Page 22 of Debtor’s Daughter

Larkin sighed.

2nd October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

On returning the boy to his mother, Mrs Finchley had been mortified that Gideon had once again invited himself around, but Larkin assured her it was no trouble. Still, the little rascal must have had a telling off, for the next few days were quiet and Larkin got a deal of work done, including two good sittings with Tilly, and finishing a commission he’d begun some months earlier. He’d worked late the previous night, into the early hours of the morning, in fact, eager to clear his commitments so he could concentrate on Tilly and then Miss Caroline’s portraits and he’d no intention of getting up before Barnes had brought him up his breakfast. He’d left a note asking Barnes to wake him at eleven and no earlier.

Now, he drowsed in bed, uncertain what the time was and not caring. A sliver of sunlight shafting through a gap in the curtains had woken him, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up and close them properly. Instead, he turned his head, determined to go back to sleep again.

He drifted, pleasantly sleepy, as he slipped into a dream. It was an odd sort of dream, not like his usual. A tropical jungle surrounded him, great towering trees and exotic shrubs on all sides, vines with wicked thorns reached out, snatching at his clothes, tearing them until he cast aside his ruined coat and waistcoat. Soon his shirt was tattered too, and he cast that down as well, pushing on through the increasingly difficult terrain. A voice reached him though, and he realised he was searching for someone. She was lost, somewhere in this vast jungle. How ever would he find her? Yet suddenly, in the way of dreams, she was right before him.

Mrs Finchley—for it was she—had got herself caught up in the same vines that had slashed his clothes. They wrapped about her wrists and slender waist, holding her off the ground. Her long golden hair hung free, cascading like a silken curtain down her back and over her shoulders. At once he was put in mind of Andromeda, chained to the rocks, waiting for a sea monster to come and devour her. There did not appear to be anything monstrous in this jungle save for the vines, but a fellow could hope. As he drew nearer, he saw she wore only a thin chemise and the bright sunlight beat down upon her, turning it all but transparent. A splendid landscape of lush curves revealed itself to his hungry gaze, and as she turned to him, her sea blue, sea-green eyes beckoned him on.

Well, now, this was getting interesting.

He fought harder, trying to get to her but the thorns kept growing faster and faster and—

“Mornin’, Westie!”

Larkin cracked one eye open and—there was a face, inches from his own.

“Argh!” He scrambled up in the bed, suddenly wide awake. Blinking in disbelief, he regarded the smiling angelic countenance of Gideon, golden curls tumbling about his face.

“You a slug-a-bed,” the boy said, snorting with amusement.

“Barnes!” Larkin shouted, feeling quite unequal to dealing with Gideon, especially when he wasn’t wearing anything under the covers, and he’d been having the most astonishing erotic dream about the boy’s mother.

“Sir?”

Barnes hurried in and stopped in his tracks as he regarded Gideon.

“Well, I’m blowed. How the devil—”

“Precisely what I should like to know, Barnes,” Larkin said, a little tersely. He felt guilty and bothered and quite out of sorts. What the devil had that dream been about? Mrs Finchley, of all people! A respectable widow. Good God. What was wrong with him? “Do we not have a functioning lock on the back door any longer?” he demanded.

“Why, yes, sir, but I stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, lovely morning it is, too, but the little rascal must have slipped past me.”

Larkin groaned, rubbing his face with his hand. “What time is it?”

“Half past seven, sir.”

“In the morning?” Larkin protested. “Dam— drat the little fellow,” he said, struggling to modify his language.

“Get up, Westie. Time for breakfast,” Gideon piped up, his cheerful tone far too shrill and merry for Larkin’s tattered nerves to endure at such an ungodly hour.

“Barnes,” Larkin pleaded.

“S’all right, sir. I’ll deal with it. Come along, Master Gideon, you little tyke, you’d best come with me.”

“For breakfast?”

“I suppose so, but this is the last time,” Barnes warned him sternly.

Undeterred, Gideon smiled in anticipation. “Got cake, Barnsy?” he enquired sweetly.

Larkin listened to the two as they went out into the hallway and down the stairs.

“No cake. Eggs.”

“But I like cake.”