Page 1 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 1

Dear Jack,

We have arrived safely in town. It’s hot and dusty and smelly and I so miss the peace of the countryside and our lovely house. But I must not think of it, or I shall lose my temper all over again and what little china I have has already suffered more than I can afford. Yet I am heartsick and want to rage at Papa for what he has done to us, and at the same time I miss him so dreadfully I want to cry and not stop. Oh, what a terrible mess it all is. I cannot help but remember how frustrated I was by life just a few short months ago, and yet now with hindsight it seems my life was an idyllic existence I cannot bear the loss of.

I know I am making a terrible imposition upon you, forcing you to keep our whereabouts secret, but our stepmother cannot know where we have gone. I will not allow poor Caro to marry that vile man, not while there is breath in my body. I can only pray she will meet a good, kind man whilst she is here and marry him, and then she will be out of danger.

Our new neighbour is a Mr Larkin Weston who was so kind as to help carry the heavy packing cases inside for us, for we still have no servants. Mr Larkin’s valet has been so good as to make some arrangements for us and we shall have a maid of all works, a cook, and a lady’s maid arriving tomorrow. Thank heavens, for Aunt Constance is rather a trial to my nerves.

How I wish I had a female relation who could advise me. Papa was so rackety after Mama died, I never had a come out of my own and now I am feeling all at sea. I must hope I can make friends who will be good enough as to guide me how to go on.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Magdelina Finchley to her friend and neighbour Mr Jack Woolgar.

17th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Larkin stood with a tiny brush in his hand, poised with the tiniest dab of blanc de Krems to add a glint of light to the eye of his latest portrait. It always astonished him how a little detail could bring such life and vibrancy to a figure that was ostensibly flat paint on canvas. Just a little touch here and—

Bang, bang, bang!

Larkin swore, snatching his hand away just in time. “Devil take the boy,” he muttered, setting down the brush and hurrying to the window. It was the third time this week and Larkin was losing patience.

Bang, bang, crash, bang, bang, bang

Larkin pushed the sash up with some force before sticking his head outside.

“Master Gideon!” he shouted.

An overgrown hedge rambled along the fence below and, a moment later, a small boy appeared at a gap in the boundary. With his tumble of golden curls and big blue eyes, he appeared to be an adorable putto, but for a pair of wings and a harp. However, Larkin had concluded in the weeks since Gideon and his mama had moved in next door, this was merely a disguise. The child’s namesake might have been an angel, but he had been sent by the devil to temp Larkin back into misbehaving. Though he had never before resorted to murdering small children, drinking and carousing were all too appealing when boredom threatened, and if he couldn’t work, that was an ever-present risk.

“’How you do, Mister Westie?” the boy said, cheerfully waving a wooden spoon at him.

“Mister Weston,” Larkin corrected automatically before shaking his head. The child could call him what he liked if only he was quiet. “Gideon, do you remember that little chat you had with your mama about banging saucepans and saucepan lids out in the garden?”

The boy looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded.

Good. Progress. “Excellent,” Larkin said, smiling at the lad. “And do you remember what she said?”

Gideon pursed his lips, scratching his ear with the wooden spoon. “Fink so,” he said, though he looked uncertain.

“Clever lad,” Larkin said, encouraged. “And what was it she said, Gideon?”

Gideon stared at him for a long moment, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then ran off. The banging resumed.

Larkin groaned and closed the window.

“He’s a fine, sturdy little fellow, that Gideon. Ain’t he, sir?”

Larkin turned to observe his valet bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits into the studio.

“He’s driving me mad is what he is,” Larkin retorted, snatching a biscuit from the tray and stuffing it in his mouth.

“Well, hard for the boy, and the ladies, what with having no papa for the child,” Barnes said with obvious sympathy.

Larkin sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I know,” he said, for he felt a deal of sympathy for Mrs Finchley, whose husband, a Captain Finchley, of the Queen’s troops had been killed at the Battle of Sobraon in the Punjab, barely two months after they’d married. This information had been gleaned through Barnes via the lady’s maid as Larkin had seen little of her, and not a glimpse of her sister and aunt who lived with her. Mrs Finchley was a lovely young woman, though, who seemed to carry the world upon her shoulders. Larkin really did not wish to add to her troubles, but his career had suddenly taken off and he was much in demand for portraits. It was hard enough to work with Gideon crashing about but, if he had a sitter, it was also most embarrassing.

“Perhaps you could gift the boy something he could use a bit more quietly like?” Barnes said, noting his master’s puckered brow.

“Paints?” Larkin suggested.