Maisie caught her gasp before it could ring out into the appalled silence that followed his cruel remark. It was a silence that spurred Philip Astley to fill it. “Come, now, girl, what were you thinking? How could you let that happen to you? I thought you were smarter than that.” After a pause he added more gently, “He’s not the man for you, Laura. Surely you knew that.”
At last Miss Devine spoke, though she gave an answer to a different question. “It’s because my family’s not good enough for you, isn’t it?” she said in her soft Scottish lilt-so soft that Maisie had to lean forward almost out of her box to hear. “I expect her family’s more to your liking.”
Miss Smith was now jogging sedately around the ring on her stallion while John Astley rode in the opposite direction; each time they passed, one handed the other a glass of wine to drink from and pass back the next time around.
“Laura, I have never had any jurisdiction over my son’s women. That is his own affair. I don’t want to get into an argument over why he does what he does. That is for you to take up with him. My only concern is for the show and its performers. And when I see a member of the company who can no longer perform in her condi-tion, then I must take action. First of all, I have hired Monsieur Richer from Brussels to join the show.”
There was a short silence. “Monsieur Richer is a wobbler,” Miss Devine said with disdain. “A clown on the rope.” It was true that the two slack-rope artists had very different styles. Miss Laura Devine made it a matter of honor, as well as of taste, not to wobble when she walked along the rope. Her performance was as smooth as her dark hair and pale skin.
“When John and Miss Smith finish in the ring,” Philip Astley continued as if she had not spoken, “you are to rehearse a routine with Monsieur Richer for the final show, which will introduce his talents to the audience and prepare them for his solo return next year. For you won’t be coming with us to Dublin, Miss Devine, nor joining us when we return. I’m sorry, my dear, truly I am, but there it is. Of course, you may stay in your accommodation for another month.” Philip Astley got to his feet, clearly ready for this chat to be over, now that the meat of the matter had been laid out. “Now, I must see to a few matters. If there is anything else I can do for you,” he added as he opened the door, “you need only ask John Fox, eh, Fox?”
He almost got away, but Miss Devine’s soft voice carried farther and with more force than might have been expected. “You seem to forget that the bairn will be your grandchild.”
Philip Astley stopped short and made a choking noise. “Don’t you dare try that with me, girl!” he roared. “That baby will have nothing to do with the Astleys! Nothing! He’ll be no grandson of mine!”
His unchecked voice, so accustomed to needing to carry over the noise of the show and audience, was heard in every corner of the amphitheatre. The costume girls, wrapping up bundles of clothes in a room offstage, heard it. Thomas and Jem Kellaway, building big wooden supports to sandwich pieces of scenery in between and protect them for the journey to Dublin, heard it. Mrs. Connell, counting the takings from ticket sales in the front of house, heard it. Even the circus boys, waiting outside for John Astley and Miss Hannah Smith to finish with their horses, heard it.
Maisie heard it, and it completed a puzzle she’d been worrying at in her head-the last piece being what she’d expected but hoped wasn’t so, as it meant she really ought to hate Miss Devine too.
Miss Hannah Smith certainly heard it. Though she continued to ride around the ring, she turned her face toward the box and stared, noticing for the first time the drama that was playing out at a level just above her head.
John Astley alone seemed not to have noticed his father’s outburst. He was used to Philip Astley’s bellows and rarely listened to their content. As Miss Smith was still holding out her hand for the glass, he passed it to her. She was now looking elsewhere, however, and thinking elsewhere as well, so she did not grasp it, and the glass fell to the ground between them. Despite the cushioning sawdust, it smashed.
John Astley immediately pulled up his horse. “Glass!” he shouted. A boy who had been waiting alongside to sweep up horse dung ran into the ring with his broom.
Miss Hannah Smith did not stop her horse, however. She kept riding around the ring, whipping her head around to keep her eyes on Philip Astley and Miss Laura Devine. Indeed, she would have run down the sweeping boy if John Astley hadn’t grabbed the reins of her horse and stopped it himself. “Hannah, what’s the matter with you?” he cried. “Careful where you let your horse step-that glass could do injury!”
Miss Smith sat on her horse and pulled her eyes from Miss Laura Devine to fix them on John Astley. She had gone very pale, and no longer displayed the pretty smile she had maintained throughout the rehearsal. Instead she looked as if she might be sick.
John Astley stared at her, then glanced up at the box where Miss Laura Devine sat with fiery eyes and his father still huffed like a winded horse.
Next Maisie heard something she could never have imagined issuing from Miss Hannah Smith’s mouth. “John Astley, you shit sack!” She was not as loud as Philip Astley, but loud enough for Maisie and everyone in the adjacent box to hear. The boy sweeping up the glass snorted. John Astley opened his mouth, but was unable to think of an appropriate reply. Miss Smith then jumped down from her horse and ran off, her turned-out feet making her retreat even more pathetic.
When she was gone, John Astley glared up at the box, where Miss Laura Devine still sat, triumphant for just one moment in this bleak farce. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but the giggling boy at his feet made him think the better of dragging out the scene in public. Instead he quickly dismounted, flung the reins of both horses at the boy, straightened the sleeves of his blue coat, and hurried after Miss Smith.
“Well, I hope you’re happy, my dear,” Philip Astley hissed. “Is that what you wanted?”
“It is you who makes a public drama of everything,” Laura Devine replied. “You have never known how to be calm or quiet.”
“Get out! I can’t stand the sight of you!” Though Philip Astley shouted this at her, he himself barged out of the box, calling for John Fox to follow.
After they were gone, Miss Laura Devine continued to sit in the box, with Maisie quiet in hers next door. Her hands were trembling in her lap.
“Come and see me a moment,” Maisie heard Miss Devine murmur, and started when she realized the command was directed at her, and that Miss Devine had seen her sitting in her box before, and would know that she had heard it all. Maisie got up and slipped into the adjacent box, trying not to bring attention to herself-though apart from the boy, who had led off the horses and now come back to sweep up the rest of the glass and horse dung, there was no one about.
Miss Devine did not look up at Maisie’s arrival. “Sit with me, pet” was all she said. Maisie sank into the chair that Philip Astley had not long vacated next to the slack-rope dancer; indeed, the seat was still warm. Together they looked out over the ring, which for once was quiet, but for the boy’s broom. Maisie found its even, scraping sound a comfort. She knew she did not hate Miss Devine, whatever had happened. Instead she pitied her.
Miss Laura Devine seemed to be in a dreamy state. Perhaps she was thinking about all of the ropes she had walked along or spun around or dangled from or swung on in this ring. Or she was thinking about the extraordinary finale she would perform in three nights’ time. Or she may have been listening to her body in that silent private dialogue pregnant women sometimes have with them selves.
“I’m sorry, Miss Devine,” Maisie said at last.