Page 28 of Debtor’s Daughter

“This is the second time I’ve soaked one of your handkerchiefs. I swear I’m not usually like this,” she said, taking it from him and pressing it to her eyes. “Before I married, I was always said to be a resourceful girl, no-nonsense and… and a deal t-too managing,” she said shakily.

“You’ve had a great deal to endure,” Mr Weston said, his voice soft and sympathetic. “You’ve lost a husband and a father and your home and become a mother too in such a short space of time. That’s enough to give anyone fit of the dismals, and I know what it’s like to have your emotions all turned upside down and everything you thought you knew about yourself called into question. I-I know you’ve read the scandal sheets about my, er… drunken escapades. I hope you will believe me when I tell you it was only because I was deeply unhappy. Not that I didn’t do such things when I was a younger man, but that was different. An excess of animal spirits, as my parents' old housekeeper used to say. But people deal with emotional turmoil in different ways, you see. I’m afraid such behaviour is not a solution for you, however, as you really would cause a scandal,” he said, his eyes twinkling with humour, though they grew serious again as he continued. “In truth, I cannot recommend it, for it only masks one's feelings for a while. It solves nothing. Time is the only thing that really heals, as trite as it may sound. That and the realisation that no one is perfect, and that we all ought to be a deal kinder and more understanding.”

Maggie wiped her eyes again, watching him with a growing sense of admiration as his words rang true. She had been so used to dealing with things in the past and never once felt overwhelmed, whereas since their father died, she seemed to be forever on the brink of drowning under the weight of responsibility. That he saw her with such clarity was at once startling and comforting, and how easily he spoke of such things. She had never known a man ever speak openly of his feelings, or to show such empathy, either. Her father had been of the type who never spoke of his troubles, and she did not doubt this was in part the reason he had ended as he had. As for William, they’d had so little time to get to know each other there had been little chance for such serious discussions. He had spoken of his feelings for her in the most romantic terms, but the opportunity to weather the vicissitudes of life had been denied them.

“You are the kindest person I’ve ever met,” she said, speaking from the heart and without thinking first. She ought not to say such things to him, especially when they were alone, with no chaperone. Yet she did not wish the words unsaid, for they were true.

He smiled and shrugged. “I had wonderful parents who taught me kindness, for boys are often not taught such things, you know. We are taught to be brave and not to look as if we care about anything or anyone. But my father taught me it is possible to be brave and strong and still to be kind, and he’s the best man that ever lived.”

Maggie smiled at the certainty of his words. “A war hero, I believe?”

He nodded. “The kind one reads about in books,” he replied, his eyes lit with such pride she could see the depth of regard he held for his sire.

As he spoke, Maggie found herself leaning closer to him, drawn to him by some invisible pull. The room around her faded until she forgot where she was or why she had come, only wanting to hear him speak, to tell her more about himself. She hung upon his every word as he carried on speaking.

“I wanted to be a soldier too, when I was a young man. I was hell bent on his buying me a commission, and when he wouldn’t, I said I’d enlist as a common soldier. We had the worst row we’d ever had then, for he forbade me. I was wild with the injustice of it until he sat me down and told me things I had never known, the truth about his time in the army, about what it really is to be a soldier, and his words showed me he was a greater hero than I had ever imagined, for all he endured.”

“But you did not become a soldier,” she said with a smile.

He shook his head, his smile rueful and a little wistful. “No, and my father was right to stop me. I’m his only heir, for one thing, and it would have destroyed him and my mother if I’d been killed. I could not do that to them.”

Maggie studied his face, wondering if he regretted not forcing the issue, or if he was truly content now. “Your father saw the truth, though, that you had an uncommon talent, one that you might not pursue if you went to war.”

He nodded. “Yes, he did. He was wiser than I ever gave him credit for. I see that now. But I see a good deal more about him and about myself these days. To be honest, I think that’s why I took so long to apply myself and to take my work seriously. Even though I understood my father’s reasoning, I think I resented his interference for many years. I wanted to be a hero, like him, and I think I have unconsciously let that ambition colour my life, instead of concentrating on the things I ought to have taken more seriously.”

“But now you see your way more clearly?” she asked, wishing she might have such an epiphany.

“I do,” he said, nodding. “My work is my passion now and, whilst it might not be heroic, it is not so frivolous as I once believed.”

“Frivolous!” Maggie exclaimed, startled. “But how could you think it?”

He laughed at that. “Well, it is only paint upon canvas, after all.”

“Oh, indeed it is not!” she said, with far more passion than she had intended, but she could not leave the words unsaid. “You are painting Lord Ashburton’s daughter, are you not? And in one hundred years, in two hundred years, more even, her ancestors will look at that portrait and see the truth of the woman who came before them. A great artist not only captures a likeness, but the essence of that person, the spark that fires them. And think too, of how much it means to a person or a family who loses someone they love. How comforting to look again upon the face of one so beloved. I have no such portrait of my husband, and I fear I am forgetting what he looked like… and poor Giddy, he will n-never know the face of his father.”

Maggie swallowed hard, determined not to weep again, but Mr Weston was staring at her, his expression filled with warmth and compassion. He reached out and took her hand this time, holding it tightly. “Thank you. That is certainly what I aspire to achieve, and that you see that so easily means a great deal to me. I am sorry, however, that you have not such a portrait of your husband. That must be a great sorrow to you.”

Maggie blinked, wishing he would not say such things that threatened to unravel the tightly woven threads of her life. For it always had been a great sorrow, but she had believed herself content enough. She had believed she would continue to find comfort in her son and that she could be satisfied to live a smaller life than the one she had imagined as a girl. But now here was Mr Weston, making her feel things she had believed were no longer possible for her, or even allowed.

Now she felt Mr Weston’s hand cradling her own, and it was strong and warm, and he was so very alive and… and she had no business thinking about such things. Besides all else, he fancied Caro, not her, and the entire reason they’d come to town was to get her sister safely married. Who could be better for Caro than this wonderfully kind and compassionate man?

Mr Weston looked around then, and a moment later Maggie heard what he had: footsteps on the stairs. He withdrew his hand just as Barnes entered the room.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought I ought to remind you of your appointment this morning.”

“Oh, good heavens!” Maggie jumped to her feet, horrified she had done what she always seemed to do whenever Mr Weston was around, weeping all over him, making a nuisance of herself and taking up his valuable time. “I am so sorry, I—”

“Stop!” he told her, quite firmly too, his expression serious. “You’ve done nothing wrong, and I am glad to help. Either Mrs Moody or Mrs Goodall may start whenever they choose. Barnes will be pleased not to have to cook for me any longer, I know. Eh, Barnes?”

“No cooking?” Barnes expression lit up so comically Maggie had to laugh. This much was no more than the truth, at least.

“There, you see?” Mr Weston said, grinning at her. “And I’m certain we can accommodate Wallace, but he must work for you, for I cannot have anyone stepping on Barnes’ toes.”

“Oh, no indeed, but truly, I do not know how to thank you—” Maggie began, only for him to hold up his hand to silence her.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Mine too, if I don’t have to cook no more,” Barnes said with a grin before he left the room again.

Mr Weston laughed and turned back to her.

“Barnes is eternally grateful.”

Maggie let out a breath and nodded and turned back to the door but hesitated. She knew she ought not to say it, but she had already said a deal too much, and he deserved to hear the words after all he’d done. “You are a hero, Mr Weston, for me and my family, that is exactly what you are, and we shall never forget that.”