Page 12 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 4

Lady Montagu,

I expect Pip has already given you notice of my intention to call upon you with my new neighbours on Friday. I beg you will forgive me for the imposition and understand I would not do so if I did not believe them worthy of your time.

I would like to explain a little about their circumstances, so you might judge for yourself before they arrive.

――Excerpt of a letter from the Hon’ble Larkin Weston to The Most Hon’ble Lady Matilda Barrington, The Marchioness of Montagu.

25th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

The next afternoon, Larkin returned from a visit to sketch Tilly and sat in his studio, reviewing what he’d done and considering the portrait he wished to produce. Tilly was a saucy little minx who knew she was adorable, and Larkin did not envy Pip the trouble that would ensue when she finally came out. He’d have his hands full, that was for good and certain. Lady Montagu had been out visiting friends when he’d been there, so he’d been unable to speak to her about Mrs Finchley, but he’d left a brief note outlining their situation. He knew Lady Montagu to be altruistic and discerning, not the kind to dispense charity solely at a distance, and he hoped that the ladies’ plight would be something she would wish to help with.

A thud against the window he sat beside had him jumping in shock and he looked up to see a muddy circle on the glass before him. Larkin sighed.

Getting up, he undid the window fastener and then pushed up the sash, glancing down at the ground beneath. There lay a small leather ball.

“Westie! Westie!”

Larkin looked over the fence to where Gideon was waving at him.

“Day to you, Mister Westie. Can I have my ball… please,” he added after a tense moment of concentration as he remembered his manners. The plea was followed by an angelic smile.

“Very well, you little menace,” Larkin said, though he smiled back at the lad. After all, it had been an impressive throw, or kick, to lob the ball so far. He wondered if the lad had done it on purpose. “Wait there.”

Larkin went out of his studio and down the stairs to the back door. Opening it, he walked along to where the ball lay and picked it up. He straightened, expecting to throw it over the fence, when a voice spoke from directly behind him.

“Fanks.”

Larkin started and spun around to see Gideon holding out his hand.

“Where did you spring from?” he demanded.

“Spring?” the boy said in confusion.

“How did you get into my garden?” Larkin clarified.

“An ’ole in the fence,” Gideon said, pointing to the far end of the garden, which was long and narrow.

Larkin had a gardener come now and then to tend the grass and keep the place in some semblance of order, but otherwise he had done nothing with the place, which was little more than a barely contained wilderness. Next door was even worse, having been neglected for so long.

Larkin looked down at Gideon. The boy's golden curls were mussed, his shirt had clearly snagged on a bramble, tearing a small hole, and his knees were muddy, his ankles scratched.

“What have you been up to then?” he asked, feeling a sudden shaft of pity for the lad. It wasn’t much fun playing ball all by yourself, and now he came to think of it, he doubted there was much open space in the garden to kick the ball around.

The boy shrugged, kicking the toe of his shoe against the brick edge of the path.

Larkin held the ball up, and Gideon’s eyes followed it. Larkin threw it gently down to the boy, who fumbled and missed it.

“Try again,” Larkin said, reaching down and picking the ball up. “Move away a bit.”

Gideon’s eyes glinted with delight, and he hurried back, waiting. Larkin threw the ball again, and again the ball hit the ground unimpeded.

“Never mind,” Larkin said. “You need a bit of practise is all. Look. Hold your hands like this, and you’ll be ready to catch it when it comes.”

The boy mirrored Larkin’s stance, holding his hands out in front of him, palms up. Larkin threw the ball again. This time, Gideon got his hands on it but dropped it.

“Good work!” Larkin told him with a grin. “You almost got it that time.”