Maisie brightened. “Oh, all sorts of things! Really, they be wonderful to me. I help with the cooking and the washing and the gardening. And you know”—she lowered her voice—“I think it’s done them good to have me, as it frees Mrs. Blake to help Mr. Blake more. He han’t been himself since they come for him that night o’ the riot, you see. The neighbors is funny with him, an’ give him looks. Makes him nervous, an’ he don’t work so well. It takes Mrs. Blake to steady him, and with me here she can do that. An’ I help Mr. Blake too. You know the printing press in the front room? I helped him and Mrs. Blake with that. D’you know, we made books. Books! I never thought I’d touch a book in my life other than a prayer book at church, much less make one. An’ Mrs. Blake has taught me to read—I mean really to read, not just prayers and such, but real books! At night sometimes we read out from a book called Paradise Lost. It’s the story of Satan and Adam and Eve, and it’s so thrilling! Oh, I don’t always understand it, because it talks about people and places I never heard of, and uses such fancy words. But it’s lovely to listen to.”
“Pear tree’s loss,” Maggie whispered.
“An’ then sometimes he reads his poems aloud to us. Oh, I love that.” Maisie paused, remembering. Then she closed her eyes and began to chant:
Tyger tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat
What dread hand? And what dread feet?
“There’s more, but that’s all I remember.”
Maggie shivered, though it was a warm day. “I like it,” she said after a moment. “But what do it mean?”
“I heard Mr. Blake say once to a visitor that it were about France. But then to another he said it were about the creator and the created.” Maisie repeated the phrase with the same cadence Mr. Blake must have used. A stab of jealousy shot through Maggie at the thought of Maisie spending cozy evenings by the fire reading with the Blakes and listening to Mr. Blake recite poetry and talk to cultured visitors. The feeling vanished, however, when Maisie put a hand to her back to ease the strain of the baby’s weight, and Maggie was reminded that, whatever period of grace Maisie was having, it wouldn’t last. Guilt quickly replaced jealousy.
“I didn’t realize that”—Maggie hesitated—“well, that you and John Astley had actually—you know. I thought we’d got back to you in time, me and Mr. Blake. I wasn’t gone long from the stables that night. I came back as quick as I could.”
Maisie’s eyes dropped to the ground, as if to study her weeding. “It didn’t take long, in the end.”
“Does Jem know? Do your parents?”
Maisie’s face crumpled. “No!” She began to cry again, great sobs that shook the whole of her ample body. Maggie put an arm around her and led her over to the steps of the summerhouse, where she let Maisie lay her head in her lap and sob for a long time, weeping as she had wanted to do for months but didn’t dare to in front of the Blakes.
At last her sobs died down, and she sat up, wiping her eyes on her apron. Her face had gone blotchy, and was broader and fleshier than it had been months before. Her bonnet looked like an old one of Mrs. Blake’s, and Maggie wondered what had happened to her silly, frilly Dorset mop cap. “What we going to do with this baby, then?” she said, surprising herself with the “we.”
Maisie did not start to cry again—she had rid herself of the dam of tears and was now drained and weary. “Ma and Pa keep sending word for me to come back—say they’ll get Jem to come up and fetch me.” Maggie caught her breath at the thought of Jem returning. “I been putting them off,” Maisie continued, “thinking it be better to have the baby here. Mrs. Blake said I could stay and have it. Then I could—could give it away and go home and no one would know. If it be a girl I could just take her round the corner to the Asylum for Female Orphans and…and…”
“What if it’s a boy?”
“I don’t—I don’t know.” Maisie was twisting and untwisting a corner of her apron. “Find some place to—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, so began a different one. “It be hard staying here, what with him just next door.” She looked fearfully up at the windows of John Astley’s house, then turned her face and pulled her bonnet close so that no one from there could recognize her. “Sometimes I can hear him through the walls, and it just makes me feel—” Maisie shuddered.
“Does he know about this?” Maggie nodded at Maisie’s belly.
“No! I don’t want him to!”
“But he might help—give you some money, at least.” Even as she said it Maggie knew it was unlikely John Astley would do even that. “Shame old Mr. Astley an’t here—he might do something for you, seeing as it’ll be his grandchild.”
Maisie shuddered again at the word. “Oh, he wouldn’t. I know that. I heard him with Miss Devine. You know, the slack-rope dancer. She were in the same state as me—and by the same man. Mr. Astley were awful to her—threw her out of the circus. He wouldn’t help me.” She gazed at the brick wall dividing the Blakes from Miss Pelham. “Miss Devine were kind to me once. I wonder what she did.”
“I can tell you that,” Maggie said. “I heard she went back to Scotland to have her baby.”
“Did she?” Maisie brightened a little at this news. “Did she really?”
“Is that what you want to do—go back to Dorsetshire?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. Mr. and Mrs. Blake have been so good to me, and I’m so grateful, but I miss Ma and Pa, and especially Jem. I miss him dreadful.”
“So do I,” Maggie agreed before she could stop herself, so grateful to have someone else concur with her own feelings. “I miss him dreadful too.” After a pause, she added, “You should go home, then. