Chapter 2
OUT IN THE LIGHT
Marigold never thought that in her life she would be the one sitting at her father’s study instead of looking at him work on their family’s finances. This was absolutely not her job, but here she was, toiling over ledgers.
She looked up from her work and took one quick look around. The cold morning light seeped through the faded curtains. There was still dust settling everywhere. After all, they had no staff left since they couldn’t afford to pay them. Marigold couldn’t keep up with the housework anymore.
She sighed and took to the ledgers once more. The numbers were swimming in front of her eyes. She was still exhausted. She hadn’t truly slept since last night.
“Come on, Marigold, you can do this,” she told herself.
Once more, she committed herself to making the numbers work.
Not that it was the numbers’ fault that they had no income and the little they had was scattered in the wind.
And yet still, she managed to keep them afloat somehow on pure grit and some mathematical manipulation. But how long could she keep this up?
“Oh, father,” she lamented, “you really had to go on and leave ruin behind.”
She added the numbers again, checked the sums, and went through all the ledgers.
She even checked the list she had made of things they could sell, but they were running out of those, too.
Somehow, even now inside her own house, in the safety of her father’s study, she felt as exposed as she was last night in that alley.
And just as she was feeling vulnerable, the door burst open, and her mother walked in.
“I need a new gown for Lady Weatherington’s ball,” she announced, as if speaking to her accountant and not her daughter.
“You mean you need money for a new gown,” Marigold corrected her. “I would suggest you look into your wardrobe and find an adequate old gown instead.”
Her mother would have looked upon her less appalled if she had struck her across the face.
“You mean to tell me that I will show my face at this ball with a dress I have already worn?”
“It seems that we are in perfect understanding, Mother.”
“Must I be a laughingstock?”
“In case you haven’t understood the predicament we are in,” Marigold said in a very deadpan tone, “we are already the laughingstock of the ton. Everybody knows that we owe money to everybody. And they know that even if you wore a new gown, you wore it yourself and did your hair on your own because we have no maids in the house.”
“Your father would never have allowed this.”
Marigold gripped the leather ledger as if her life depended on it.
“Father has left us with significant debt and little income to think of. But I am fairly certain that if he were here looking at the sums like I do, he too would have suggested altering or using one of your old gowns.”
It was always amazing for Marigold to see that her patience was inexhaustible, and sometimes, she even admired the restraint she showed every time her mother had a ridiculous demand.
“You always say that, but I know you’re lying,” her mother accused. “You are hiding money from me because you like to see me suffer.”
“Honestly?” Marigold dared to chuckle. “I wish I were hiding money from you because that would mean that I could pay off the creditors who are pressing us. I could stop being ashamed of passing by every store in the neighborhood, from the butcher to the grocery store. Even if it meant that it would hurt your feelings.”
“Such a cruel daughter I raised.”
“Are you not listening to me, Mother?” Marigold said, drained. “We have no money.”
“We would if you cared more about people than you do about the ledgers.”
Marigold snapped said ledger closed. All she did in her life was care, and now, she was accused of not caring? By her own mother, who would gladly sell her for new shoes?
“Explain to me this, then, Mother.” Her tone was controlled but just barely. “What happened to the money from the loan?”
Her mother looked away from her eyes.
“That money was for house repairs,” she mumbled.
Marigold looked around the old, worn house.
“Then why do I see no repairs being done?”
Her mother turned to her with a cold, harsh look.
“Do you dare question me?”
“You came in here asking me for money. We had money, and yet we left servants unpaid and practically owe everybody, and the house is still a wreck. I am asking where the money from the loan is.”
“I endured,” her mother started her usual show, “a miserable existence, so I could pay off the physicians when your father was sick.”
Marigold looked at her mother playing the role of the suffering wife so well.
“And now, you’re still asking me to suffer.”
“I am asking you to be logical!”
“Remember your place, Marigold. You are still my daughter.”
“And yet you didn’t hesitate to use me as collateral,” Marigold exploded, the memories from last night still on her skin.
