While Maisie didn’t look closely enough to recognize any of the customers, one of them recognized her. In the crowd of men gathered at the bar, she did not see Charlie Butterfield waiting for drinks, even when he began to stare at her. Once John Astley was sitting with her and she was well into her rum punch, Charlie turned away in disgust. However, he couldn’t resist saying as he set down beer in front of his parents, “Guess who’s sitting in the next booth. No, don’t, Mam!” He pulled Bet Butterfield down as she started to get up so that she could peer over the screen. “Don’t let ’em see you!”
“Who’s there, boy?” Dick Butterfield asked as he brought the beer to his lips and took a dainty sip. “Ah, lovely.”
“That nan-boy Astley with little Miss Dorset.”
“Dorset? Not Maisie?” Bet Butterfield said. “What’s she doing here, then? This an’t the place for her.” She turned an ear toward the neighboring booth to listen. Maisie was growing louder with each sip of rum punch, so the Butterfields could hear at least one side of the conversation-John Astley’s voice was low, and he said little.
“Ma and me goes to the circus twice a week,” she was saying. “So I’ve seen everything you’ve done, several times. I do love your horse, sir. You sit her so beautifully.”
John Astley merely grunted. He never talked about work at the pub, nor did he need to hear compliments from her; but Maisie was not experienced enough to sense this. In truth, he was beginning to tire of her. He had spotted a couple of women in the room who he expected would have given him a better time than Maisie. She was clearly a virgin, and in his experience he’d found that virgins were better in theory than in practice. Deflowering them required a certain patience and responsibility that he was not always keen to take on; often they cried, and he would prefer a woman to take some pleasure in being with him. Only Miss Laura Devine had shown any virginal sophistication, laughing rather than crying during the act, and aware of the ways a woman might please a man without his having to teach her. He had been surprised that she was still a virgin; surprised too that she then displayed a virgin’s other characteristic besides tears-the belief that she now had some claim on him. After a few pleasurable meetings he had shaken her off, and refused to believe she was carrying his child until Miss Hannah Smith slapped the knowledge into him earlier today.
Still, whatever John Astley thought of Maisie, he had already made his claim to her by seating her in the booth and plying her with punch in full view of the other drinkers. The women in the room could see full well what he was up to and had no interest in being second choice of the day.
He would at least make this quick. The moment she finished her rum punch, he got up to renew it and his wine. On his way back to their seats, a drink in each hand, he stepped aside to let a boy with a scarred eyebrow pass. The boy stepped to the same side as him, then stepped back as John Astley did, sneering all the while. After blocking John Astley’s passage for a moment more, he bumped his shoulder, jolting the horseman’s glass of wine so that half of it slopped onto the floor. “Nan-boy,” he hissed as he passed.
John Astley had no idea who he was, but was familiar with the type: The boy had probably been to the show and was jealous of Astley’s fame and skill. Men sometimes stopped him in the street or at the pub and taunted him; occasionally a fight would break out as jealousy flared into action. John Astley tried to avoid this when possible, as it was undignified for someone in his superior position to be brawling with common folk. But he did defend himself very ably, and fought off attacks in particular to his handsome face. Despite several falls and kicks from horses, he had managed to keep his face clear of damage and scarring, and he had no intention of losing his looks to a mere punch-up with a drunk working lad.
Maisie had not noticed the exchange, for she was now listening to a buxom woman with chapped cheeks and beefy arms leaning over the partition from the adjacent booth.
“I been meanin’ to drop in on you and your mam both,” the woman was saying. “I’ve a lady wants a different kind of button, for waistcoats she’s making. Do you know how to make a High Top?”
“Course I do!” Maisie cried. “I be from Dorsetshire, don’t I? Dorset buttons from a Dorset maid!” The punch made her voice loud and a bit shrill.
Bet Butterfield frowned-she had caught a whiff of rum. “Your mam knows you’re here, does she?”
“Of course she does,” John Astley interrupted. “But it’s not your business, is it, Madam Nosy?”
Bet Butterfield bristled. “It is too my business. Maisie’s my neighbor, she is, and we look out for our neighbors round here-some of ’em, anyway.” She cut her eyes sideways at him.
John Astley considered how to handle her: He could flatter her, or he could treat her with disdain and indifference. It was not always easy to judge which method would work with which type of woman, but he had to decide before he lost Maisie to her neighbors. Now that there was a chance that he could not have her, he wanted her more. Setting down the drinks and turning his back on the laundress, he slid onto the bench next to Maisie and boldly put his arm around her. Maisie smiled, snuggled back against his arm, and took a gulp of rum punch.
Bet Butterfield watched this cozy display with suspicion. “Maisie, are you-”
“I be fine, Mrs. Butterfield, really. Ma knows I be here.”
“Do she, now?” Though Maisie was becoming more adept at lying, it took some doing to convince Bet Butterfield.
“Leave it, Bet,” Dick Butterfield grumbled, with a tug at her skirt. It was the week’s end and he was tired, wanting nothing more than to sink into a few drinks with family and friends. He often felt his wife interfered too much in others’ dramas.
Bet Butterfield satisfied herself by saying, “I’ll come and see you later about those High Tops, shall I?” as if to warn John Astley that Maisie should be at home soon to receive her.
“Yes, or tomorrow. Best make it soon, as we may be leaving shortly.”
“Leaving? To go where-back to Dorsetshire?”
“Not Dorsetshire.” Maisie waved her hand about. “To Dublin with the circus!”
Even John Astley looked surprised-if not horrified-at this news. “You are?”
“I heard your father ask mine to come. And of course you can convince him to let Pa bring all of us.” She sipped her punch and banged the glass down. “We’ll all be together!”
“Will you, now.” Bet Butterfield frowned at John Astley. “Perhaps I’d best go with you now to your mam, then.”
“Bet, sit down and finish your drink.” Dick Butterfield used a commanding tone Bet Butterfield did not often hear, and she obeyed, sinking slowly into her seat, the frown still glued to her face.
“Somethin’ an’t right there,” she muttered. “I know it.”
“Yes, and it an’t your business, is it. You leave those Kellaways be. You’re as bad as Maggie, lookin’ out that Kellaway boy every chance she gets. Maybe you should be more worried about her than that girl in the next booth. Miss Dorset is old enough to know what she’s about. She’ll get what she wants from Astley. Now, when you do go round to see Mrs. Kellaway, be sure and ask what her husband’s goin’ to do with all his wood if they’re off to Ireland. Tell him I’ll take it off him for very little-chairs too, if he’s got any. Now I think on it, perhaps I’ll come with you when you pay your visit.”
“Now who’s buttin’ into Kellaway business?”
Dick Butterfield stretched, then took up his mug. “This an’t Kellaway business, my chuck-this is Butterfield business! This is how I keep that roof over your head.”
Bet Butterfield snorted. “These are what keep it.” She held out her chafed, wrinkled hands, which had been handling wet clothes for twenty years and looked much older than Bet was herself. Dick Butterfield seized one and kissed it in a combination of pity and affection. Bet Butterfield laughed. “You old sausage, you. What am I going to do with you?” She sat back and yawned, for she had just finished an overnight wash and not slept in more than a day. She settled into her seat like a rock set into a stone wall and allowed Maisie to slip from her mind. She would not be moving for several hours.