Page 29 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 9

My Lord,

Would you be so good as to spare me a moment of your time? I am escorting Mrs Finchley and her son, and the Misses Merrivale for a visit to Lady Montagu and Miss Barrington on Thursday if this is

convenient.

―Excerpt of letter to The Most Hon’ble Lucian Barrington, The Marquess of Montagu from The Hon’ble Larkin Weston.

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

Larkin watched the door close as Mrs Finchley left the room, feeling oddly elated and yet bereft.

You are a hero, Mr Weston, for me and my family, that is exactly what you are, and we shall never forget that

It was sweet of her to say such a thing, but he knew she was refining too much upon his actions. It pleased him to help her and her family, and he truly believed anyone with a grain of decency would do likewise. His parents certainly would, his sister too, and his friends he was sure, but all the same the words settled inside him and glowed like the first sip of a fine brandy, warming him.

Though he did not have as much difficulty as some of his friends in speaking of his feelings, he was still a little startled by their conversation. Larkin hadn't intended to give her so much personal information when he'd been hurt before by giving too much of himself, regardless of whether that confidence was wanted. He must be careful not to overstep the mark and invite too deep an intimacy between them.

Though he wanted to be Mrs Finchley’s friend, such friendships between men and women were fraught with problems with the outside world too ready to assume the worst. Moreover, she was vulnerable, and he ought not to give her the impression he was looking for more than friendship when he wasn’t. But she was so easy to confide in, and so quick to understand, too. He felt a strange tug of kinship to her of the kind he had never known before. Uneasily, he turned his attention to his feelings for Elmira, something he’d not done for some time. Whilst the memory of her no longer gave him pain, he had learned to avoid thinking of her, not wishing to stir up the past. Had there been this same sense of familiarity, of ease? He knew the answer without having to consider it.

Elmira had been his heroine, his muse, the first one to make him take his art seriously as he tried to capture whatever it was about her that fascinated him. He knew now that it was the combination of fragility and strength she exuded, and that the reason he could never capture her truly was because she had held herself back. She had not wished for him to see everything about her, to know her entirely, and so he had become increasingly fascinated and frustrated. When he discovered she had lied about her son, about who she was and where she had come from, about everything, it had been devastating. He had trusted her with so much of himself and she had never reciprocated. If she had understood who he really was, why had she not trusted him to protect her and the child she had taken on as her own?

The entire episode had shaken his confidence in himself, and he had felt a fool. He did not wish to feel that way again, and so he must tread the path of friendship with Mrs Finchley with great care.

3rd October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

“Westie!”

Gideon came barrelling through the front door and launched himself at Larkin. Thankfully, Larkin had been prepared for the assault and swept the boy up before he could do him an injury.

“Master Gideon. Well, you are looking fine as fivepence today,” Larkin observed, as Gideon looked adorable and remarkably tidy in his sailor suit.

“Got to keep it clean,” Gideon said, pulling a comically tragic face.

“Oh, dear,” Larkin said with a deal of sympathy, remembering many, many scoldings from his nanny and mother when he had ruined some new outfit in a matter of minutes just before visitors arrived or they were due to leave for some event. “That is a trial.”

“’Tis.” Gideon nodded sadly. “And I can’t bring my ball!” he exclaimed, his expression turning from merely incomprehension to one of outright indignation.

Larkin met Mrs Finchley’s eye as she followed her sister out of the house. “Indeed, I should think not. Can you imagine him throwing it and knocking over some priceless piece of porcelain?” she said, closing her eyes in horror and shuddering. “I should have to run away and live abroad.”

Larkin laughed. “I do not think such drastic measure would be required. In my experience, the Montagus are somewhat intimidating unless you are under the age of twelve, in which case you can get away with murder.”

“Well, let us pray he does not need to get away with murder,” she said under her breath as Larkin handed her up into the carriage.

As they were a little tight on space, Gideon had to choose a lap to sit on and Larkin was given this honour.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Mrs Finchley fretted.

“I already told you twice. Gideon and I are quite all right,” Larkin said, rather touched by the way the boy leaned against him, so trusting and confident he was safe.

“Gideon, mind your boots on Mr Weston’s trousers, love.”

“Stop worrying!” Larkin remonstrated, shaking his head at her.

“Yes, Mama, stop worrying,” Gideon repeated, wagging his finger at his mother and gaining himself a reproving look from Larkin.

“Don’t cheek your mama, you little devil,” he said, though not unkindly. “And mind your shoes on my trousers.”