Page 4 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)
Lady Montagu,
I expect Pip has already given you notice of my intention to call upon you with my new neighbours on Friday. I beg you will forgive me for the imposition and understand I would not do so if I did not believe them worthy of your time.
I would like to explain a little about their circumstances, so you might judge for yourself before they arrive.
――Excerpt of a letter from the Hon’ble Larkin Weston to The Most Hon’ble Lady Matilda Barrington, The Marchioness of Montagu.
25 th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.
The next afternoon, Larkin returned from a visit to sketch Tilly and sat in his studio, reviewing what he’d done and considering the portrait he wished to produce. Tilly was a saucy little minx who knew she was adorable, and Larkin did not envy Pip the trouble that would ensue when she finally came out. He’d have his hands full, that was for good and certain. Lady Montagu had been out visiting friends when he’d been there, so he’d been unable to speak to her about Mrs Finchley, but he’d left a brief note outlining their situation. He knew Lady Montagu to be altruistic and discerning, not the kind to dispense charity solely at a distance, and he hoped that the ladies’ plight would be something she would wish to help with.
A thud against the window he sat beside had him jumping in shock and he looked up to see a muddy circle on the glass before him. Larkin sighed.
Getting up, he undid the window fastener and then pushed up the sash, glancing down at the ground beneath. There lay a small leather ball.
“Westie! Westie!”
Larkin looked over the fence to where Gideon was waving at him.
“Day to you, Mister Westie. Can I have my ball… please,” he added after a tense moment of concentration as he remembered his manners. The plea was followed by an angelic smile.
“Very well, you little menace,” Larkin said, though he smiled back at the lad. After all, it had been an impressive throw, or kick, to lob the ball so far. He wondered if the lad had done it on purpose. “Wait there.”
Larkin went out of his studio and down the stairs to the back door. Opening it, he walked along to where the ball lay and picked it up. He straightened, expecting to throw it over the fence, when a voice spoke from directly behind him.
“Fanks.”
Larkin started and spun around to see Gideon holding out his hand.
“Where did you spring from?” he demanded.
“Spring?” the boy said in confusion.
“How did you get into my garden?” Larkin clarified.
“An ’ole in the fence,” Gideon said, pointing to the far end of the garden, which was long and narrow.
Larkin had a gardener come now and then to tend the grass and keep the place in some semblance of order, but otherwise he had done nothing with the place, which was little more than a barely contained wilderness. Next door was even worse, having been neglected for so long.
Larkin looked down at Gideon. The boy's golden curls were mussed, his shirt had clearly snagged on a bramble, tearing a small hole, and his knees were muddy, his ankles scratched.
“What have you been up to then?” he asked, feeling a sudden shaft of pity for the lad. It wasn’t much fun playing ball all by yourself, and now he came to think of it, he doubted there was much open space in the garden to kick the ball around.
The boy shrugged, kicking the toe of his shoe against the brick edge of the path.
Larkin held the ball up, and Gideon’s eyes followed it. Larkin threw it gently down to the boy, who fumbled and missed it.
“Try again,” Larkin said, reaching down and picking the ball up. “Move away a bit.”
Gideon’s eyes glinted with delight, and he hurried back, waiting. Larkin threw the ball again, and again the ball hit the ground unimpeded.
“Never mind,” Larkin said. “You need a bit of practise is all. Look. Hold your hands like this, and you’ll be ready to catch it when it comes.”
The boy mirrored Larkin’s stance, holding his hands out in front of him, palms up. Larkin threw the ball again. This time, Gideon got his hands on it but dropped it.
“Good work!” Larkin told him with a grin. “You almost got it that time.”
