John Astley, in the meantime, was pondering Dublin. One of Maisie’s attractions was that he would be leaving her here in a few days and not have to wrestle with any virginal claim she made on him. “What’s this about Dublin, then?” he said. “Your father is going to do what?”
“Carpentry. He be a chairmaker, but Mr. Astley asked him to join the circus to build all sorts of things.” Maisie slurred the last words, the rum taking effect. She wanted to lay her spinning head on the table.
John Astley relaxed-his father would certainly never allow a carpenter’s family to join them in Dublin. He drained his glass and stood up. “Come, let’s go.”
Not a moment too soon, either. The surly lad who had made him spill his wine was now with a group across the room and had begun to sing:
A loving couple met one day
Bonny Kate and Danny
A loving couple met one day
Together both to sport and play
And for to pass the time away
He showed her little Danny!
Maisie’s cheeks were fiery red now, and she looked a little dazed. “Come, Maisie,” John Astley repeated, glaring at the singers. “I’ll see you home.”
Around the room others had taken up the song:
He took her to his father’s barn
Bonny Kate and Danny
He took her to his father’s barn
There he pulled out his long firearm
It was as long as this my arm
And he called it little Danny!
Maisie was taking her time arranging her shawl around her shoulders. “Quick, now!” John Astley muttered. Pulling her to her feet, he put an arm around her and led her to the door. Over the singing, Bet Butterfield called out, “Don’t forget, now, duck-I’ll be comin’ to your mam’s shortly!”
He took her to the river’s side
Bonny Kate and Danny
He took her to the river’s side
And there he laid her legs so wide
And on her belly he did ride
And he whipped in little Danny!
John Astley shut the door behind them to bellows of laughter. Maisie did not seem to notice, however, though the fresh air made her stand straight and shake her head as if to clear it. “Where we going, sir?” she managed to say.
“Just for a little stroll, then I’ll get you home.” John Astley kept his arm around her and led her, not left along Hercules Buildings, but right into Bastille Row. There was a gap that way between two of the houses that led to Hercules Hall and its stables.
The cold air made Maisie progress instantly from happy drunk to sick drunk. A little way along Bastille Row she began to moan and hold her stomach. John Astley let go of her. “Idiot girl,” he muttered as Maisie sank to her knees and vomited into the gutter. He was tempted to leave her now to find her own way. It was not far back to the pub, though the fog was so dense that there was no sign of it.
At that moment a figure came pattering out of the fog toward them. They were only a few steps from the Butterfields’ rooms, where Maggie had stopped briefly after work to change her clothes. She was now working at a vinegar manufactory near the river, by the timber yards north of Westminster Bridge, and though she smelled acidic, at least her nose no longer hurt and her eyes were clear. The owner even let them off early on a Saturday afternoon.
Maggie started when she saw John Astley. For a year now she had not liked going through the fog on her own, though she did it when she had to. She had walked back from the factory with another girl who lived nearby, and the pub was so close to the Butterfields’ that she had not thought to worry. Seeing the horseman so suddenly almost made her scream, until she spied the huddled form at his feet, still retching into the gutter. Then she chuckled, for she recognized John Astley with one of his conquests. “Having fun, are you, sir?” she jeered, and ran on before he could reply. Her relief that this was a familiar scene and John Astley no threat to her, coupled with her haste to get to the pub out of the fog and the cold, made her give Maisie no more than a glance before she hurried on to Hercules Tavern.
6
“There you are, Mags,” Dick Butterfield called. “Come and sit.” He stood up. “You’ll be wantin’ a beer, will you?” These days he was more solicitous of his daughter; handing over her wages to him every week had bought her better treatment.
“And a pie, if there’s any left,” Maggie called after him as she took his vacated place next to her mother. “Hallo, Mam.”
“Hallo, duck.” Bet Butterfield yawned. “You all done, then?”
“I am-and you?”
“For the moment.” Mother and daughter sat side by side in weary companionship.
“Is Charlie here?” Maggie asked, trying not to sound hopeful. “Oh, never mind, there he is.” Though her brother bothered her less than before-another bonus from her wages was that Dick Butterfield reined in Charlie-she was always more at ease when she was alone with her parents.
“Anything happenin’ here?” she asked her mother.
“Nah. Oh-did you know that the Kellaways are going to Dublin?” Bet Butterfield had a habit of changing the possible into the definite.
Maggie snapped upright. “What?”
“’Tis true. They’re leaving this week.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Can’t be. Who told you?”
Bet Butterfield shifted in her seat, Maggie’s disbelief making her nervous. “Maisie Kellaway.”
“Why didn’t Jem tell me? I saw him the other night!”
Bet Butterfield shrugged.
“But they’re mad to go! They’re not travelers. It was hard enough for them to come here from Dorsetshire-and they’re just startin’ to settle. Why would Jem hide it from me?” Maggie tried to keep the note of hysteria from rising in her words, but Bet Butterfield heard it.
“Calm yourself, duck. Didn’t know you cared so much. Pity you weren’t here five minutes ago-you could’ve asked Maisie herself.”
“She was here?”
“She was.” Bet Butterfield fiddled with an end of her shawl, picked up her glass of beer, then set it down.
“Maisie don’t go to pubs. What was she doing here, Mam?” Maggie persisted.
Bet Butterfield frowned into her beer. “She was with that circus man. You know.” She waved her hand in the air. “The one what rides the horses. John Astley.”
“John Astley?” Even as she shouted his name, Maggie shot to her feet. Neighboring drinkers looked up.
“Careful, Mags,” Dick Butterfield said, halting in front of her with two full glasses and a pie balanced on their rims. “You don’t want to lose your beer ’fore you’ve even tasted it.”
“I just saw John Astley outside! But he was with a-” Maggie stopped, horrified that she hadn’t looked closely enough at the figure in the gutter to recognize her as Maisie. “Where were they going?”
“Said he was takin’ her home,” Bet Butterfield muttered, her eyes lowered.
“And you believed him?” Maggie’s voice rose.
“Stay out of it, gal,” Dick Butterfield said sharply. “It an’t your business.”
Maggie looked from her mother’s bent head to her father’s set face, and knew then that they had already had this argument.
“You can have my beer,” she said to Dick Butterfield, and pushed through the crowd.
“Maggie! You get back here, gal!” Dick Butterfield barked, but Maggie had pulled open the door and plunged into the fog.