Page 49 of Debtor’s Daughter

Larkin immediately pasted a smile to his face to cover the turmoil the child had wrought on his peace of mind. “Of course I do! It’s a wonderful drawing. You’ll be a great artist if you keep this up. Thank you, Gideon.”

Before he could put the drawing away, Mrs Goodall looked over his shoulder and saw the image Gideon had drawn.

She smiled sadly. “Poor boy wants a da,” she said softly, patting Larkin’s shoulder and sighing.

Larkin gave Gideon a new piece of paper, tucking the drawing he’d been given safely away. “Perhaps you should draw something for your mama,” he suggested, wondering a little anxiously what the boy would do next.

“Yes,” Gideon agreed.

“What are you drawing, then?” Larkin pressed, putting aside his latest of a fox wearing a top hat and beginning upon one of a train.

“Pony,” Gideon said, not looking up.

“A fine choice,” Larkin agreed, and then wondered if the boy hankered for a pony of his own. What was he saying? Of course he did. What boy didn’t want his own pony, and if they lived at the manor, perhaps such a thing might be possible. With no expensive rent to pay, and likely a small income from the land too, their lives might be entirely different. Though he had been determined before, Larkin was now entirely resolved to ensure they got their home back.

“Look!” Gideon held up the drawing.

The pony had a very large head and a very small body and legs like a daddy longlegs. The mane was certainly exuberant, as was the tail, and Larkin thought it entirely charming.

“He’s a very handsome pony,” he said, smiling at Gideon. “Does he have a name?”

“Bertie,” Gideon replied promptly. “He will live in the garden, and I’ll feed him apples and carrots.”

“Oh, bless the poor child,” Mrs Moody said with an emotional sniff, dabbing at her eyes with her apron.

Larkin frowned, not finding this entirely helpful when he was already all at sea. He wanted to go out that second and buy a pony and a puppy and anything else the dratted boy wanted and why should he feel so blasted responsible? Mrs Finchley and her son were not his concern, he reminded himself. Yet he’d made them his concern and, more to the point, no matter how much he fought the idea, he wanted them to be.

30th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

“The theatre?” Maggie looked from Caro to her aunt, perceiving the glow of happiness and excitement with a leaden sensation in her stomach. “But—”

“Oh, don’t!” Caro cried, springing up from her seat on the sofa where they’d just settled to take tea. “Don’t start giving us dozens of reasons we must not enjoy ourselves for once. I am so dreadfully bored, and I hate this horrid house. I miss my piano and my friends in the village and going for rides in the countryside, and at last something good has happened, so don’t you dare tell us we may not go!” she exclaimed, and flounced out of the parlour, slamming the door behind her.

Maggie blinked in shock, too surprised by the outburst to say a word.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!

“Oh, do hush, Cecil!” Aunt Connie said in exasperation. “Poor Caro. I think it is finally sinking in that we can never go back home. To begin with, I believe she viewed it as rather an adventure. Like a heroine in a novel. But now she knows this is to be our life, that we cannot go back, and it’s hit her hard. Don’t take her words to heart, Maggie. She doesn’t mean them.”

Maggie nodded but knew there was some justification for Caro’s anger. She had been about to say that they were in mourning and must not go, but that was not her true motivation. She’d have grasped at any excuse to refuse and that was wicked of her. To deny her aunt and her sister such a treat because she was a fool was selfish and weak, things she had never before believed of herself. But she was realising a good many truths about her own character and none of them seemed to be very flattering.

“If Mr Weston is so kind as to invite us, then of course we shall go. We shall already cause a scandal because of Papa’s actions, and there is no point in not beginning as we mean to go on, I suppose,” she said calmly, setting down her teacup. “If you will excuse me, Auntie, I have rather a headache. I think I shall lie down for a while. Please reassure Caro that I will not refuse the invitation.”

Wearily, Maggie climbed the stairs and lay down on her bed. She had spent much of the afternoon making adjustments to Gideon’s clothes, hoping desperately they might last another month or two before he outgrew them for good. He certainly needed new socks, for the ones he had were now more darn than sock and she worried they would rub his toes. Yet more expense, and entirely inescapable.

Outside, she could hear the clatter of cartwheels and hooves and people chattering as they went about their day. She stared up at the ceiling, absently noting a small stain she did not think had been there before. All the rain and wind they’d had earlier in the month must have made a tile slip. Not that she cared. It wasn’t her house, she reminded herself. She would never have her own home again, only a series of increasingly cheap rented places as her income dwindled.

“Stop it,” she chided out loud. Feeling sorry for herself would help no one and fix nothing.

Caro would have a splendid season and fall madly in love and make a fine match. Her husband would be wealthy and kind enough not to allow his new relations to fall into poverty, and he would help Gideon get into an excellent school. Perhaps that husband would be Mr Weston, for surely, he was bound to fall in love with her whilst he painted her beauty. What man could resist such innocent loveliness? And Maggie would be happy for them both. There. Everything was rosy.

Despising herself for her weakness, Maggie turned on her side and stuffed her fist into her mouth, sobbing silently for all the things she had lost, and all the things she would never have, and for a man who might just be the answer to a prayer… just not hers.

2nd November 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

As she might have expected, Maggie endured a household in an uproar of excitement, as Caro drove poor Sally to distraction, trying to decide what she ought to wear for her first proper evening out as an adult.

Sensing that even Sally’s patience was being tried, Maggie stepped in.