The afternoon sunlight shone through the leaves overhead, their russet autumn shades turning gold. The lingering warmth felt good on Larkin’s back and brought back memories of playing with his father and sister in the rambling gardens at Mitcham Priory, the ancient home that had been in their family for generations. His father had always been willing to spend time with them, though his injured leg made some games challenging for him. He had always been patient, though, kind even when Larkin had suspected he was in pain. His sister and he had always said they were bored with the game at that point, not wanting their father to be the one who had to call a halt. He was a proud man, and rightly so in Larkin’s view, for he was a hero in every sense of the word, wounded in battle and yet fighting on, ensuring his men were safe and that they triumphed against the French despite being vastly outnumbered.
How fortunate he’d been, how blessed, to have his father beside him as he grew up, to have his kindness and his guidance, even his anger when Larkin pushed his luck too far.
He looked at Gideon as the boy patiently tried and tried again to catch the ball, and something in his heart twisted. Finally, the lad made a solid catch, his little hands clasping the ball and holding on to it tightly.
Gideon gave a little yip and Larkin shouted too, finding a sudden burst of joy in the way the lad’s face lit up.
“I catched it! I catched it!” Gideon said, his face flushed with pleasure.
“You certainly did, a magnificent catch. Well done, sir,” Larkin said, giving the boy a gentle slap on the back in an echo of how he might with one of his friends.
“You saw how I catched it?” Gideon gazed up at him, round blue eyes shining with happiness.
“I did,” Larkin said, crouching down to observe the boy. “It was very well done.”
The boy hugged the ball to his chest and seemed to swell visibly with pride at Larkin’s words. How little it took to make the child’s day.
“Well, after all that exertion, I think you must be famished. How about a glass of milk and some cake?”
“Cake?” If Gideon had looked pleased before, this invitation seemed to have given Larkin heroic status. “I like cake,” he said solemnly.
“So do I,” Larkin confided. “Come along, then, but I had best send Barnes round to tell your mama where you are, or she’ll worry when she discovers you’ve escaped.”
Larkin led the boy into the kitchen and sat him at the table there. He had a cook who came four days a week, and the woman prepared meals for the other days, to which Barnes saw. Barnes was a tolerable cook himself, and Larkin wasn’t a fussy fellow who wanted a dozen different dishes on his table every night. A good stew followed by a pudding that stuck to his ribs was exactly the type of fare he preferred, rather than fancy sauces and complicated dishes that were more for show than for tasting. He did like cake, however, and there was always something in the pantry if he found himself peckish.
As if summoned, Barnes appeared.
“Sir?”
“Ah, Barnes. Tea, a glass of milk, and some cake, if you’d be so good. Master Gideon is starving after his sporting endeavours. Would you also be so good as to pop next door and explain that he has paid an afternoon call upon me and will return whence he came in half an hour?”
Barnes looked a little surprised by this but nodded.
“Come and wash your hands first, if you’d be so good, Master Gideon,” Barnes said, ushering the lad to the scullery first, where he liberally applied soap and water.
Gideon didn’t protest overmuch, no doubt used to such attentions in a household composed only of women. Larkin meekly followed suit, not wishing to give a poor impression. They returned to the kitchen and Barnes filled the kettle and swung it into place, fetched the cake, two plates, and the cake slice. Then he gave Gideon a glass of milk and hurried next door.
“Splendid fellow, is Barnes,” Larkin said, lifting the glass dome covering the large fruit cake that Gideon was considering with an avaricious glint in his eyes. “He keeps me in order,” he explained as he cut two generous slices and handed one to Gideon.
“Big as my head!” Gideon exclaimed in delight, staring at the large slice in awe.
“Is it too big?” Larkin asked. He hadn’t wanted to give the lad a smaller slice than he had, and he really was famished. Perhaps it was too much for a small boy, however, judging the size of it against the size of Gideon.
“No! Oh, no,” Gideon said in alarm, clearly anxious it would be taken away again. He stuffed a large piece into his mouth before such a dire thing could come to pass and chewed frantically. “S’good,” he mumbled, cake crumbs flying in all directions.
