Page 9 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 3

Dear diary,

Mr Weston is quite the kindest man I have ever encountered. Whilst I am not so foolish as to believe there is no smoke without fire, surely his reputation for hard drinking and wickedness must be fabricated? His desire to help us must be genuine, for what fool would suggest involving Lady Montagu in a scheme to help if it were not entirely respectable and had the best of intentions? Of course, his desire for Caro motivates him, I do not doubt. What man would not be smitten when faced with such exquisite beauty? Yet I worry she is rather too young for him. His involvement in a gambling club is also not what I would choose, yet the house always wins, I believe, so perhaps this proves he does not have the reckless streak poor Papa possessed. How I wish Caro did not have to marry with such urgency, for I do not believe she is entirely ready for such a step, but I must see her safe. Marriage to a man who will be kind to her and treat her with gentleness and respect is a far better fate than that which she might have faced had we not run away.

Perhaps I have not been such a fool after all. Only time will tell.

――Excerpt of an entry from Mrs Magdelina Finchley to her diary.

24th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

“Do you understand, Caro?” Maggie asked, looking over her sister’s head to her reflection in the dressing-table mirror as she made an adjustment to her shining black curls.

“Yes, Maggie, but really, I do not see how I am to stop Auntie from saying something to Mr Weston that will put us both to the blush. You know what she is, and besides, I cannot help but agree that there is something very odd about that cuckoo clock. I believe it is actually possessed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maggie said impatiently. “You know Papa never believed there ever even was a beau, let alone that he died or that Grandpapa sent him away. And even if there was such a man, which I am not saying there couldn’t be, for Papa could not know everything his sister got up to, but why should she think him dead? Let alone haunting the clock he supposedly gave her. And Papa always insisted the clock was a present from his great aunt Rebecca when she travelled through Switzerland. But that’s by the by. Whoever the man was, perhaps he was sent away, or ran away, but it is easier for her to believe he died and that is why he never returned to her.”

Caro sighed. “I know. Whatever the truth, it’s terribly sad. Auntie ought to have married and had a family of her own.”

“Yes, she ought, and so must you, my girl, which is why we must put our trust in Mr Weston and tell him the whole. I think it is our only option. It was very bad of me to bring us all to town with no clear plan of how to go on, but we have been thrown a lifeline, and I intend to make the most of it.”

“Oh, Maggie, do stop taking everything on yourself.” Caro turned on the stool, looking up at her sister and taking her hands. “We all agreed to come, and what other choice was there? Our home was not our own and we would have been out on the street in any case. At least here we have a chance.”

Touched by this show of solidarity, Maggie bent and kissed Caro’s cheek. “Thank you, dearest. What do you think of Mr Weston, by the way?” she asked, striving for nonchalance as Caro considered the question.

“Well, he seems very kind, to trouble himself with our affairs, though I expect he hopes we will move and take Giddy with us if I find a suitable husband,” she added with a laugh.

Maggie smiled ruefully. “There is perhaps some truth in that, but do you not think him very handsome?”

“Handsome?” Caro, who was choosing a pair of earbobs from her jewellery box, looked up in surprise, as though the question had not occurred to her. “Oh. Well, yes, he is very handsome, I suppose.”

“And his manners are exactly as they ought to be,” Maggie added encouragingly.

“Hmmm? Do you think the pearls are best?”

“Yes, perfect,” Maggie said, a little exasperated. “I think he was rather taken with you, Caro.”

“Who was?”

“Mr Weston,” Maggie replied, holding onto her patience. “He was taken. With you.”

“Mr Weston?” Caro repeated, frowning. “Isn’t he rather old?”

“Indeed, he is not. He can only be in his early thirties. In his prime, one would say.”

Caro looked doubtful. “He seems rather old to me.”

Maggie sighed. “Yes, I suppose he must, dear. Oh, lawks. That’s the door. He’s here. Hurry, Caro, we cannot leave him alone with Auntie. Now, do remember, try to help me keep her from scaring him off.”

“I’ll try,” Caro said doubtfully. “But I make no promises.”

24th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

A neat maid in a pristine white apron showed Larkin into the parlour where Miss Constance Merrivale, the ladies’ aunt, was already ensconced. She glanced up from the book in her hand, a dreamy look in her eyes which faded gradually as she focused upon him.

“Mr Weston,” she said, extending a hand to him with all the grandeur of an empress. She had the look of such an impressive creature, dressed as she was in a voluminous gown of plum satin so dark it was almost black and that seemed to explode out of the chair she sat in on all sides. “How good of you to call upon us again. My niece tells me how terribly kind you have been. It’s a rare thing, in these troubled times, to find such kindness. Especially in the city. Such a heartless, brutal place it is, when you have no friends or companions to comfort one. I miss the countryside,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Do you like the countryside, Mr Weston?”

“I do, very much,” Larkin said, a little uncomfortable to still be standing and staring down at her, but as the lady had not yet deigned to invite him to sit, he had little option but to remain on his feet.