Maggie turned her back on him and started down the alley again. “We have to find Maisie,” she muttered, and would say nothing more.
Because of the rain, there were few people about. As they searched, the rain fell even harder in a last attempt to drench anyone outside, then suddenly stopped altogether. Immediately doors began to open. It was a close, cramped area of London, with small, dark houses that had survived change from fire and fashion and poverty only because they were so solid. The people who emerged were similarly sturdy and settled. There were no Yorkshire or Lancashire or Dorsetshire accents here, but the sound of families who had lived for many generations in the same place.
In such a neighborhood, strangers stick out like early-budding crocuses. Hardly had the streets begun to fill with Sunday evening strollers than a woman passing pointed behind herself. “You’ll be wanting the girl with the frilly cap, will you? She’s back there, by Drapers’ Gardens.”
A minute later they came out into an open space where there was yet another enclosed garden, and saw Maisie standing by the iron railings, waiting, her eyes shiny with tears. She said nothing, but threw her arms around Jem and buried her face in his shoulder. Jem patted her gently. “You be all right now, do you, Maisie?”
“I want to go home, Jem,” she said, her voice muffled.
“We will.”
She pulled back and looked in his face. “No, I mean back to Dorsetshire. I be lost in London.”
Jem could have said, “Pa makes more money working for Mr. Astley than he ever did as a chairmaker in Piddletrenthide.” Or, “Ma prefers the circus to Dorset buttons.” Or, “I’d like to hear more of Mr. Blake’s new songs.” Or even, “What about John Astley?”
Instead he stopped a boy his own age, who was whistling as he passed. “Excuse me, sir-where be the Thames?”
“Not far. Just there.” The boy pointed, and the children linked arms before heading in the direction he’d indicated. Maisie was trembling and Maggie was pale. To distract them, Jem said, “I know a new song. D’you want to learn it?” Without waiting for them to reply, he began to chant:
I wander through each chartered street
Near where the chartered Thames does flow
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
They had chanted the two verses he knew three times together when they slipped into a stream of traffic heading onto London Bridge. “It be all right now,” Jem said. “We’re not lost. The river will lead us back to Lambeth.”
PART VI – October 1792
1
Maisie watched John Astley rehearse from her favorite seat. She had tried all of the different seats in the amphitheatre, and knew which she liked best. When they attended shows, the Kellaways normally sat in the pit, close to the ring where the horses ran, the armies marched, the tumblers tumbled, and Miss Laura Devine spun and swooped. However, for those who wanted a view from above, the boxes were the best seats. Located on either side of the stage over the pit, they raised their viewers above the action of both circus and audience.
Today Maisie was sitting in a box to the right of the stage. She liked it there because it was snug and private, and she had a clear view of everything John Astley did, whether with his horse in the ring or with Miss Hannah Smith on stage. Miss Smith was petite, with the turned-out feet of a trained dancer, fair hair, and a deli-cate face like an orchid. She had played a fetching Columbine opposite John Astley’s Harlequin, and was popular with audiences. Maisie hated her.
This afternoon John Astley was rehearsing on horseback with Miss Smith for a surprise finale that would mark the end of the season. At the moment they were sitting together on their horses-he on his chestnut mare and wearing a bright blue coat, she in a white gown that stood out against her black stallion-discussing some part of their act. Maisie sighed; though she hated Miss Smith, she could not take her eyes off of her or John Astley, for they seemed to fit perfectly together. After a few minutes of watching, Maisie found she was grinding her fists in her lap.
She did not leave, however, though her mother could have done with her help at home, where she was pickling cabbage. Soon Maisie would not see John Astley at alclass="underline" The day after the last performance of the season, the company would travel directly by coach to Dublin, to spend the winter season there and at Liverpool. The rest of the show-the scenery, the props, the cranes and pulleys and hoists, the horses-would follow by ship. Her father and brother were even now rushing to pack up scenery from the earlier shows in the season, readying it for transport that had not even been secured yet. Maisie knew this because Philip Astley was sitting in the box next to hers, conducting business, and she had just heard him compose with John Fox an advertisement for a newspaper:
WANTED, A VESSEL TO CARRY MACHINERY TO DUBLIN
She must sail the 13th, 14th, or 15th instant.
Apply to Mr. Astley, Astley’s Amphitheatre,
Westminster Bridge Rd.
Maisie knew little about shipping, but even she was sure they needed more than three days to find passage to Ireland. It made her catch her breath and squeeze her hands together in her lap. Perhaps during the delay Mr. Astley would at last ask Thomas Kellaway and his family to travel to Dublin, as she had been praying he would during the last month.
Applause broke out from all around the amphitheatre, for Miss Hannah Smith was now standing on one foot on the saddle of her horse, the other leg held out behind her. They all had stopped what they were doing to watch. Even Jem and Thomas Kellaway had come out from backstage along with the other carpenters and were clapping. Not wanting her silence to stand out, Maisie clapped too. Miss Smith smiled tightly, trying not to let her extended leg wobble.
“Brava, my dear!” Mr. Astley shouted from his box next to Maisie’s. “She reminds me of Patty,” he said to John Fox. “I must get the wife along to the finale to see this. Shame so few women are willing to perform on horseback.”
“They got more sense’n men,” John Fox pointed out. “Looks like she’s lost hers.”
“That girl will do anything for John,” Philip Astley said. “That’s why she’s up there now.”
“Anything?”
“Well, not anything. Not yet.” Both men laughed.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Philip Astley continued. “She’s handling him as well as any horse. Brava, my dear!” he shouted out once more. “We’ve got our grand finale now!”
Miss Smith slowed her horse and lowered her leg. When she’d maneuvered herself back into the saddle, John Astley leaned over and kissed her hand, to more applause and laughter, and blushes from Miss Smith.
It was then that Maisie felt the silence rippling out from the box on the other side of the ring. She peered across and saw there the one person who wasn’t clapping: From the shadows emerged the round white face of Miss Laura Devine, gazing down at Miss Smith with even more hatred than Maisie herself felt for the ingenue. Miss Devine’s face was no longer so smooth and welcoming as it had once been. Instead it was haggard, underlined with a disgusted wince, as if she had just tasted something she didn’t care for. She looked wretched.
When Miss Devine looked up and met Maisie’s eyes, her expression did not change. They gazed at each other, until Miss Devine let herself sink back into the shadows, like the moon disappearing behind clouds.
2
Next door, Philip Astley was running through a list of names with John Fox. “Mr. and Mrs. De Castro. Mr. Johannot. Mr. Lawrence. Mrs. Henley. Mr. Davis. Mr. Crossman. Mr. Jeffries. Mr. Whit-more. Monsieur Richer. Mr. Sanderson.”
“He’s coming later.”
“Damme, Fox, I need him now! The Irish will want new songs and they’ll want ’em straightaway. I was expecting to ride with him in the coach and compose ’em then.”