Page 8 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Information desperately requested concerning the whereabouts of Mrs Magdelina Finchley, Miss Constance Merrivale, and Miss Caroline Merrivale.

Please contact their heart-broken uncle at the following address.

―Excerpt of an announcement in the London Evening Star

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

“I was never more embarrassed in all my days!” Maggie confided to her aunt as she sat down at the breakfast table, pressing her palms against her cheeks. Though an hour had passed since she’d fetched Gideon home, she was still in a flurry of confusion. “And there was Gideon, bold as brass, eating an egg sandwich!”

“And you say Mr Weston wore only a silk banyan?” Aunt Connie asked, her eyes agog with delighted interest.

“Yes! Bright orange it was, and embroidered all over,” she said, and then covered her face with her hands and let out a groan. “Oh, kill me now. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.”

“Whatever for?” Aunt Connie protested. “Then you’d never have got to see such a splendid sight, and it seems as though he was not vexed with you.”

“Oh, but he was. He must have been! How could he not?” Maggie protested. “He has the most engaging manners and is so very kind and polite, but how can he not be at his wits’ end? He’ll move, you mark my words.”

“Oh, Maggie, settle your feathers,” Aunt Connie said with a sigh. She reached across the breakfast table and lifted the teapot, pouring them both a cup. “You are getting yourself in a lather about nothing. If you ask me, it was the sight of Mr Weston in such a state of undress that has addled your mind.”

“Auntie!” Maggie exclaimed, mortified by the accusation, not least because it was nothing but the truth. It was the only thing she could think of. For now, not only did she know that Mr Weston had strong, muscular arms, dusted with dark golden hair, but she knew too that his chest was similarly covered, and was powerful and broad and– oh, good heavens!

“I cannot blame you,” Aunt Connie carried on, adding an extra lump of sugar to Maggie’s cup before handing it to her. “Mr Weston is a splendid figure of a man, so athletic, and so very handsome,” she added with a sigh, lifting her cup to her lips.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!

“Oh!” She almost dropped her cup and turned to glare at the clock. “Cecil! That was not funny and quite unnecessary. You know you are my true love!”

Cuckoo!

Connie rolled her eyes. “He must always have the last word,” she muttered, reaching for a slice of toast. “Now, drink your tea and have some breakfast. Mrs Moody has sent up some of that bramble jam she made and it’s quite delicious.”

Maggie sighed and did as she was told. They ate in comfortable silence for a little while. Caro was not yet down, having volunteered to tidy Gideon up as Priddy was busy cleaning.

“Was there any post today? I thought we might have had a reply from Jack by now,” Maggie said, reaching for a second slice of toast. The jam really was delicious.

“Oh! Yes, I forgot. I thought I recognised the handwriting. It’s on the mantelpiece.”

Maggie spied the letter behind the clock and got to her feet, just as a knock sounded at the door. She turned to look at her aunt in alarm. “Whoever could that be?”

As no one knew they were here, they hoped, and they knew no one other than Mr Weston and Lady Montagu, any visitors were viewed with deep suspicion.

Connie frowned and gave a delicate shrug. “I see no way that horrid man could have tracked us down. I’m sure it’s nothing. A salesman, I’ll warrant.”

“At this hour?” Maggie said sceptically but went out to the hallway to listen as Priddy bustled up the stairs and hurried to the door.

“Might the lady of the house be at home? You may send in my card.”

The deeply resonant and well-modulated voice reached Maggie’s ears, and she gasped in surprise.

“Wallace!” she exclaimed and rushed past a startled Priddy to see the lugubrious face of their family’s butler. “Oh, Wallace!” she said, and was so overcome with shock and affection for the older man that she clasped his hands and held on tight, tears pricking at her eyes.

“There, you see! I told you she’d be needin’ us. Didn’t I tell you?” The smug words were spoken from behind the man and Maggie gasped in astonishment as she saw the familiar face of their housekeeper, Mrs Goodall.

“Oh!” was all Maggie could say, too overcome for words as she flew from the front door and hugged the woman tightly.

