Page 3 of Debtor’s Daughter

Giddy stuffed another biscuit into his mouth, his blue eyes dancing.

Maggie sighed and climbed the stairs to discover Caro sprawled on the floor of the parlour, cutting out pictures from old copies of La Belle Assemble and the Ladies Cabinet and adding them to her scrapbook. Having a fair hand with a pencil, Caro then filled in the scene around the figures, setting them in lavish ballrooms or elegant parlours.

“Caro, where is Giddy?” she asked, arms folded.

A pair of impossibly green eyes, framed with sooty black lashes, gazed up at Maggie.

Caroline Merrivale, Maggie’s half-sister, shared their father’s raven hair, which curled around her flawless face and made a sharp contrast against her fair skin. Though they saw each other every day, her beauty still made Maggie’s breath catch sometimes; she had never seen a girl to rival Caro and remained utterly convinced that her sister was the most beautiful creature in the world. She was also kind-hearted, generous, and, at times, a complete ninny.

“Giddy?” Caro asked, blinking at Maggie. “Isn’t he with you?”

“No,” Maggie replied, striving for patience. “I went out, remember? And I asked you and Connie to ensure he did not disturb Mr Weston.”

“Well, and why should he?”

“Because he was out in the back garden making enough noise to wake the dead!” Maggie exclaimed.

Caro gave a delicate shudder. “One ought not to speak of waking the dead,” she reproved, before slanting an anxious glance at the ornate cuckoo clock on the wall to the left of the fireplace.

Maggie glared at her sister before throwing up her hands. She was all out of patience today. Unfortunately, at that moment, Aunt Connie floated into the room. She seemed to float everywhere, despite being built on far grander proportions than the rest of them. Her enormous bosom entered the room ahead of her, and the wide skirts in fashion did little to flatter her width, giving the impression of a fine ship in full sail. She also had Caro’s lush black curls, flawless skin and flashing green eyes. According to their father the story she told of having lost her heart to an unsuitable man many years ago was pure fiction. Connie, however, was adamant. In her version of the story, her beloved had then vanished, and she had refused all others. Believing her beloved to be dead, she had retreated into her own world of romantic novels, cakes, and wistful nostalgia. Connie could certainly be alarmingly vague, but she was an absolute darling and, to Maggie’s eye, was still beautiful, though she was close to fifty years of age.

“Oh, there you are,” Aunt Connie said, giving Maggie a reproachful look as she wafted over to the most comfortable chair in the room and settled herself with the grace of a feather falling gently to earth. “I’ve been looking for you this age.”

“I went out,” Maggie said. She had specifically reminded Aunt Connie of this earlier but knew to her cost there was no benefit in pointing that out.

“Well, you might have told me,” Connie said with a sigh, lifting a hand to her temples and rubbing gently. “Giddy has been making the most frightful racket.”

“So I understand,” Maggie replied, wondering if she had been terribly wicked in a past life. Perhaps that was why everything was going wrong and the people she loved most in all the world made her want to throw things, often at their heads. The trouble was, if she remonstrated it would either start a row or put everyone in a sullen mood and since their father had died, she seemed a lot less able to withstand such an atmosphere. It was simply easier to let things go and keep the peace. All the same, she could not help but ask the question. “Did you not think about telling him to stop?” Like I asked you to do, she did not add.

“I did,” Auntie admitted. “But I was reading the bit where Darcy proposes, you know, and—” She sighed, shaking her head. “Well, you understand.”

Maggie understood she was the only person in this house with the slightest grasp on reality. “I do?” she replied quizzically, though she ought to know better.

“Well, really, Maggie, darling. How could I interrupt him?” Auntie looked quite put out.

Maggie just about refrained from rolling her eyes, but it was a close thing. “Yes, yes. I quite understand. A shocking thing to interrupt a proposal in full flow. How cross they would be.”

“Don’t be silly, dear, they’re characters in a book. They wouldn’t know,” Auntie replied, apparently serious.

Maggie opened her mouth and closed it again. She’d only give herself a brain fever if she kept on. At that moment, the cuckoo clock—Aunt Connie’s most treasured possession—chimed, apparently for no reason, as it was not yet three o’clock.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!

Deciding this was an opportune moment to leave her aggravating relations to their own devices, Maggie was about to go upstairs and change her gown, when there was a knock at the front door.

Pausing at the mirror in the hallway, she gave herself a cursory glance, seeing a rather harried woman with unusual blue-green eyes and thick, curling blonde hair that was escaping its pins on all sides, as usual. The sombre black dress she wore seemed to enhance her pallor and she pinched her cheeks, trying to add a little colour. People found it hard to believe she was Caro’s sister, but Maggie took after her mother. Not that she had ever seen her, for Mama had died bringing her into the world, but the portrait that Papa had moved to her bedroom when he had married Caro’s mama showed a remarkable resemblance. It was one of the few items Maggie had refused to leave behind when they had run away and was still a comfort to her.

Taking a few moments to replace errant pins, Maggie smoothed her gown and went to answer the door.

“Oh, Mr Weston,” she said, her heart sinking as she saw her neighbour on the doorstep. As usual, he was dressed elegantly but carelessly, his necktie shockingly askew and his hair rumpled as though he’d not long risen. His artistic temperament, she supposed, wondering how such disarray suited him when on any other man it would look dreadful. “I know why you are here, and I am so very sorry. I only went out for a short while, but Caro and Aunt Constance find Gideon rather a handful.” If they even remember he’s there, she added silently.

“Please do not trouble yourself, Mrs Finchley,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “I’ve actually brought the little—er—scamp a present.”

With that, he held aloft a parcel, awkwardly wrapped, but there was no disguising the shape of it.

“Oh!” Maggie gazed at him in surprise. “Goodness, but… how very kind of you.”

Mr Weston grinned, and Maggie felt an odd fluttering in the vicinity of her rib cage at the engaging and surprisingly boyish expression. “In all honesty, Mrs Finchley, it’s not in the least kind, but self-preservation. I thought it might be quieter and keep him away from kitchen utensils. I hope you will forgive me.”