Page 46 of Debtor’s Daughter

“I do,” Larkin said, accepting the cup of coffee she poured him and a generous slice of fruit cake. “He was mourning.”

“He was, and it affected his brain, I reckon. Had to be that, for marrying that awful woman was the worst thing he ever did. Well, save for topping himself. We was going on very nicely, you see, for Maggie had practically been running the household beside me since Caro’s mama died. Couldn’t have been more than eleven, I reckon. But she’s got her head screwed on. Leastways, I thought she did until she married Captain Finchley.”

“Oh?” Mr Weston said, his ears pricking up.

“Wet blanket, he was,” Mrs Moody said, pursing her lips with disapproval. “I don’t know what old Merrivale was thinking to allow it when they’d only known each other days. But like I said, he wasn’t thinking, not about what was best for Maggie, anyhow. Though it is wicked of me to say so, she’s lucky she’s been given a second chance, for it would never—”

Mrs Moody gasped and clapped a hand across her mouth in horror. “Oh. Mr Weston!” she exclaimed. “Hark at me, rattling on about private things and I never… never gossip about my family. How did you get me to speak so?” she demanded, looking at him accusingly.

Larkin held up his hands in a peaceable gesture. “I said nothing, Mrs Goodall, I only listened, but you may rest assured I would do nothing to hurt Mrs Finchley or any of them. I, like you, worry for them, but I am in a difficult position, being a single man. If I pay them too much attention, people will talk. Yet, I would help them however I could.”

Mrs Goodall gave him a long, hard look and then nodded. “Aye. You’re an honourable fellow, I reckon. Mr Barnes told me about Gideon making a nuisance of himself and what you did, playing with the lad and then making introductions for Miss Caroline and getting the gardener to tidy their place up. You did them a great kindness when you’d no need to. That piece of beef, too. You never won that—and don’t tell me you did, for I saw the receipt for payment.”

“You’ve caught me out,” Larkin said with a smile. “And it seems Barnes is not as discreet as I assumed. But you’re right. I only want to help, but Mrs Finchley is set on thwarting me too, it seems,” he remarked ruefully, gesturing to the jars of apple butter.

“Ah, well. That’s not so bad. Keep her on her toes, it will. Boredom is what will drive poor Maggie out of her wits. She’s a managing sort of female, born to run a large household, and sitting about doing nothing will drive her distracted.”

Larkin considered this and had a sudden vision of the lady standing side-by-side with his mother at Mitcham Priory, organising one of the many large charity events she put on each year. He started in shock, pushing the image away and wondering what the hell he was thinking. Yet instinctively he knew his mother would like and approve of Mrs Finchley, and a strangely unsettling sensation gnawed at his guts. No. No, that would not do at all, he told himself, and buried the image down deep where it would not trouble him again.

28th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

“I’ll go!” Maggie called as the door knocker sounded, for Priddy was upstairs changing Gideon after an incident with jam tarts in the kitchen, and Wallace was filling the coal scuttles.

Priddy was such a tiny little dab of a girl, they could not expect her to lug the heavy coal scuttles about. Maggie had tried to get Wallace to allow her to do the dirty job, which was far beneath his dignity, but he’d become quite cross with her, so she’d been forced to retreat.

It had been well over three weeks since she had seen Mr Weston, and she had become accustomed to the idea that she was safe from doing so, which only made it all the more shocking to find the man himself standing on her doorstep. He removed his hat politely and bowed, smiling with his customary warmth, just as if he’d not witnessed the most embarrassing and shaming moment of her life the last time they’d met.

“Oh!” Maggie said stupidly, at a loss for anything more useful to say.

“Good morning, Mrs Finchley.”

“I-I didn’t expect you,” she said, and then cursed herself, as it sounded like an accusation. “I mean, good morning, Mr Weston.” Though far more polite, the words still sounded stiff and most unwelcoming, but he appeared undaunted and stood waiting.

Drat the man. She really, really, did not want to invite him in.

“Was there something you wanted?” she asked, refusing to give way.

“Yes,” he replied, but said no more.

Well, now he was being difficult on purpose. “Are you willing to share the information or am I to deduce it myself?” she asked, softening the acerbic words with a polite smile. “Morse code, perhaps?” she suggested, and then wanted to bite her tongue out. Mr Weston had not done the least thing wrong. She was the one who’d behaved badly, not him. It was just that seeing him unexpectedly had put her in such a dither she was cross with him for making her feel foolish.

“We could try, but I’m not sure I’m very proficient,” he said apologetically, though amusement lurked in his eyes.

Maggie sighed and shook her head. “Forgive me. That was appallingly rude. Please, do come in, Mr Weston.”

She led him to the front parlour and sat down, waiting. Mr Weston entered, careful to leave the door ajar in case she assaulted his person again, she noted cynically, and sat at her invitation.

“Will you take tea?” she asked, praying he would not.

“No, thank you. I will not keep you long. It is only that my latest commission is almost completed, and I wished to discuss the possibility of painting Miss Caroline.”

Maggie’s heart gave a jolt. Well, here was a reminder, as if she needed one, of just why Mr Weston had taken such an interest in them. For Caro’s sake, she must put her own hurt pride aside and do what was best for her sister.

“I believe you know our financial situation, Mr Weston,” she said bluntly, for there seemed little point in not being certain of what he was offering.

“I have no intention of charging you,” he said, his expression more serious now as he lifted a hand to forestall any comment she might make. “And before you suggest otherwise, this is a mutually beneficial exercise. The portrait of such an unknown beauty will cause a stir among the ton that will not only promote my work but will do much to enhance Miss Caroline. If the portrait is exhibited before she comes out, every other young miss will plague their fathers for a similar work and I guarantee all the young eligible men of the ton will be in love with her before she sets foot in a ballroom.”

“And many of the ineligible and less than respectable men too,” Maggie added with a frown, though she could not deny the truth of his words, nor would she deny Caro this opportunity, yet she feared what such celebrity might do to her sister, who was rather shy by nature.