“There, there, my dear. It’s all right. We’re here now.”

Maggie stood, gazing down at the diminutive but plump woman who, alongside Wallace, had been the mainstay of their family for all their lives.

“Where are my manners?” Maggie said, shaking her head. “Here we are, making a spectacle of ourselves for all to see. Come in, come in. Goodness, won’t Connie be surprised?”

She ushered them into the front parlour, where Connie leapt up with a shriek of mingled delight and shock, which set the blasted cuckoo clock off again. A moment later, Caro and Gideon appeared, both laughing and dancing about with delight at seeing such welcome visitors. Chaos reigned.

Yet, despite her joy in seeing them, Maggie felt deeply uneasy. For they were both carrying suitcases and if they expected her to employ them, what on earth was she to do? They already had Mrs Moody, who had been a godsend and was so very kind. Maggie could hardly give the woman notice and reduce Mrs Goodall to the position of mere cook. And what on earth did she need with a butler? And where would they stay? There was room enough for Mrs Goodall, just about, but Wallace? What was she to do with him? Her head spun with the dilemma.

Finally, the hubbub dimmed a little, but Maggie had a job on her hands to persuade the two to sit down and take breakfast with them.

“But it ain’t proper,” Mrs Goodall said, shocked by the prospect.

“Oh, bother proper,” Maggie retorted, guiding the woman to a seat. “We need to hear what has been happening, and you clearly need a strong cup of tea, for you look worn to a thread.”

“Well, that I am, and I don’t mind admitting it,” Mrs Goodall said, sinking gratefully onto the chair. “Up at dawn yesterday, we was, and travelling all day, and then we stayed the night in a very poor place. Them beds weren’t aired, leastways mine wasn’t, and so I told the landlady, an uppity bit of work she was an’ all. A shocking disgrace it was, and that dinner last night,” she tsked, pulling a disgusted face. “Runny mash and a rabbit that died of starvation, you ask me. Well, I wouldn’t eat breakfast there if you’d paid me, so we left at first light and here we are.”

Maggie gaped at this information. That her very proper butler and their housekeeper had not only run away together but spent the night in the same establishment… well! She hardly knew what to think except that they must have been desperate to do such a thing.

Aunt Connie was clearly agog also, staring from Wallace to Mrs Goodall and back again as she poured them both tea. Maggie sent a curious Priddy down to ask Mrs Moody to send up scones and bread rolls and more butter and jam, and anything else she thought appropriate for their guests.

“Whilst we both lamented the need to leave the manor, I would like to assure you that we did as we thought best for the family, as we always have done,” Wallace said, his tone grave. “And whilst our journey together was not what we would have liked, propriety was observed at all times,” he added, looking mortified to have to say such a thing.

“Oh, Wallace,” Maggie said, touched by his need to put this right. “We would never have thought otherwise. But what are you doing here?”

“Well, and where else ought we to be?” Mrs Goodall asked with some acerbity. “We’ve been looking after your family since before you was born, Mrs Maggie. You’re dear to us, you are, and it was bad enough after the master w-went and did for himself and th-that awful woman but stay in that house a moment longer with that—that— pig!”

To everyone’s astonishment, the redoubtable Mrs Goodall burst into tears.

“Martha!” Wallace exclaimed, hurrying around the table to press a handkerchief into the woman’s hands.

Auntie Connie got up and went to the sideboard, searching in the depths and coming back with a bottle of cognac Maggie had not been aware they’d owned. Connie tipped a generous measure into the lady’s tea. “Drink that up, Goody. You’ll feel much more the thing.”

Mrs Goodall did as she was told, and the sobs subsided enough that Wallace felt able to sit down again.

“We could not stay,” he said gravely, his narrow face tense with worry. “It was intolerable. The man is, as Mrs Goodall so rightly said, an animal with no manners and no respect. I sent the maids away within hours of his arrival, for it was clear they would not be safe.”

“And our stepmother?” Maggie asked.

