came,” Wincroft said to his companion.

“I would come as often as you would have me, Sergeant, you know that. I only regret I cannot stay long this time. With the weather this nice, it always seems a shame to waste the sun in the city.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Lord Wincroft smiled briefly before his expression soured. “I’m afraid however, that my reclusiveness may have caused some unintended harm.”

“How do you mean, sir?” the young man showed clear discomfort at the thought of his mentor’s fallibility.

“It’s Priscilla. She turned one and twenty this winter. I should have liked to see her settled by now. Lord knows she’s earned it. She’s improved so much, a true credit to her parents, and her own efforts of course.”

“And you,” his friend protested generously.

“Thank you, Angus. But you know better than me none of those improvements matter if she stays here with no one but me for company.”

“I assure you that is not quite the censure you think it. Were that I was sentenced to the same punishment I would thank my lucky stars.”

Sergeant Wincroft stopped on his favourite hill of the grounds, in direct view of the house and river surrounding it. He turned and faced Angus.

“She needs the city, Angus. She needs someone to convey her there, but more than that, she needs someone to stand with her. In public, in one of those crowded ballrooms I happen to despise, preferably in close proximity to young respectable gentlemen, and guide her helpfully into their lucky arms.”

“Ah,” Angus scratched his ear uncomfortably and lowered his gaze to the tips of his shiny boots.

“Someone with a title,” Sergeant Wincroft prodded his protégé, a devious smile he would usually share with Priscilla tugging his lips. When the young man decided to briefly feign deafness, the Sergeant continued with studied nonchalance:

“Oh, I don’t know. Someone like the heir of an Earl? A Viscount in his own right?”

“George Franklin is in town,” Angus muttered with something nearing desperation. “I hear his latest engagement fell through.”

“Angus.” The tone finally made the young man look up. “I called you here expressly so I could ask you, Angus Bartholomew Astley, son of the Earl of Gloucester, to be Priscilla’s escort this season. I’m not asking you mary her, but you know you can give her connections I cannot. Take her to town, introduce her to the people you think worthy. And if in the end, after much deliberation, you find George Franklin, a simpleton who managed to lose a third of his inheritance in cards before he bothered to learn the rules of the game, the worthiest suitor for your old mentor’s ward then so be it.”

Angus rolled his eyes in petulant, and in the end fruitless, resistance to this shameless blackmail and remained stoically silent.

“I hope you’ll also forgive my impudence in making the following observation, but Priscilla has become more than a distant acquaintance, Angus. You know her, I dare say, indeed I dare hope, that you would want to help for her own benefit if not for mine or your own?” The Sergeant did Angus the courtesy of garnishing his voice with doubt and phrasing the statement as a question, so he might spare the youth the shame of acknowledging a sensitive nature. But he was, annoyingly, typically, correct. Over the last few summers, proximity to Sergeant Wincroft had ensured Priscilla had more than a casual claim to Angus’ sense of loyalty.

The truth was, the young Lord Astley could think of worse things than spending a summer in the company of Priscilla Keane, even if her sense of humour was frequently sharp enough he needed to carry gauze in case of emergencies. But the quest of finding her a husband would significantly interfere with his own strategic plan to avoid society this summer. In the end, the choice was as inevitable as the sun in the noon sky.

“Of course, sir,” Angus nodded at his old friend and attempted a brave smile. “She will be matched better than myself by the end of the season, if I can help it.”

Sergeant Wincroft laughed and clapped Angus merrily on the shoulder.

“Thank you, dear boy. You may count me in your debt henceforth. Now,” he turned back to the house, “we better make our way back. I would lie if I said I wasn’t looking forward to delivering the good news to Priscilla. Though you may want to do it yourself and claim the credit?” he smiled.

“Ah yes,” Angus smirked with mischief, “I think I will. And you can deliver the news to my aunt.”

Sergeant Wincroft’s step faltered a little and a deep crease wedged itself neatly between his brows.

“Very well,” he hesitated. “Then perhaps we may go a little slower.”