Mrs. Blake did not seem surprised to see them. When Maggie said, “Mr. Blake sent us, ma’am. Can you get Maisie warmed up?” she opened the door wide and stood aside to let them pass as if she did this every day for them. “Go downstairs to the kitchen, my dears-there’s a fire’s lit there,” she said. “I’ll just get a blanket and then come and make you a cup of tea.”
9
The Kellaways did not attend the final performance of the season of Astley’s Circus. Despite Mrs. Blake’s ministrations, Maisie came down with a fever, and was still in her sickbed that night, with Anne Kellaway tending her. Thomas and Jem Kellaway spent the evening clearing out the workroom, which had been neglected over the months while they were working for Philip Astley. It would need to be in order now, for Thomas Kellaway had told Philip Astley that he would not be accompanying him to Dublin. Maisie was too ill to travel, and though he did not know what had caused it, he had a vague suspicion-a feeling he could not pin down or articulate-that the circus, if not Astley himself, had something to do with it. In truth, though Thomas Kellaway was of course horrified by his daughter’s illness, he was relieved to have a concrete excuse not to go to Dublin.
Maggie did see the final show, and later described it to Jem, for it was quite eventful in its own way. Miss Laura Devine decided to make a private drama very public indeed. She performed the new routine with Monsieur Richer, as promised, the two of them turning in opposite Pigs on Spits, Monsieur Richer spinning rapidly in his black tailcoat, Miss Devine more slowly with her rainbow petticoats not quite the blur of color they normally were. As she came out of her spin into the swoop up that had so captivated Anne Kellaway when she first saw it on Westminster Bridge, this time Miss Devine simply let go and flew through the air. She landed in the pit, breaking her ankle but not bringing on the miscarriage she so desired. As they carried her out through the audience she kept her eyes squeezed shut.
Miss Laura Devine’s fall caused such an uproar that the debut of Miss Hannah Smith on horseback was something of an anticli-max, the applause lukewarm. This may also have been due to the rare sight of John Astley making a mistake. As he and Miss Smith were passing the wineglass back and forth while riding in opposite circles around the ring-for they had made up after their fight-John Astley happened to glance down and see Mr. and Mrs. Blake sitting in the pit. They had never been to the circus, and Anne Kellaway had insisted on giving them her tickets, as thanks for finding Maisie in the fog. Mr. Blake was watching John Astley with his fierce eyes. When Miss Smith then held out the glass to him as she passed, John Astley fumbled with it, and it fell to the ground and shattered.
PART VII – December 1792
1
It was rare for Maggie to be given the afternoon off. In manufactory jobs you began at six in the morning, worked till noon, when you had an hour to eat, then worked again until seven at night. If you didn’t work your hours, you were let go, as she had been from the mustard factory after she’d gone for her nap in the Blakes’ garden. So when the owner, Mr. Beaufoy, announced that the workers at his vinegar manufactory would not have to stay after dinner, Maggie did not cry “Huzzah” and clap along with the others. She was sure he was not telling them something. “He’ll take it from our wages,” she muttered to the girl next to her.
“I don’t care,” the other replied. “I’m going to put my feet up by the fire and sleep all afternoon.”
“And not eat all the next day for losin’ that sixpence,” Maggie retorted.
It turned out that they lost both the sixpence and the sleep by the fire. At noon, Mr. Beaufoy made another announcement as the workers were sitting down to dinner. “You are doubtless aware,” he said, addressing the long tables full of men and women attacking plates of sausages and cabbage, “of the continuing atrocities being committed across the Channel in France, and the poison issuing forth to pollute our shores. There are those here who can hardly call themselves Englishmen, for they have heeded this reckless revolutionary call, and are spreading seditious filth to undermine our glorious monarchy.”
No one looked up or took much notice of his oration: They were far more interested in finishing their food so that they could leave before Mr. Beaufoy changed his mind about granting them a half day’s holiday. Mr. Beaufoy paused, gritting his teeth so that his jaw flexed. He was determined to make his workers understand that, though his surname was French, he was English through and through. He dropped his complicated language. “Our King is in danger!” he boomed, causing forks to pause. “The French have imprisoned their King and offered to help those who wish to do the same here. We cannot allow such treason to spread. Finish eating quickly so that you may follow me-we are going to give up our afternoon’s wages to attend a public meeting and demonstrate our loyalty to King and country. Anyone who doesn’t come,” he added in a raised voice over protests, “anyone who doesn’t come will not only lose their work and wages, but will be placed on a list of those suspected of sedition. Do you know what sedition is, good people? It is incitement to disorder. More than that, it is the first step on the road to treason! And do you know what the punishment for sedition is? At the very least, a good long visit to Newgate, but more likely, transportation to Van Diemen’s Land. And, should you continue along that road toward treason, your visit ends with the hangman.”
He waited till the roaring died down. “It is a simple choice: follow me to Vauxhall to declare your loyalty to our King, or walk out now and face prison or worse. Who would like to leave? I am not standing in your way. Go, and let us shout traitor to your back!”
Maggie looked around. No one moved, though a few were frowning into their plates at Mr. Beaufoy’s bullying. She shook her head, baffled that something happening in France could have the effect of taking away her wages. It made no sense. What a funny world, she thought.
And yet she found herself walking with three dozen others through the frozen streets that ran along the Thames, past Westminster Bridge and Astley’s Amphitheatre-now boarded up and lifeless-past the brick towers of Lambeth Palace, and on down to Cumberland Gardens in Vauxhall, just next to a rival’s vinegar works. Maggie was surprised by the large crowd that had gathered, wondering that so many were willing to stand in the cold and listen to a lot of men talk about their love of the King and hatred of the French. “I’ll bet he smells his own farts!” Maggie whispered of each speaker to her neighbor, sending them both into giggles each time.
Luckily Mr. Beaufoy lost all interest in his workers once they were installed at Cumberland Gardens and had served their purpose in swelling the numbers of the meeting. He hurried off to join the group of men running the meeting so that he might add his own florid voice to those eager to try out their expressions of loyalty. Eventually his foreman also disappeared, and once the Beaufoy vinegar workers realized that no one was watching them, they began to disperse.
Though she hated losing her afternoon wages, Maggie was glad of the change, and delighted with her luck-for she might find Jem down this way with her father. Dick Butterfield was today taking the Kellaway men to see a man at a timber yard in Nine Elms, just along the river from Vauxhall. They were hoping to find cheaper wood there, as well as a market for their chairs-the timber merchant being also a furniture dealer. For the only time in his life, and at his wife’s insistence, Dick Butterfield was providing this introduction for free. The laundress had visited the Kellaways several times while Maisie was ill, prompted by unvoiced guilt that she had done nothing to stop the girl from going out into the fog with John Astley. On a recent visit she had glimpsed the tower of unsold chairs and Anne Kellaway’s thin soup, and afterward had ordered her husband to help the family. “You’ve got to get over that gal, chuck,” Dick Butterfield had said. He had not said no, however. In his way, Dick Butterfield too felt badly about Maisie.