“She stuck it out, I’ll give her that,” Mrs Goodall said with a grimace. “Though only because she’s as greedy as he is and didn’t want to lose her nice comfy house. Oh, and to hear the two of them go at each other. I never heard such language! And her supposed to be respectable. She ain’t never been, you ask me. Born in a bawdy house, I reckon, with a mouth like that on her.”

“Martha!” Wallace exclaimed, shocked.

“Well,” Mrs Goodall said, looking somewhat embarrassed to have spoken so in polite company. “I beg your pardon, ladies, but I speak as I find.”

Wallace looked at Maggie and then around at the house, which was a fraction of the size of the manor, and obviously did not need a butler.

“We ought not to have come,” he said, his naturally morose face set in an expression of dejection.

“Oh. No! Don’t say so,” Maggie said, her fondness for the pair making her determined to do right by them. “You would never desert us, and I am touched that you’ve sought us out. We will not desert you either, but… but I am afraid things might be a little tight financially.”

Wallace held up his hand before she could say any more. “Bed and board is all we ask for now. We want to help you. You’ve come here to keep Miss Caro safe, we know that, and we approve, for I would kill the fellow myself before he got within a mile of her,” he said stoutly, despite being dreadfully lanky, certainly a good many years older and a few stone lighter than Mr Jenkins.

“Oh, Wallace!” Caroline, deeply touched by this, got up and ran around the table to hug him. Startled, Wallace turned a deep shade of red. “You dear, dear man. How we have missed you. Both of you. And as if we would turn you out! Would we, Maggie?” she turned a beseeching look upon Maggie, who smiled.

“Of course not,” she said, for what else could she say? “But it is going to be a little awkward. You see, we have a cook, and she’s been so very kind to us and—”

“Say no more.” Mrs Goodall raised her hand this time. “I said, didn’t I, Fredrick, that if they was overburdened with staff, I wouldn’t be the one to rock the boat.”

“Oh, no! Goody, you won’t go anywhere!” Maggie cried, appalled. “I-I-I think my neighbour might need a cook, though it’s a dreadful come down for you I fear?”

“Like I care about that,” Mrs Goodall said with a snort.

Nodding, Maggie did not waste a moment. “I shall ask him at once,” she said, pushing to her feet and hurrying to the backdoor.

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them, but Mr Weston was the only one who could possibly help… providing they had not vexed him too far and pushed his good manners to breaking. He might be packing at this very moment. She could hardly blame him.

Whilst she knew it was deeply inappropriate for her to go around to the backdoor of his home, it had to be better than setting the neighbours’ tongues wagging if they saw her go in the front door. At least her overgrown garden had the benefit of shielding it from view. Besides, she was no innocent miss, but a widow, and far past worrying about such things as propriety. So long as she did nothing that would reflect badly upon Caro, there was no need to get in a fret about things. Mr Weston would not give her away, she knew.

Still, she was careful to knock loudly at the door this time, and to wait until it opened instead of bursting into the poor man’s house unannounced.

“Mrs Finchley,” Barnes said, smiling warmly at her. “Do come in.”

“Thank you, Barnes,” she said, grateful for his politeness, and that he didn’t bat an eyelid at her odd behaviour. “I didn’t want to get curtains twitching up and down the road by coming to the front door, but I must speak with Mr Weston if he could spare me a moment.”

“Of course. If you would be so good as to take a seat, I’ll see if he is at home.”

Maggie nodded and sat at one of the kitchen chairs, wondering if Mr Weston was cursing his rotten luck. Yet barely two minutes later she heard footsteps coming downstairs and then there he was, striding into the kitchen and making the previously cosy space feel suddenly rather stifling. How was it he seemed to use up all the air in the room whenever he appeared? He was dressed elegantly as always but with a slightly careless attitude that spoke of his artistic temperament and yet suited him admirably. She wondered if his valet despaired of his informal manner of tying his neckcloth or if the artful disorder was actually his own work, for she suspected it was harder to achieve such perfect imperfection than to be entirely tidy.

