PART VIII – July 1793
1
Maggie was sure she had heard the hurdy-gurdy player before; indeed, he was ruining the same song he’d ruined the last time he’d played at Hercules Hall, even down to the same wrong notes. Still, she hummed along to “A Hole to Put Poor Robin In” as she sat against the wall in Astley’s field. With ten Dorset Crosswheels completed in her lap, she was thinking about starting on High Tops. Before she began another, she yawned and stretched, for she’d been out all night helping Bet Butterfield with laundry. Though Maggie had finally decided to trade in mustard and vinegar for laundry and buttons, she was not sure that she would stick at it. Unlike her mother, she found it hard to sleep during the day, for she always woke feeling that she had missed something important-a fire or a riot or a visitor coming and going. She preferred to remain half-awake at least.
The hurdy-gurdy man changed tunes to “Bonny Kate and Danny,” and Maggie couldn’t resist accompanying him:
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.
When forty weeks were come and gone
Bonny Kate and Danny
When forty weeks were come and gone
She was delivered of a son-
And she called him little Danny!
When he finished, Maggie sauntered over to the man, who was sitting on the steps outside Hercules Hall.
“You, you saucy cat!” he cried when he saw her. “Don’t you ever stop prowlin’ round here?”
“Don’t you ever stop wrecking the same songs?” Maggie retorted. “And didn’t no one tell you you’re not to play those songs no more? You keep singin’ ‘Bonny Kate and Danny’ and the Association’ll take you away.”
The man frowned. “What you mean?”
“Where you been? You’re not to play bawdy songs, but the ones they’ve writ for you, about the King an’ that. Don’t you know?” Maggie stood straight and bellowed to the tune of “God Save the King”:
To sing Great George’s praise
Let all your voices raise
Noble the theme.
Britain has various charms
Inviting to her arms
God guards us from all harms
Sacred His name.
“Or this?” She began to the tune of “Rule Britannia”:
Since first the Georges wore the crown,
How happy were their subjects made-
She broke off and laughed at the hurdy-gurdy man’s expression. “I know, it’s silly, an’t it? But I don’t know why you’re bothering to play anyway. Didn’t you know Mr. Astley’s not here? He’s gone to France to fight. Came back from Liverpool this winter when the French King was executed and England declared war against France, and went straight off to offer his services.”
“What use is his horse dancing against the French?”
“No, no-old Astley, not his son. John Astley’s still here, runnin’ the circus. And I can tell you, he don’t hire musicians off the street the way his father did, so you can just give yourself a rest.”
The man’s face fell. “What’s old Astley doin’ over there? He’s too fat to ride or fight.”
Maggie shrugged. “He wanted to go-said as an old cavalry man, it was his duty. ’Sides, he’s been sending back reports from the battles, and John Astley reenacts ’em here. No one understands ’em much, but they’re great fun to watch.”
The man removed the hurdy-gurdy strap from around his neck.
“Wait-will you play me something before you go?” Maggie begged.
The man paused. “Well, you are a rascally little cat, but since you’ve saved me sittin’ here all day playing, I’ll do one for you. What’ll it be?”
“‘Tom Bowling,’” Maggie requested, even though she knew that hearing the song would remind her of Maisie Kellaway singing it down by the warehouses along the river, back when she barely knew Jem.
As the man played, Maggie swallowed the lump in her throat and hummed along, though she did not sing the words. The memory of Maisie singing fed the dull ache in her chest that had never entirely disappeared over the months since Jem had gone.
Maggie had never missed anyone before. For a time she had indulged the feeling, conducting imaginary conversations with Jem, visiting places they’d been together-the alcoves on Westminster Bridge, Soho Square, even the brick kiln where she’d last seen him. At the manufactory she’d met a girl from Dorsetshire and had got her to talk, just to hear the accent. Whenever she could get away with it she mentioned Jem and the Kellaways to her mother or father, just to be able to say his name. None of this brought him back, though; indeed, eventually it always led her to the look of horror on his face at the kiln that night.
Midway through the second verse, a woman with a lovely clear voice began to sing. Maggie cocked her head to listen: It seemed to be coming from either the Blakes’ or Miss Pelham’s garden. Maggie signaled thanks to the hurdy-gurdy player and walked back toward the wall. She doubted the singer was Miss Pelham-she was not the singing type. Nor had Maggie ever heard Mrs. Blake sing. Perhaps it was Miss Pelham’s maid, though the girl was so cowed that Maggie had never heard her speak, much less sing.
By the time she wheeled the Astley barrow over to the wall, the hurdy-gurdy and the singing had stopped. Maggie climbed onto the barrow anyway and hiked herself up the wall to spy into the gardens.
Miss Pelham’s garden was empty, but in the Blakes’ garden a woman was kneeling in the vegetable rows near the house. She wore a light gown and apron, and a bonnet with a broad brim to keep the sun off. At first Maggie thought it was Mrs. Blake, but this figure was shorter and moved less nimbly. Maggie had heard that the Blakes had taken on a maidservant, but she had not seen her, for Mrs. Blake continued to do the shopping and other errands. Maggie had not visited no. 13 Hercules Buildings for months; with Jem gone she’d felt shyer about knocking on their door on her own-though Mr. Blake did always nod and ask her how she was whenever they passed in the street.
As she watched the maid work, she heard the sound of horse hooves clopping down the alley toward Hercules Hall’s stables. The maid stopped what she was doing and turned her head to listen, and Maggie got the first of two shocks. The figure was Maisie Kellaway.
“Maisie!” she shouted.
Maisie jerked her head around, and Maggie scrambled over the wall and hurried toward her. For a second it seemed Maisie would jump up and run inside. She clearly thought the better of it, though, and remained crouched in the dirt.
“Maisie, what you doing here?” Maggie cried. “I thought you were in Dorsetshire! Didn’t you-hang on a minute.” She thought hard, then shouted, “You’re the Blakes’ maid! You never went back to Piddle-dee-dee, did you? You been here all this time!”
“Tha’ be true,” Maisie murmured. Casting her eyes down to the rich soil, she pulled a weed from a row of carrots.
“But-why didn’t you tell me?” Maggie wanted to shake her. “Why are you hiding away? And why did you run off like that, without even sayin’ good-bye? I know that old stick Pelham was after you to go, but you could have said good-bye. After all we been through together. You could have found me and said that.” Sometime during this rant, her words had been redirected at the absent Jem, and her welling tears as well.
Tears were always addictive to Maisie. “Oh, Maggie, I’m so sorry!” she sobbed, lumbering to her feet and throwing her arms around her friend. That was when Maggie got her second shock, for pressing into her stomach was what hadn’t been visible when Maisie was kneeling: the solid baby she carried inside her.