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.