Page 44 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 13

Larkin,

I did a little fishing as you requested. Jenkins is, as you supposed, an unsavoury character. Rumours of cheating, fraud and violence abound and so I beg you to have a care if you decide to pursue your quarry.

For your information, it appears country life does not suit this estimable fellow, and he is in London at present. I am reliably informed he is staying at the Punch and Judy in Covent Garden.

For heaven’s sake, keep your wits about you if you deal with the villain. For if you wind up in the Thames because of information I’ve handed over, I will never forgive myself, or you and your father will murder me.

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

13th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Maggie looked out of the window with a sigh. London on a grim, wet day only made her homesickness all the keener. A wet day at the manor was an excuse to cosy up and read by the fire. Even walking down muddy lanes in the rain, with the wind blowing through the trees overhead, and knowing she would soon be warm and dry was a very different feeling from that she’d had today. Hurrying home from church, along streets filthy with refuse and surrounded by buildings, with the rain pelting them and the wind blowing them this way and that was not in the least bit pleasant. She felt certain that if they’d never had to leave their beautiful home, she would not now be feeling so very unsettled and dissatisfied. When she’d had the gardens and the home farm to attend to, there was so little time to consider her own heart. Now, she had far too much time on her hands, too much time to feel resentment over losing everything she’d loved, and then to feel guilty for her ingratitude when she was so much more fortunate than many.

As Maggie hung up her wet things to dry, so Sally would have one less thing to do, she smoothed down the skirts of her old day dress that had once been a favourite but was now faded and soft with too much wear and washing. It was comforting, though, to wear something so familiar, and no one would call on them today. No one had called upon them since that day out with Mr Weston, for they had not seen him since.

Maggie was not in the least bit surprised nor dismayed by this, she assured herself. It was simply this dreary weather and not having enough to do that made her feel as though she would run mad. Only poor Giddy was disappointed not to have seen his friend again and often asked after his ‘Westie.’

As she made her way down the stairs, Maggie sniffed appreciatively at the delicious scent wafting from the kitchens and wondered what Mrs Moody was cooking. She was a remarkably thrifty cook, unlike Mrs Goodall, who had never had to economise to such a degree, even when they ought to have done, for Maggie’s father had loved his dinner.

“Dinner is ready, missus,” Priddy told her, before dashing downstairs to the kitchen.

Maggie nodded and made her way to the small dining room. It was a rather poky room, and the fire smoked when the wind blew from the west, so they only ate in here on a Sunday. The rest of the week, they preferred to eat by a small table by the window in the front parlour that got the morning sun, if there was any.

Today, Maggie found everyone awaiting her arrival with Gideon holding his knife and fork expectantly.

“Special din-dins,” he said, with obvious excitement.

“Oh?” Maggie said, smiling at her son and smoothing down a cowlick that promptly sprang up again. “What’s special about it?”

“Moody said special, with Yorky pudding,” he told her eagerly.

“Yorkshire pudding,” Caro corrected with a smile. “It certainly smells divine, whatever it is.”

“Beef,” Aunt Connie said, sniffing the air and giving a contented sigh. “That is certainly roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“Don’t be silly, love,” Maggie said, feeling bad for spoiling their excitement. “We can’t afford such things as roast beef. Do you know what the price of a single, scrawny chicken is here? Oh, it makes me want to weep when I think of the fat birds we had at home,” she said, and then scolded herself again for remembering things she’d do well to forget.

“Perhaps it’s toad in the hole,” Caro suggested, for their aunt looked crestfallen by the suggestion there was no roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. “We like that too, don’t we, Auntie?”

“Eww!” Gideon cried, his face the picture of horror. “Not toads! Can’t eat toads. Nasty, nasty, nasty—”

“No toads, darling,” Maggie said hurriedly, before Gideon could make himself sick with the idea. “It’s just a silly name for sausages. It’s sausages in a Yorkshire pudding.”

“Sausages?” he repeated suspiciously. “No toads?”

“No toads,” Maggie assured him with a smile.

Gideon sighed with relief and, as the crisis was averted, Maggie turned to speak to her sister again, just as Mrs Moody came into the room, hefting an enormous platter. Upon it was a magnificent roast beef, surrounded by roasted potatoes and parsnips.

“Good heavens!” Maggie said in alarm, wondering if the woman had blown the entire month’s budget on one meal. “What on earth—”

“Settle your feathers, Mrs Finchley,” Mrs Moody said as she set it down on the table. “It’s a present. Mr Weston had a bit of luck at cards yesterday, so Mr Barnes told me. Won a fine piece of gammon and this bit o’ beef. Well, it’s only him next door and he can’t be eating all that by himself, so he’s kept the gammon, seeing as he’s partial to it, Mr Barnes says, but he said to give the beef to us. For Master Gideon ought to enjoy a good roast dinner, as he’s a growing lad. What but that’s nothing but the truth, I accepted, seeing as how you was all at church.”

Maggie stared at the monumental piece of meat and then looked at her son, who was practically salivating as Priddy set down a vast Yorkshire pudding.

What could she do but accept the kind offer? Yet her pride recoiled against something that felt very much like charity. Luck at cards indeed, she fumed inwardly. This was his way of returning the money she had spent on paying him for the gardener. Maggie felt so annoyed by his high-handedness she felt sure a single morsel of beef would stick in her throat and was dismayed to be proven wrong. The meat was succulent and cooked to perfection, and she was not such a fool as to cut off her nose to spite her face. So she tucked into the feast, finding pleasure in the happiness her family took in the rare treat.