Larkin laughed and reached out, ruffling the boy’s hair. “It is, though don’t choke yourself on it, for heaven’s sake. Your mama will not be pleased with me. It’s all yours and it’s not a race.”
With this assurance, Gideon relaxed, and Barnes returned a moment later, just as the kettle began to boil. “I spoke to Miss Smith, sir, and she will pass the message on to Mrs Finchley,” he told Larkin, pouring a little boiling water into the teapot and swirling it about to warm the pot before emptying it into a basin.
“Miss Smith?” Larkin queried, frowning.
Barnes nodded, spooning tea leaves into the warmed pot as the kettle sang once more. “Miss Sally Smith. She’s their lady’s maid, sir. A lovely young woman she is, too,” he added with a slightly wistful sigh that was most unlike Barnes.
“Sally’s pretty,” Gideon said, chasing crumbs about his plate, as Larkin noticed with some astonishment that the cake had disappeared. “Mama is pretty, too. Not as pretty as Caro, but pretty.”
“I don’t think anyone is as pretty as Caro,” Larkin said with a laugh.
“Auntie is big and squishy,” Gideon added, clearly not wanting to leave anyone out. “She gives good cuddles, but s’hard to breave,” he said confidingly.
Larkin and Barnes exchanged amused glances.
“Can I have some more?” Gideon asked, gazing at Larkin with a worshipful expression.
Well, he’d done it now. He’d not only played ball with the lad but fed him cake. If he’d not wanted to be the boy’s best friend in the world, he might have thought a bit more about that. Too late now.
Larkin looked at Barnes, uneasy. “He’ll burst,” he said, wondering if Mrs Finchley would be cross with him for stuffing the boy with cake.
“In my experience, boys have hollow legs,” Barnes said with a shrug.
“What experience is that?” Larkin asked, wondering if there was something about Barnes he didn’t know.
“I was one,” his valet said in amusement, placing a tray with the teapot, a cup and saucer, and the milk jug on the table.
Larkin laughed. “So you were and, thinking about it, I could have eaten that entire cake single handed as a lad. Actually, I did once, and our housekeeper, Mrs Norrell, chased me around the garden with a broom!”
“A formidable lady, Mrs Norrell,” Barnes said, having met the lady on several occasions whilst visiting the priory. Though she had long since retired, Larkin’s father had given her a cottage on the estate, and she kept a close eye on all the goings on.
“Join us,” Larkin said, gesturing for Barnes to sit down as he cut Gideon another slice of cake. This one was not quite as large as the first, just in case.
Barnes poured them both a cup of tea and they considered Gideon as he worked his way happily through his second slice. Larkin smiled as he noticed the boy picking out the cherries and putting them to one side to eat last, just as he himself had done as a boy. The cherries had always been the best bit of the fruitcake.
“How did he get into the garden?” Barnes asked quietly.
“A hole in the fence, so he tells me.”
Barnes nodded, regarding Larkin thoughtfully. “You going to get it fixed, then?”
Larkin frowned, glancing at Gideon and shifting in his seat. He’d been wondering the same thing. “Probably, but… well, there’s no rush, is there?”
“None at all,” Barnes said, though his lips quivered a little. “I reckon you’ll be getting more visits, then.”
Larkin sighed. “I reckon you’re right.”
Once tea was done, Larkin asked Gideon to show him the hole in the fence. To his surprise, Gideon took his hand, leading him down to the end of the garden where the fence was in far worse repair than Larkin had realised. An entire section had collapsed, lying flat on the ground. There had been high winds and heavy rainstorms back in August, which must have done damage to the already rotten wood.
“Ah,” he said, as Gideon marched straight over the wood. “Now I understand.”
At the far end of the garden on Mrs Finchley’s side there was a large apple tree, windfalls littering the grass. As they approached, Gideon looked up at the tree with an excited light in his eyes and gripped his precious ball against his chest. “Climb up?” he said hopefully.
