Maisie hesitated, her eyes drawn to the bulge. She had known this moment would arrive, though she had not allowed herself to think about it. What girl nearing womanhood does not know, after all? The whole world seems to wait and watch for it, a girl’s move from one side of the river to the other. It seemed strange to Maisie that it should come down to a blanket that stank of horse on a bed of straw, in a dim puddle of light, surrounded by fog and dark and London. She had not pictured it that way. But there was John Astley holding out his hand, and she reaching across and taking it.
By the time Maggie and Charlie reached the stall John Astley had her chemise off, and her stays loosened and pulled down so that her pale breasts had popped out. He had a nipple in his mouth, a hand up her skirt, and the other holding her hand over his groin and teaching her to stroke him. Maggie and Charlie stared. It was agonizing to Maggie how long it took for the couple to realize the Butterfields were there and stop what they were doing—plenty of time for her to ponder just how embarrassing and inappropriate it was to watch lovers unawares. She had not felt that seven months before when she and Jem had seen the Blakes in their summerhouse, but that somehow had been different. For one thing, they had been farther away, not right under her nose. And since Maggie hadn’t known them well, she could look on them more objectively. Now hearing Maisie groan flooded her with shame. “Leave off her!” she shouted.
John Astley leapt back and to his feet in one movement, and Maisie sat up in a daze of pleasure and confusion, so befuddled that she did not immediately cover her breasts, though Maggie made frantic gestures at her. Charlie Butterfield kept looking from John Astley to Maisie’s exposed flesh, until at last Maisie pulled up her stays.
To Maggie’s surprise, no one responded as she’d expected them to. John Astley did not show remorse or shame; nor did he run away. Maisie did not cry and hide her face, or scramble away from her seducer and go to Maggie. Charlie did not challenge John Astley, but stood gaping, his hands at his sides. Maggie herself was frozen in place.
John Astley didn’t know who Maggie was—he was not in the habit of noticing neighborhood children—but he recognized Charlie as the boy who had bumped into him in Hercules Tavern, and wondered if he was sufficiently drunk or angry to act.
The horseman would have to do something to take charge. He had not thought lying with this girl could possibly be so difficult, but now that he had been with her on the straw, he was determined to return to it. He didn’t have much time, either—the circus boys would come soon for the horses for the evening’s performance. However, obstacles always strengthened John Astley’s resolve. “What in hell’s name are you doing here? Get out of my stables!”
At last Maggie found her voice, though it came out feebly. “What you doin’ to her?”
John Astley snorted. “Get out of my stables,” he repeated, “or I’ll have you sent to Newgate so fast you won’t have time to wipe your arse!”
At the mention of Newgate, Charlie shifted from one foot to the other. Dick Butterfield had spent time in that prison and advised his son to avoid it if at all possible. He was also uneasy being in a stables at all, with horses all about waiting to kick him.
Now Maisie began to cry—the sensation of swinging from one extreme emotion to its opposite was too much for her. “Why don’t you go!” she moaned.
It took Maggie a moment to realize that the words were di-rected at her. It was gradually dawning on her that perhaps no one else thought that what had been happening was wrong. John Astley of course thought nothing of lying with a girl in the stables; he’d done it dozens of times. To Charlie a man was simply having what he wanted and a girl was giving it to him; indeed, he was beginning to look sheepish for interrupting them. Maisie herself was not protesting and—Maggie admitted—had seemed to be enjoying herself. Only Maggie linked the act to the man in the fog on Lovers’ Lane. Now she, rather than the man, was being made out to be the criminal. All of her indignation suddenly fled, leaving her without the energy she needed to fight.
There was no Charlie to back her, either. Much as he hated John Astley, he was also cowed by his authority, and quickly lost what little confidence he possessed to stand up to such a man, alone, in a stable in the fog, surrounded by hateful horses, and with no friends about to encourage him. If only Jem were here, Maggie thought. He would know what to do.
“C’mon, Maggie,” Charlie said, and began to shuffle out of the stall.