As he moved closer, Maggie’s heart gave an excited little leap in her chest, which she told herself sternly was simply nerves. Really, she was pushing her luck and, if he threw her out with a flea in her ear, it would be no more than she deserved. Yet he smiled as he saw her, and such a smile it was. Surely this man must have females throwing themselves at him on all sides, for it was such a warm expression, designed by some beneficent god with the sole intention of turning women into fools whenever they saw it.

“Mrs Finchley, we meet again,” he said, and she prayed that really was amusement in his voice and not well covered exasperation.

“I am afraid so,” she said, so nervous now that her clasped hands tightened, the knuckles turning white. “I beg your pardon for intruding once again.”

Mr Weston noticed her stiff posture at once, and his smile faded. Moving to the table, he drew out a chair and sat down. “Not at all. But something has happened. What is it? Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” she said, and then sighed. “No. Not exactly. At least, it is a problem but not one I ought to complain about, only I’m in such a fix and I do not know what to do and—and I’m not making the least bit of sense, am I?” she said, shaking her head as she noticed his rather bewildered expression.

He laughed and reached out, patting her clenched hands, which rested on the tabletop. The touch was brief, yet Maggie had come out in such a rush she wore no gloves and the brush of his bare skin against hers made her tingle all over in the most peculiar way. Good Lord, but she was a wicked creature. What was wrong with her? Wasn’t this the man she hoped would marry Caro? Yet here she was getting herself in a dither like the veriest schoolgirl because he was kind and handsome and – well, maybe it wasn’t such a surprise, after all, but it must stop at once. How uncomfortable it would be to feel such a forceful attraction to her sister’s husband. No, indeed, that would not do.

“Why not start at the beginning?” Mr Weston suggested. “I’m in no rush. Tell me all and if I can help, I shall.”

Maggie groaned and put her head in her hands. “You really ought not to say such reckless things to me.”

He laughed at that, shaking his head. “I mean it.”

Maggie frowned down at her clasped hands, aware she had not only overstepped the mark by coming here but gone far beyond it. “But I am coming to depend upon you and that—that is not at all appropriate, nor fair. We are not in any way your responsibility. If we were living at home, I should know far better how to go on, but here, so far from everything that is familiar, I feel all at sea and—”

“Hush now,” Mr Weston cut in, his tone firm but not unkind. “I hope we are friends, are we not? And what is a friend for if not to help in times of difficulty?”

Maggie looked up, touched by his words. “But you hardly know me,” she said in wonder and then reminded herself sternly that it was for Caro’s sake he was so kind.

Mr Weston hesitated for a moment, his brown eyes studying her. “Perhaps. But I know a good deal, and I admire what I see very much.”

Of Caro—he admires what he sees of Caro , Maggie told herself, yet her ill-behaved heart gave a joyous little leap in her chest all the same.

“Now then,” he carried on. “This problem of yours, tell me all.”

Taking a deep breath, she explained about the unexpected arrival of their devoted servants, and her dilemma of what to do with them.

“I simply cannot turn them out,” she said desperately. “They are like family to us. Wallace has been more of a father to us than Papa ever was, if I’m honest, and dear Mrs Goodall has been cook and housekeeper and so much more. She nursed us when we were poorly and has been a shoulder to cry on so often for all of us. They have been with us all our lives and are dear to us, and all they ask is bed and board and the opportunity to be of use to us, but Mrs Moody too has been a godsend, and I cannot be so shabby as to turn her off after all her kindness.”

Mr Weston was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

“I have a cook who comes four days a week, she also prepares food for the other days which Barnes deals with. However, it is purely a business arrangement, and I should have no qualms in ending it, for the lady is doing very well, as I understand. The only reason she is not full time is that I was used to being out so often, but now I am more settled, there is no reason I cannot employ someone on a regular basis. So, I could certainly take on one of your ladies, though I do not believe she will wish to live in a bachelor establishment. As to the question of Wallace, however, there is a spare room in the attic. I should not mind he if made use of it, whilst working for you during the day. I shall have to speak to Barnes but he’s a very amiable fellow and I do not think he would mind. We could give it a trial period for a few weeks and see how it goes? Does that work, do you think, at least to be going on with?”