Larkin looked at the huge old tree, gnarled and with twisting branches that curved off in all directions. It was catnip to any small boy, practically demanding it be scaled.
“No,” he said firmly. “No climbing trees unless someone is here, and certainly not now. Your mama will be worried about you.”
Gideon sighed and led him past the tree, back down Mrs Finchley’s garden. Larkin noticed the grass was knee deep and the trees and shrubs badly overgrown, brambles encroaching on all sides and scrambling up into the branches overhead. Of course, Mrs Finchley would not have the funds available to see such work done and with winter approaching, it was hardly a priority. Yet a garden for a small boy was a necessity, in Larkin’s view.
As they approached the house, the back door opened, and the lady herself hurried out. She started in shock upon seeing him, a blush climbing up her throat and pinking her cheeks. Larkin thought this a little odd, but assumed she was only embarrassed about him bringing her errant son home. He watched as she composed herself and addressed herself to her son.
“Gideon!” she said, her voice calm, though she was clearly exasperated. “What have I told you about disturbing Mr Weston? And now you trespass into his garden too!”
“Wasn’t ’sturbing him,” Gideon objected, glowering a little. “We played ball and ate cake. Lots of cake,” he said with a touch of defiance.
Mrs Finchley groaned and put her fingers to her temples. “Oh dear.” She looked at Larkin, her expression pleading, and putting him so forcibly in mind of her cherubic son, he almost laughed. “I’m so terribly sorry, Mr Weston. What must you think of us?”
Larkin shook his head, smiling at her. “No harm done. Indeed, I’ve had a most entertaining time, and it’s a shame to waste such a lovely afternoon stuck indoors.”
“You are very kind, but I’m afraid he’s been a bother to you,” Mrs Finchley said, lowering her voice so Gideon couldn’t hear her words.
“I thought he was going to be,” Larkin admitted. “But I meant it. I enjoyed his company. I may even invite him again,” he added, before he had too much time to think his words through.
Mrs Finchley gazed at him in wonder and Larkin realised he’d best watch his step. He’d already made a cake of himself over Elmira, inserting himself into her life when she’d never explicitly invited him to be there. He had played knight in shining armour, expecting them to live happily ever after, without ever asking Elmira what it was she wanted. With hindsight, he suspected she’d needed him to be a friend and a confidant, and he’d read more into the relationship than there was. He had assumed he’d had all of her trust, all of her love, and finding that had not been true had been more painful than he’d imagined. He would not make such mistakes again. Mrs Finchley was a woman in need of his friendship and support, and he must be careful she did not believe he was offering more than that or allow himself to want to give more. He needed to concentrate on his career for the next few years. Perhaps then he would be ready to again consider finding a wife. Perhaps.
“Well, now Gideon has been returned to you, I shall bid you a good afternoon,” he said, going to raise his hat before he realised he wasn’t wearing one. Belatedly, he realised he wasn’t wearing a coat either, just his waistcoat. He was in his shirtsleeves. Not only that, they were rolled up to his elbows. Suddenly, he felt oddly naked, and wondered that Barnes hadn’t stopped him. No wonder Mrs Finchley had stared at him so oddly. Going about with no coat on was tantamount to wearing no trousers in society’s opinion. Added to that, he was in her back garden, and she had no chaperone. Mrs Finchley might believe she was past the age of needing one, but no one else would agree. Belatedly realising what a difficult position he’d put her in, Larkin executed a somewhat awkward bow and retreated with all haste.
“Thank you, Mr Weston!”
“Fanks, Westie!”
Her and her son’s voices followed him down the garden as he negotiated the overgrown lawn and the invading brambles. One caught his hand as he passed and he muttered an oath, putting the bloody scratch to his mouth. No wonder Gideon’s shirt had been torn, his ankles scratched. The lad was lucky the scratches hadn’t been worse. Larkin must ask Rogers, his gardener, to come over and sort it out. Then Gideon might be less inclined to trespass next door. It would be for the best.