“Wait.” Maggie fixed her eyes on the other girl. “Come with us, Miss Piddle. Get up and we’ll go and find Jem, all right?”
“Leave her alone,” John Astley commanded. “She’s free to do as she likes, aren’t you, my dear?”
“That means she’s free to go with us if she wants to. C’mon, Maisie—are you comin’ with us or stayin’ here?”
Maisie looked from Maggie to John Astley and back again. She closed her eyes so that she could say it more easily, though taking her sight away gave her the sensation of falling. “I want to stay.”
Even then, Maggie might have remained, for surely they wouldn’t continue as long as she was there. But John Astley pulled a whip out from the straw and said, “Get out,” and that decided matters. Maggie and Charlie backed away—Maggie reluctant, Charlie in his relief pulling her after him. The horses whinnied when they passed, as if commenting on the Butterfields’ lack of courage.
8
When they got out to the yard, Charlie turned toward the passage they had first come down. “Where you going?” Maggie demanded.
“Back to the pub, of course. I’ve wasted too much time out here already, Miss Cut-Throat. Why, an’t you?”
“I’m going to find someone with more guts’n you!”
Before he could grab her, Maggie ran down the other alley to Hercules Buildings. The fog no longer frightened her; she was too angry to be scared. When she reached the street, she looked both ways. Figures huddled in wraps hurried past her—the fog and dark discouraged lingering. She ran after one, calling out, “Please, help me! There’s a girl in trouble!”
It was an old man, who shook her off and grumbled, “Serves her right—shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
Passing close enough to hear this exchange was a small woman in a yellow bonnet and shawl. When Maggie saw her little face peeking out, she shouted, “What you lookin’ at, you old stick!” and Miss Pelham scuttled toward her door.
“Oh, please!” Maggie cried to another man passing in the other direction. “I need your help!”
“Get off, you little cat!” the man sneered.
Maggie stood helplessly in the street, on the verge of tears. All she wanted was someone with the moral authority to stand up to John Astley. Where was he?
He came from the direction of the river, striding out of the fog with his hands tucked behind him, his broad-brimmed hat jammed low over his heavy brow, and a brooding expression on his face. He had stood up to Philip Astley when he’d felt injustice was being done to a child; he would stand up to Astley’s son.
“Mr. Blake!” Maggie cried. “Please help me!”
Mr. Blake’s expression immediately cleared, focusing intently on Maggie. “What is it, my girl? What can I do?”
“It’s Maisie—she’s in trouble!”
“Show me,” he said without hesitation.
Maggie ran back down the alley, Mr. Blake following close behind. “I don’t think she knows what she’s doin’,” she panted as she ran. “It’s like he’s cast a spell over her.”
Then they were in the stables, and in the stall, and John Astley looked up from where he was crouched next to a weeping Maisie. When Maisie saw Mr. Blake she buried her face in her hands.
“Mr. Astley, stand up, sir!”
John Astley stood swiftly, with something like fear on his face. He and Mr. Blake were the same height, but Mr. Blake was stockier, his expression stern. His direct gaze pinned John Astley, and there was an adjustment in the stall, with one man taking in and acknowledging the other. It
was what Maggie had thought would happen with the combined forces of her and Charlie; they did not have the weight of experience behind them, however. Now, in Mr. Blake’s presence, John Astley lowered his eyes and fixed them on a mound of straw in the corner.
“Maggie, take Maisie to my wife—she will look after her.” Mr. Blake’s tone was gentle but commanding too.
Maisie rubbed her face to get rid of her tears and stood, brushing the straw from her skirt and carefully avoiding John Astley’s eyes. She needn’t have worried—he was staring fixedly at the ground.
Maggie wrapped Maisie’s shawl tightly around her shoulders, then put her arm around the girl and led her from the stall. As they left, Mr. Blake was saying, “For shame, sir! Revolted spirit!”
Out in the fog Maisie collapsed and began to weep.
“C’mon, Miss Piddle, don’t cry,” Maggie cajoled, holding her up. “Let’s get you back, shall we—then you can cry all you like. Come now, pull yourself together.” She gave Maisie a little shake.