“You will not speak to me like this. I demand respect and obedience. I cannot believe I raised such an ungrateful child.”
“Should I be grateful that I was sold to loan sharks?”
Lady Covington lowered her chin and pinned Marigold with the coldest look.
“Speak to me like this again,” her tone was cold and icy, “and I will make sure you understand there are fates much worse than being sold.”
And with that, she turned her back and walked away and out of the office, slamming the door.
Marigold was left alone, collapsing back onto the leather chair that creaked under her weight. In the loneliness of the cold study, she chuckled cruelly. What fate, she wondered, could be worse than what Donny had openly laid out for her?
For a few moments, she sat there motionless, both hands on the desk, eyes closed, haunting memories flashing before her eyes.
“I will be the first one that will take you.”
Donny’s words echoed in her head, sending a shiver down her spine. She was alone, fighting a war defenseless.
Right then, an image came before her eyes, that of a tall, imposing stranger, the only person who had ever defended her in any way.
She still remembered his giant silhouette, that deep resonant voice, those dark eyes.
So the question still remained. Who was he?
What was he doing in that dark alley? Because Marigold knew he was not just some street urchin.
He was a gentleman. And above all, how could she repay the only kindness she had felt over the past many years?
Marigold inhaled and came back to reality. She couldn’t dwell on her mother’s threats or Donny’s ominous promises or mysterious strangers. She still had a household to keep together.
For a while, she reviewed the accounts and cataloged the little income they could have.
She got out of the room and down the stairs. She made her way out to the garden. Once it was a place of happiness and leisure in her house, but now, it was an essential part of their survival.
With a soft smile, she made her way to the little farm she had cultivated herself out of necessity which was now her pride and joy.
At first, she didn’t know what she was doing, but luckily, they had some books in the small library that helped her out.
Soon she produced all the potatoes, turnips, carrots, and onions they needed for their household.
She had managed to grow cabbage, spinach, and peas.
“Hello, my beauties!”
She was truly proud and grateful for that little slice of land they had, or else they would have gone hungry a long time ago.
She was thinking that she could add maybe some chickens for eggs, and that brought her mind to the butcher.
The debt to the man was piling up, and Marigold knew she had to go and negotiate.
She went back into the house and found her cloak. She had had that thing for almost seven years. She thanked her previous self for buying something of good quality, but still, everyday use of the same cloak left visible marks on the garment.
“Alfred,” she called upon the butler, the only member of the staff they had left.
The man came, looking exhausted. It was her priority to pay him first above all whenever she had money—not only because she needed help around the house but also because she knew that the man stayed because of her.
“I am going out.”
“Perhaps I should escort you, Lady Marigold,” he said.
“Do not be absurd, Alfred,” she replied. “I am a penniless spinster. No one would even bat an eye if I walked around the streets of London unchaperoned.”
She went out. She thought to herself that if they stretched the household meals, perhaps made do with less variety at breakfast, the garden produced enough for some meals, so they wouldn’t starve.
She walked out of the house and made her way to the butcher.
In her mind, she was cataloging all the things that she could sell, if she could sneak something from her mother’s room that she wouldn’t notice, or anything else they could spare.
It was unthinkable for a lady of the ton to get a job, but she wouldn’t be above it.
While she walked, everyone turned to her and gazed.
She must have looked quite miserable under the grey skies and muddy streets.
People she met, especially ladies, looked at her with disdain, a harsh look on their faces.
Whispers followed her everywhere she passed, cruel words spoken behind fans and hands.
Marigold viewed what they were saying with indifference.
That she was a cruel, stingy daughter who tortured her own mother.
That was the lie that her mother spread to save face.
It was not that they didn’t have money to afford her new gowns or luxuries.
It was because her daughter managed their finances with spite and an iron fist.
Marigold saw merit to that narrative. It helped with the creditors. If they thought that they actually had money, but she was negotiating because she was penny-pinching, it was easier for them to give them credit, believing that at some point they would get their money back.