Maggie was not really listening, but thinking. To her it was as if a story had been laid out before her with its clear beginning and middle, and she was now responsible for its safe passage to the end. “Don’t you worry, Maisie,” she said. “I know what to do.”
2
Maggie was not sure what a silver caddy spoon was worth, but she suspected it would more than cover two passengers by coach to Dorchester, with a bit left over to help Maisie.
She decided to tackle Charlie head-on. After leaving Maisie in the Blakes’ garden, she headed for the pubs he drank in, starting with the Pineapple and Hercules Tavern, then moving on to the Crown and Cushion, the Old Dover Castle, and the Artichoke, before she had the idea to return to the Canterbury Arms. Charlie Butterfield had a weakness for one of the barmaids there, who had patched him up when Maggie led him in from Cut-Throat Lane the previous December. The Canterbury Arms was also discreetly anti-Association, those who worked there keeping men from that group waiting just that much longer before serving them, and then giving them sour beer. Charlie had kept his head low with the Association ever since the confrontation at the Blakes’ house.
Maggie found him standing at the bar, chatting to the barmaid. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “It’s important.”
Charlie smirked and rolled his eyes at the barmaid, but allowed his sister to lead him to a quiet corner. Since the night in Cut-Throat Lane, they had got on better, having reached a wordless understanding negotiated via Jem’s blow and sealed as Maggie led her brother, bloody and dizzy, out of the dark and toward the pub’s lights. Maggie no longer blamed him for what happened on Cut-Throat Lane, and he was no longer so cruel to her. Indeed, as painful as her confession to Jem had been that night, after it Maggie felt older and lighter, as if ridding herself of a pocket full of stones.
“I need that spoon money,” Maggie announced when they’d sat down. She had found these days that it was best to be straight with him.
Charlie raised his eyebrows at his sister, both now scarred, for Jem’s blow had left its mark. “What you want it for?”
“Maisie.” Maggie explained what had happened.
Charlie slammed down his mug. “That bastard. I should’ve ripped his teeth out that night.”
“Well, it’s too late now.” Maggie marveled at how quickly Charlie could get angry at just about anything. Even his attempts to flirt were laced with violence-usually boasts of which girl’s sweetheart he would fight and how hard he could punch.
Charlie sat back and slugged his beer. “Anyway, I don’t have the money now.”
“Get it.”
When he laughed, she repeated herself. “Get it, Charlie. I don’t care how, but I want it tomorrow, or the next day. Please,” she added, though the word held little currency with him.
“Why so quick? She’s been here all these months-she can wait a little longer.”
“She wants to have her baby back home. Wants it to be a Piddle baby, God help her.”
“All right. Give me a day or two and I’ll get you what you need for the coach fare.”
“And a little extra for Maisie.”
“And the extra.” Though Charlie was no longer interested in Maisie-seeing John Astley’s mouth on her breast had cured him of that-the ghost of his attraction seemed to encourage him to be generous for once.
“Thanks, Charlie.”
He shrugged.
“One more thing-don’t tell Ma and Pa. They won’t understand, and they’ll just try an’ stop me, say it’s a waste of money and none of my business. You can tell ’em once I’ve gone-where I’ve gone and why.”
He nodded. “And when you’re coming back.”
3
Next Maggie booked two places on the London-to-Weymouth coach leaving in two and a half days, and hoped Charlie would have the money in time. Then she called on the Blakes to tell them, for she did not want Maisie to sneak away, after all they had done for her. Mrs. Blake seemed to know her business was serious, for she led her up to the front sitting room on the first floor, where Maggie had never been. While Mrs. Blake went to fetch her husband and some tea, Maggie peered at the walls, which were crowded with paintings and engravings, mostly by Mr. Blake. She had previously seen only glimpses of drawings in his notebook, or the odd page of a book.
The pictures were mostly of people, some naked, many wearing robes that clung to them in a way that made them look naked anyway. They were walking or lying on the ground, or looking at one another, and few seemed happy or content, as the figures Maggie had seen in Songs of Innocence were; instead they were worried, terrified, angry. Maggie felt anxiety rising in her own throat, but she could not stop looking at them, for they reminded her of echoes of feelings and remnants of dreams, as if her mind were a hidey-hole that Mr. Blake had crawled into and rummaged through before pulling the contents halfway out.
When the Blakes came in they had Maisie with them, though Mrs. Blake herself carried the tray that held a teapot and cup, which she set on a side table next to the armchair Mr. Blake gestured Maggie to. Maggie wasn’t sure if she ought to pour the tea herself, and so left it, till Mrs. Blake took pity on her and poured out a cup for her.
“An’t you having any, ma’am?” Maggie asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Blake and me don’t drink it-it’s just for our guests.”
Maggie stared at the brown liquid, too self-conscious to bring it to her lips.
Mr. Blake saved the awkward moment by leaning forward in the armchair opposite and fixing his big bright eyes on her-eyes that Maggie recognized now as being in many of the faces in the pictures on the wall; she felt as if there were a dozen pairs of William Blake’s eyes all watching her. “Well, now, Maggie,” he said, “Kate tells me you have something you want to say to us.”
“Yes, sir.” Maggie glanced at Maisie, who was standing against the door, her eyes already welling with tears when they hadn’t even begun discussing her. Then Maggie laid out the plan to the Blakes. They listened courteously, Mr. Blake’s gaze steady on her, Mrs. Blake looking into the unlit fire, not needed now in summer.
When Maggie finished-and it didn’t take long to tell them she would accompany Maisie on the coach to Dorsetshire, and that they would leave in two days-Mr. Blake nodded. “Well, Maisie, Kate and I knew you would leave us eventually, didn’t we, Kate? You’ll be needing the coach fare, won’t you?”
Mrs. Blake shifted, and her hand stirred in the folds of her apron, but she said nothing.
“No, sir,” Maggie announced with pride. “That’s taken care of. I got the money myself.” She had never been able to say that before about something as significant as two pounds for two coach fares. Maggie had rarely had more than sixpence of her own; even her mustard and vinegar money had gone straight to her parents, bar a penny or two. The luxury of being able to refuse Mr. Blake’s money was a feeling she would long savor.
“Well, now, my girl, if you’ll wait a moment, I’m going to get something from downstairs. I won’t be a minute, Kate.” Mr. Blake jumped up and was out of the door almost before Maisie could get out of the way, leaving the two girls with Mrs. Blake. “Drink your tea, Maggie,” she said gently, and now, without Mr. Blake’s persistent eyes on her, Maggie found that she could.
“Oh, Maggie, can you really pay the fares?” Maisie knelt at her side.