Maisie took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.
“That’s it. Now, this way. It’s not far.”
As they stumbled up Hercules Buildings, the fog discharged a welcome surprise—Jem was hastening toward them. “Maisie, where you been? I just heard that—” He stopped at Maggie’s frown and shake of her head, and did not go on to say that he had been suspicious when he heard that John Astley had accompanied Maisie, and came out to search for his sister. “Let’s go home. Ma’ll be expecting you.”
“Not yet, please, Jem,” Maisie said in a small voice, without looking at him. She was shivering, her teeth chattering. “I don’t want them to know.”
“I’m takin’ her to Mrs. Blake,” Maggie declared.
Jem followed them up to the Blakes’ door. As they waited after knocking, there was a flicker in Miss Pelham’s curtains before she saw Maggie and Jem glaring at her and let them fall back into place.
Mrs. Blake did not seem surprised to see them. When Maggie said, “Mr. Blake sent us, ma’am. Can you get Maisie warmed up?” she opened the door wide and stood aside to let them pass as if she did this every day for them. “Go downstairs to the kitchen, my dears—there’s a fire’s lit there,” she said. “I’ll just get a blanket and then come and make you a cup of tea.”
9
The Kellaways did not attend the final performance of the season of Astley’s Circus. Despite Mrs. Blake’s ministrations, Maisie came down with a fever, and was still in her sickbed that night, with Anne Kellaway tending her. Thomas and Jem Kellaway spent the evening clearing out the workroom, which had been neglected over the months while they were working for Philip Astley. It would need to be in order now, for Thomas Kellaway had told Philip Astley that he would not be accompanying him to Dublin. Maisie was too ill to travel, and though he did not know what had caused it, he had a vague suspicion—a feeling he could not pin down or articulate—that the circus, if not Astley himself, had something to do with it. In truth, though Thomas Kellaway was of course horrified by his daughter’s illness, he was relieved to have a concrete excuse not to go to Dublin.
Maggie did see the final show, and later described it to Jem, for it was quite eventful in its own way. Miss Laura Devine decided to make a private drama very public indeed. She performed the new routine with Monsieur Richer, as promised, the two of them turning in opposite Pigs on Spits, Monsieur Richer spinning rapidly in his black tailcoat, Miss Devine more slowly with her rainbow petticoats not quite the blur of color they normally were. As she came out of her spin into the swoop up that had so captivated Anne Kellaway when she first saw it on Westminster Bridge, this time Miss Devine simply let go and flew through the air. She landed in the pit, breaking her ankle but not bringing on the miscarriage she so desired. As they carried her out through the audience she kept her eyes squeezed shut.
Miss Laura Devine’s fall caused such an uproar that the debut of Miss Hannah Smith on horseback was something of an anticli-max, the applause lukewarm. This may also have been due to the rare sight of John Astley making a mistake. As he and Miss Smith were passing the wineglass back and forth while riding in opposite circles around the ring—for they had made up after their fight—John Astley happened to glance down and see Mr. and Mrs. Blake sitting in the pit. They had never been to the circus, and Anne Kellaway had insisted on giving them her tickets, as thanks for finding Maisie in the fog. Mr. Blake was watching John Astley with his fierce eyes. When Miss Smith then held out the glass to him as she passed, John Astley fumbled with it, and it fell to the ground and shattered.
PART VII
December 1792
1
It was rare for Maggie to be given the afternoon off. In manufactory jobs you began at six in the morning, worked till noon, when you had an hour to eat, then worked again until seven at night. If you didn’t work your hours, you were let go, as she had been from the mustard factory after she’d gone for her nap in the Blakes’ garden. So when the owner, Mr. Beaufoy, announced that the workers at his vinegar manufactory would not have to stay after dinner, Maggie did not cry “Huzzah” and clap along with the others. She was sure he was not telling them something. “He’ll take it from our wages,” she muttered to the girl next to her.
