Page 45 of Debtor’s Daughter

Indeed, there was so much meat that Mrs Moody assured them they would have cold roast beef sandwiches for tea, and she would also make pies and grind what was left over for rissoles. They had also the pleasure of dripping on toast to look forward to, sprinkled with a little salt, which had been a regular Monday morning treat when Maggie was a child.

So they all ate far too much and retired to the parlour and sat by the fire, talking and sewing as Gideon played with his toy train on the floor. Maggie watched her son with a smile and let her aunt and sister’s chatter lull her into a pleasant state of apathy as she considered all the ways she could return Mr Weston’s charity to him without costing herself a fortune.

16th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

It was midweek before an opportunity presented itself to Maggie. The sun was shining and even contained a little warmth which felt lovely upon her back as she took Gideon outside to play in the garden. He had driven everyone distracted during the past week of rain, thundering up and down the stairs, climbing on furniture and generally causing chaos as the confines of the small house chafed at him. Maggie found herself torn between impatience for his naughtiness and sorrow, as she understood how much energy he had and how badly he needed to run about and play. At the manor they’d had so much space, and so many trees to climb—and muddy clothes had been far easier to deal with when a laundry room and plenty of staff were at their disposal—but there was no sense in retreading that well-lamented path. The manor was gone. That was all there was to it.

As Gideon ran up and down, alternately kicking and throwing his ball, Maggie had to admit that the gardener had been a godsend. He’d done a marvellous job cutting the grass back and removing the encroaching brambles. Though she could ill afford the cost, she couldn't regret paying for the work, because it gave Gideon somewhere to play.

“Catch, Mama!” Gideon said, and flung the ball towards her in a haphazard manner.

Maggie laughed, reaching to catch it, but just missing.

“Nevermind. Try ’gain,” Gideon said encouragingly, running to pick the ball up again.

This time he stood closer to her and threw it again, but it went awry somehow, and Maggie missed it once more.

“No, Mama. Must catch like this,” Gideon said gravely, showing her the way he stood with his hands at the ready. “Westie showed me how. I’m good at catching. I show you.”

He handed her the ball back, and Maggie threw it to him. He caught it deftly and gave a whoop of triumph, running around waving the ball over his head.

Maggie’s throat tightened. If Gideon had a father, he would teach his son such things, how to play cricket and catch a fish, and all the things that fathers were supposed to do with their male offspring. All Gideon had was the kindness of a neighbour, and she’d spoiled everything by acting like a bold little madam, in the middle of a bazaar no less. The memory caused every part of her to stiffen with regret and humiliation. The first tense pulses of a headache throbbed at her temples.

Gideon had run off farther up the garden and Maggie hurried after him, worried in case he escaped next door, but she found him sitting on the lowest branch of an apple tree, munching on one of the many apples littering the ground. The branches overhead were laden with them too. At once, Maggie hurried back to the house to ask Mrs Moody for a basket. Gideon helped her fill it, which he thought a great game for about five minutes before he returned to playing with his ball. Still, Maggie had a fine haul of fruit, which she lugged back to the house.

“Heavens, there’s plenty there. I’ll make a nice apple pie,” Mrs Moody said, looking pleased at the sight of the overflowing basket. “And a crumble tomorrow, and I can make apple cake.”

“There’s lots more too,” Maggie said happily, emptying the basket into a large bowl and setting the rest on the table once it was full. “Do we have any jars?”

“Yes. I discovered loads of them in the scullery. Dozens of the things, there are,” Mrs Moody said, looking at Maggie in surprise. “You’re going to make something?”

“Yes!” Maggie said, feeling pleased with herself. “Apple butter. I often used to make it, and jams and preserves too, when we lived in the country. I like such jobs.”

Mrs Moody nodded her approval, as Maggie picked up the basket again.

“Come along Gideon, back outside with you,” she said, and smiled as her son ran out of the door ahead of her.

19th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Larkin set down his brushes and stretched the tense muscles in his back before stepping away to look at the painting of Tilly. He had brought the large canvas home in a carriage so he could work in his studio to finish it, now he felt satisfied with the likeness. Capturing the texture and the way light and shadow fell upon the various fabrics the child wore was a challenge, and he preferred to do this in his own studio. Mrs Harris had lent him the dress for reference, and he’d arranged it over some cushions to approximate the same pose. He considered the silk of the pretty gown and smiled, proud of the lightness and the soft gleam he’d given it. It was certainly the best thing he’d done so far and, once people saw it, even more of the great and the good would clamour for him to paint them.

He walked to the window and looked out, finding himself wishing Gideon would pop up like he had so often before that fateful outing to Regent Street. He supposed Maggie must be standing watch over the boy, determined he would not go wandering next door again. The thought made him unaccountably melancholy, which was ridiculous. Gideon might be an engaging scamp, but Larkin had no desire to play babysitter.

His next project would be Miss Caroline, he determined, returning to thoughts of his future career and putting all else aside. If Maggie wanted the girl to find herself a worthy husband, such a portrait would do her a great deal of good, and capturing the unknown beauty would certainly give him credit for having discovered her. More importantly, any romantically minded young man would take one look at the divine Caro captured upon canvas and fall instantly in love, he thought with amusement. He wondered if Maggie would refuse to allow him to paint her sister but knew at once she would not. Maggie would endure any discomfort to ensure her aunt’s and her sister’s happiness. Of this much, he was certain. His only difficulty would be ensuring she did not feel the need to repay him.

Deciding he needed a break, Larkin made his way down the stairs to the kitchen in search of coffee and cake and entered the kitchen to find Barnes looking at a table laden with glass jars.

“What’s all that?” he asked as his valet looked up.

“Apple butter,” Barnes said with a grin. “Mrs Finchley sent it over as thanks for the beef.”

Larkin laughed despite himself. “Oh, the devil. I ought to have known she wouldn’t let me get away with that.”

“Aye, a proud one is Mrs Maggie,” Mrs Goodall chimed in, looking at the jars with approval. “It’ll be good, for she always had a fair hand for such things, but what we’re to do with that much of it, I do not know. You’ll be eating apple butter until next Michaelmas, you ask me,” she said with a snort.

“You’ve been with the family a long time,” Larkin observed, giving Barnes a look that encouraged him to make himself scarce. His valet was nothing if not quick-witted and returned a nod before leaving the room.

“Oh, since before Maggie was a twinkle,” she said amiably. “Mr Merrivale was such a card, always laughing and joking, it was a happy household. Even after Maggie’s mama passed, he always made sure to pay her attention. Doted on her, he did. Then he married again, to Miss Caro’s mama. Well, she was a little doll. The sweetest natured lady you ever met, and so lovely, though Caro is even more beautiful, if you ask me. But when she died, the heart went out of the master. He still doted on his girls and always paid for new gowns and brought them gifts, even when he’d no money to do so, but he wasn’t present, even when he was there, if you understand me?”