Page 4 of Debtor’s Daughter

Maggie gave a sudden laugh, pleased by his ingenuity and tact. “Well, it is still kind of you. Please, do come in, and you may give it to him yourself. He’ll be so pleased.”

Thanking her politely, Mr Weston walked in, following her down the corridor to the front parlour. Upon opening the door, Maggie was unsurprised to discover Caro was no longer sprawled over the floor, but sitting demurely upon a chair, apparently reading a book. The black mourning gown and the copious tresses of black curls did not make her look pale but only enhanced her beauty, the soft ruby of her lips and the sooty lashes, and the impossible green of her eyes.

Mr Weston came into the room in Maggie’s wake, and she was unsurprised to see his mouth fall open when his gaze landed upon Caro. She almost danced on the spot. Had that been love at first sight? How could it not be, when Caro was so heart-stoppingly beautiful?

To his credit, Mr Weston collected his wits quicker than most men did and they made their introductions. When Priddy, the maid of all work, appeared and bobbed a curtsey, Maggie ordered a tea tray be sent up and asked her to tidy Master Gideon up and bring him to the parlour.

“How are you finding the city, ladies? I’m afraid you have not seen it at its best these past weeks. It’s not the place to be when it’s hot, I’m afraid, but there is a good deal to see and do now the temperature is milder,” Mr Weston said, his engaging manners and warm smile putting everyone at ease.

Maggie watched Caro surreptitiously, wondering what she made of Mr Weston. She had deliberately said little about him, hoping to pique her sister’s interest, but Caro had not seemed curious in the least. Her manner towards him today was everything it ought to be, polite and friendly without being familiar, but the spark of interest or pretty blush Maggie had hoped for on being face–to-face with such a splendid gentleman was absent. Well, really. Was the girl blind?

“We’ve seen so little of it so we cannot really say,” Caro said with a wistful sigh. “I had hoped to go to the theatre and—”

“A séance,” Aunt Connie said, pressing her hands to her ample bosom. “So I might speak with—”

“Well, there is so much we have not seen or done,” Maggie said in a rush, before Auntie could give the impression they were all as dotty as she was. Whilst Maggie was not about to swear there were no such things as ghosts or the afterlife, it was a dangerous subject to embark upon with a stranger in the house. “But it has taken us some time to make the house habitable, for it needed a little work, you understand?”

And hadn’t that been an understatement? Maggie suppressed a shudder at the memory. It had been filthy and disgusting, but she was too polite to say such things, assuming the previous inhabitants might have been acquaintances or friends of Mr Weston.

“I’m surprised it didn’t fall down around your ears,” Mr Weston said frankly. “Old Mr Grantham was a shocking miser. I can only imagine what horrors you discovered.”

“Dreadful,” Auntie said, shaking her head, her lips pursed in a little moue of revulsion, though why Maggie could not fathom.

On discovering the worst of the dirt, Aunt Connie had retired to the only clean room in the house, too overcome with distaste to bear the strain. So Maggie and Priddy, bless her heart, had done it themselves. Caro had offered, though she’d not put up much of a fight when Maggie had refused. She could not have Caro ruining her lovely hands when her big chance was fast approaching. Maggie’s time had come and gone, and she would not allow herself to regret that, for she had her darling Giddy to show for it, and surely that was compensation enough for the loss of her home and the life she had loved so dearly.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.

Drat and bother.

Maggie held her breath, hoping against hope, but no—

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.

Mr Weston frowned and took out his pocket watch. “It’s only twenty past three,” he said, confused.

“Cecil doesn’t like strangers,” Auntie said, whispering behind her hand to Mr Weston, as though she did not wish the clock to hear her.

“More tea, Mr Weston?” she asked desperately, practically snatching the cup from his hand.

He jolted and looked as though he might refuse, but she was already pouring.

“Thank you,” he said, before adding cautiously, “Cecil?”

“The cuckoo. Called Cecil,” she said briskly. “Have a biscuit.”

She thrust the biscuits at him, and he gave her an odd look but took one.

“Don’t be silly, Maggie, dear,” Auntie said, sounding impatient. “The cuckoo isn’t called Cecil. It’s just a wooden clock. Mr Weston will think you’re queer in your attic if you go around saying such things.”

Maggie swallowed a burst of hysterical laughter. “I beg your pardon, Auntie. Heavens, where has that boy got to, I thought he’d be here by now. I do hope he hasn’t absconded with Mrs Moody’s saucepans and—”

“It’s my dead fiancé, you see.”

Mr Weston looked from Maggie to her aunt, but Maggie could think of no way to stop the runaway train now in motion. This was it. Calamity before they had even begun. Mr Weston would tell all his friends the family were bedlamites and no one in their right mind would ever marry Caro.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr Weston said, looking bewildered, as well he might. “What is?”

“Cecil,” Auntie said, reaching for another biscuit and holding it between surprisingly dainty fingers. “Is my dead fiancé. He’s haunting me. He lives in the cuckoo clock.”