Maggie stared at him. It was more than she could have hoped for, but ought she to accept? She was so much in this man’s debt already, to ask this of him too seemed outrageous, yet how could she refuse when it was an answer to her prayers?

To her mortification, Maggie felt her eyes fill. She fumbled for a handkerchief but found none and gave an exasperated sob as Mr Weston proffered a pristine one of his own.

“This is the second time I’ve soaked one of your handkerchiefs. I swear I’m not usually like this,” she said, taking it from him and pressing it to her eyes. “Before I married, I was always said to be a resourceful girl, no-nonsense and… and a deal t-too managing,” she said shakily.

“You’ve had a great deal to endure,” Mr Weston said, his voice soft and sympathetic. “You’ve lost a husband and a father and your home and become a mother too in such a short space of time. That’s enough to give anyone fit of the dismals, and I know what it’s like to have your emotions all turned upside down and everything you thought you knew about yourself called into question. I-I know you’ve read the scandal sheets about my, er… drunken escapades. I hope you will believe me when I tell you it was only because I was deeply unhappy. Not that I didn’t do such things when I was a younger man, but that was different. An excess of animal spirits, as my parents' old housekeeper used to say. But people deal with emotional turmoil in different ways, you see. I’m afraid such behaviour is not a solution for you, however, as you really would cause a scandal,” he said, his eyes twinkling with humour, though they grew serious again as he continued. “In truth, I cannot recommend it, for it only masks one's feelings for a while. It solves nothing. Time is the only thing that really heals, as trite as it may sound. That and the realisation that no one is perfect, and that we all ought to be a deal kinder and more understanding.”

Maggie wiped her eyes again, watching him with a growing sense of admiration as his words rang true. She had been so used to dealing with things in the past and never once felt overwhelmed, whereas since their father died, she seemed to be forever on the brink of drowning under the weight of responsibility. That he saw her with such clarity was at once startling and comforting, and how easily he spoke of such things. She had never known a man ever speak openly of his feelings, or to show such empathy, either. Her father had been of the type who never spoke of his troubles, and she did not doubt this was in part the reason he had ended as he had. As for William, they’d had so little time to get to know each other there had been little chance for such serious discussions. He had spoken of his feelings for her in the most romantic terms, but the opportunity to weather the vicissitudes of life had been denied them.

“You are the kindest person I’ve ever met,” she said, speaking from the heart and without thinking first. She ought not to say such things to him, especially when they were alone, with no chaperone. Yet she did not wish the words unsaid, for they were true.

He smiled and shrugged. “I had wonderful parents who taught me kindness, for boys are often not taught such things, you know. We are taught to be brave and not to look as if we care about anything or anyone. But my father taught me it is possible to be brave and strong and still to be kind, and he’s the best man that ever lived.”

Maggie smiled at the certainty of his words. “A war hero, I believe?”

He nodded. “The kind one reads about in books,” he replied, his eyes lit with such pride she could see the depth of regard he held for his sire.

As he spoke, Maggie found herself leaning closer to him, drawn to him by some invisible pull. The room around her faded until she forgot where she was or why she had come, only wanting to hear him speak, to tell her more about himself. She hung upon his every word as he carried on speaking.

“I wanted to be a soldier too, when I was a young man. I was hell bent on his buying me a commission, and when he wouldn’t, I said I’d enlist as a common soldier. We had the worst row we’d ever had then, for he forbade me. I was wild with the injustice of it until he sat me down and told me things I had never known, the truth about his time in the army, about what it really is to be a soldier, and his words showed me he was a greater hero than I had ever imagined, for all he endured.”

“But you did not become a soldier,” she said with a smile.

He shook his head, his smile rueful and a little wistful. “No, and my father was right to stop me. I’m his only heir, for one thing, and it would have destroyed him and my mother if I’d been killed. I could not do that to them.”