“I don’t care,” the other replied. “I’m going to put my feet up by the fire and sleep all afternoon.”
“And not eat all the next day for losin’ that sixpence,” Maggie retorted.
It turned out that they lost both the sixpence and the sleep by the fire. At noon, Mr. Beaufoy made another announcement as the workers were sitting down to dinner. “You are doubtless aware,” he said, addressing the long tables full of men and women attacking plates of sausages and cabbage, “of the continuing atrocities being committed across the Channel in France, and the poison issuing forth to pollute our shores. There are those here who can hardly call themselves Englishmen, for they have heeded this reckless revolutionary call, and are spreading seditious filth to undermine our glorious monarchy.”
No one looked up or took much notice of his oration: They were far more interested in finishing their food so that they could leave before Mr. Beaufoy changed his mind about granting them a half day’s holiday. Mr. Beaufoy paused, gritting his teeth so that his jaw flexed. He was determined to make his workers understand that, though his surname was French, he was English through and through. He dropped his complicated language. “Our King is in danger!” he boomed, causing forks to pause. “The French have imprisoned their King and offered to help those who wish to do the same here. We cannot allow such treason to spread. Finish eating quickly so that you may follow me—we are going to give up our afternoon’s wages to attend a public meeting and demonstrate our loyalty to King and country. Anyone who doesn’t come,” he added in a raised voice over protests, “anyone who doesn’t come will not only lose their work and wages, but will be placed on a list of those suspected of sedition. Do you know what sedition is, good people? It is incitement to disorder. More than that, it is the first step on the road to treason! And do you know what the punishment for sedition is? At the very least, a good long visit to Newgate, but more likely, transportation to Van Diemen’s Land. And, should you continue along that road toward treason, your visit ends with the hangman.”
He waited till the roaring died down. “It is a simple choice: follow me to Vauxhall to declare your loyalty to our King, or walk out now and face prison or worse. Who would like to leave? I am not standing in your way. Go, and let us shout traitor to your back!”
Maggie looked around. No one moved, though a few were frowning into their plates at Mr. Beaufoy’s bullying. She shook her head, baffled that something happening in France could have the effect of taking away her wages. It made no sense. What a funny world, she thought.
And yet she found herself walking with three dozen others through the frozen streets that ran along the Thames, past Westminster Bridge and Astley’s Amphitheatre—now boarded up and lifeless—past the brick tow
ers of Lambeth Palace, and on down to Cumberland Gardens in Vauxhall, just next to a rival’s vinegar works. Maggie was surprised by the large crowd that had gathered, wondering that so many were willing to stand in the cold and listen to a lot of men talk about their love of the King and hatred of the French. “I’ll bet he smells his own farts!” Maggie whispered of each speaker to her neighbor, sending them both into giggles each time.
Luckily Mr. Beaufoy lost all interest in his workers once they were installed at Cumberland Gardens and had served their purpose in swelling the numbers of the meeting. He hurried off to join the group of men running the meeting so that he might add his own florid voice to those eager to try out their expressions of loyalty. Eventually his foreman also disappeared, and once the Beaufoy vinegar workers realized that no one was watching them, they began to disperse.
Though she hated losing her afternoon wages, Maggie was glad of the change, and delighted with her luck—for she might find Jem down this way with her father. Dick Butterfield was today taking the Kellaway men to see a man at a timber yard in Nine Elms, just along the river from Vauxhall. They were hoping to find cheaper wood there, as well as a market for their chairs—the timber merchant being also a furniture dealer. For the only time in his life, and at his wife’s insistence, Dick Butterfield was providing this introduction for free. The laundress had visited the Kellaways several times while Maisie was ill, prompted by unvoiced guilt that she had done nothing to stop the girl from going out into the fog with John Astley. On a recent visit she had glimpsed the tower of unsold chairs and Anne Kellaway’s thin soup, and afterward had ordered her husband to help the family. “You’ve got to get over that gal, chuck,” Dick Butterfield had said. He had not said no, however. In his way, Dick Butterfield too felt badly about Maisie.