Page 36 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 11

Larkin,

Yes, of course I’d be willing to help you. Do you want me to call a meeting of the Sons? I could manage it next week sometime if that suits?

―Excerpt from a letter from Mr Leo Hunt (Son of Mr Nathanial and Mrs Alice Hunt) to The Hon’ble Larkin Weston.

4th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

The next morning, the household was a flurry of activity as the ladies prepared to show themselves in society. Dresses and bonnets were chosen and discarded and Sally and Priddy darted back and forth with this pair of gloves and that ribbon, trying to make sense among the general hubbub.

“Oh, Caro, you do look splendid,” Maggie said, stifling the smallest twinge of envy as she regarded her little sister. She had never been jealous of Caro’s glorious, good looks before, and told herself she was not now, except she wished she might capture Mr Weston’s admiration as Caro had.

“Thank you. It is pretty, isn’t it? I’ve been just dying to wear it, but what with being in mourning—” She stopped, suddenly ill at ease. “You do not think we shall look too much like country bumpkins among the fashionable town set, do you?”

“Don’t be a silly goose,” Aunt Connie replied soothingly. “Your papa was many things, but he knew what was up to snuff and what wasn’t. Mrs Ledbetter might not have been a London modiste, but she got all her patterns direct from Paris, and much of her fabric too. She’ll not let us down.”

Maggie had to agree, for Caro looked divine in her promenade dress en redingote in a striking lavender taffeta. It was not black, however, which they well knew they ought to be wearing, and was probably even a little too dashing for half-mourning. But Mr Weston would not judge them, Maggie felt sure, and no one else knew who they were, so why not enjoy the day without the suffocating pall of heavy mourning fabrics, which made everyone look at them with pity? If they were to laugh or to appear to enjoy themselves too much, those looks would become censorious too, and Maggie thought they had suffered enough from her well-meaning but rackety father’s behaviour and its consequences.

She turned back to the looking glass to review her own toilette with a critical gaze, aware she had dressed with far too much care this morning. It was foolish of her to choose her gown in hopes of drawing Mr Weston’s eye. Wicked, too, when she purported to support his suit towards her sister, but she seemed unable to help herself. Besides, it was too late now to don her widow's weeds again. Instead, she had chosen a gown of deep green satin, with a fitted jacket embellished with black silk frogging. It hugged her waist and emphasised her bust and, whilst Maggie had never been vain—who could be with Caro to compare oneself to? —she did think she looked rather pretty.

“What do you think?”

Maggie turned as Aunt Connie came in, resplendent in a dashing ensemble of puce silk with three large, fringed flounces on her skirts that swished when she moved. The bodice was intricately ruched and tucked and seemed to make her impressive bosom even more notable.

“Auntie!” Maggie said, as her aunt twirled before her, looking as pleased as Caro did with her outfit. “You look quite magnificent and shall cast us both in the shade.”

“Oh, you silly creature, as if I could,” Connie said, but she blushed with pleasure all the same. “I declare, I am so excited! I know we came to town for Caro’s sake, but to have a shopping trip all of our own and to see something of London… well, I am quite beside myself with delight.”

“Indeed, it is a rare treat, and well deserved,” Maggie said, pulling on her gloves. “We shall enjoy ourselves excessively, but if I may be the voice of doom for just a moment—”

“Oh, Maggie, no!” Caro said, sitting on Maggie’s bed with an aggravated flounce and folding her arms.

“Yes, dear,” Maggie said firmly, determined to make her point. “We are on a budget, and you are not to spend more than the amounts we discussed, and only on the items we decided are necessary to us. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Maggie,” Caro replied, stony-faced.

“Of course, my dear,” Aunt Connie said, patting her arm.

Maggie gave her aunt a stern look, aware Connie was the most likely of the two to get carried away, but Connie floated off, murmuring about having forgotten to apply her scent.

Maggie sighed, wishing she was not the one who had to remind them of such things and spoil their pleasure. Picking up her bonnet, she made her way downstairs, reaching the bottom just as a knock sounded. As Wallace was in the kitchen, she opened it and had to fight not to catch her breath as Mr Weston’s tall, powerful frame filled the opening.

“Good morning, Mr Weston,” she managed, wishing she did not sound quite so breathless, but the morning was bright, and sunshine gleamed upon his hair, making it shine gold and bronze, and highlighting the warm glints in his brown eyes.

For a moment she thought he hesitated too at the sight of her, his eyes widening a little, his mouth opening as if to speak but closing again. Maggie instantly fretted that she had something stuck in her teeth, though she had cleaned them very carefully, or that her skirts were caught up somehow, but a quick survey reassured her all was as it ought to be with her dress.

“Good morning, Mrs Finchley. That is a most charming outfit, if I may say so.”

Maggie returned a quick smile, careful not to show her teeth before hurrying to the looking glass to put on her bonnet. Assuring herself that Mr Weston was not looking, she checked her teeth, reassured to discover nothing appalling lurking there.

“Good morning, Mr Weston. Forgive me for not opening the door to you,” Wallace said, giving Maggie a reproving look for having done so herself.

She returned an apologetic smile before looking back at Mr Weston. “We are almost ready,” she assured him, glancing up the stairs and hoping Connie would not keep them waiting too long.

“Mama!”

“Master Gideon!” Priddy exclaimed, hurrying after Gideon, who had clearly escaped from her clutches. “Beg pardon, Mrs Finchley, he got away from me.”