Maggie studied his face, wondering if he regretted not forcing the issue, or if he was truly content now. “Your father saw the truth, though, that you had an uncommon talent, one that you might not pursue if you went to war.”

He nodded. “Yes, he did. He was wiser than I ever gave him credit for. I see that now. But I see a good deal more about him and about myself these days. To be honest, I think that’s why I took so long to apply myself and to take my work seriously. Even though I understood my father’s reasoning, I think I resented his interference for many years. I wanted to be a hero, like him, and I think I have unconsciously let that ambition colour my life, instead of concentrating on the things I ought to have taken more seriously.”

“But now you see your way more clearly?” she asked, wishing she might have such an epiphany.

“I do,” he said, nodding. “My work is my passion now and, whilst it might not be heroic, it is not so frivolous as I once believed.”

“Frivolous!” Maggie exclaimed, startled. “But how could you think it?”

He laughed at that. “Well, it is only paint upon canvas, after all.”

“Oh, indeed it is not!” she said, with far more passion than she had intended, but she could not leave the words unsaid. “You are painting Lord Ashburton’s daughter, are you not? And in one hundred years, in two hundred years, more even, her ancestors will look at that portrait and see the truth of the woman who came before them. A great artist not only captures a likeness, but the essence of that person, the spark that fires them. And think too, of how much it means to a person or a family who loses someone they love. How comforting to look again upon the face of one so beloved. I have no such portrait of my husband, and I fear I am forgetting what he looked like… and poor Giddy, he will n-never know the face of his father.”

Maggie swallowed hard, determined not to weep again, but Mr Weston was staring at her, his expression filled with warmth and compassion. He reached out and took her hand this time, holding it tightly. “Thank you. That is certainly what I aspire to achieve, and that you see that so easily means a great deal to me. I am sorry, however, that you have not such a portrait of your husband. That must be a great sorrow to you.”

Maggie blinked, wishing he would not say such things that threatened to unravel the tightly woven threads of her life. For it always had been a great sorrow, but she had believed herself content enough. She had believed she would continue to find comfort in her son and that she could be satisfied to live a smaller life than the one she had imagined as a girl. But now here was Mr Weston, making her feel things she had believed were no longer possible for her, or even allowed.

Now she felt Mr Weston’s hand cradling her own, and it was strong and warm, and he was so very alive and… and she had no business thinking about such things. Besides all else, he fancied Caro, not her, and the entire reason they’d come to town was to get her sister safely married. Who could be better for Caro than this wonderfully kind and compassionate man?

Mr Weston looked around then, and a moment later Maggie heard what he had: footsteps on the stairs. He withdrew his hand just as Barnes entered the room.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought I ought to remind you of your appointment this morning.”

“Oh, good heavens!” Maggie jumped to her feet, horrified she had done what she always seemed to do whenever Mr Weston was around, weeping all over him, making a nuisance of herself and taking up his valuable time. “I am so sorry, I—”

“Stop!” he told her, quite firmly too, his expression serious. “You’ve done nothing wrong, and I am glad to help. Either Mrs Moody or Mrs Goodall may start whenever they choose. Barnes will be pleased not to have to cook for me any longer, I know. Eh, Barnes?”

“No cooking?” Barnes expression lit up so comically Maggie had to laugh. This much was no more than the truth, at least.

“There, you see?” Mr Weston said, grinning at her. “And I’m certain we can accommodate Wallace, but he must work for you, for I cannot have anyone stepping on Barnes’ toes.”

“Oh, no indeed, but truly, I do not know how to thank you—” Maggie began, only for him to hold up his hand to silence her.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Mine too, if I don’t have to cook no more,” Barnes said with a grin before he left the room again.

Mr Weston laughed and turned back to her.

“Barnes is eternally grateful.”

Maggie let out a breath and nodded and turned back to the door but hesitated. She knew she ought not to say it, but she had already said a deal too much, and he deserved to hear the words after all he’d done. “You are a hero, Mr Weston, for me and my family, that is exactly what you are, and we shall never forget that.”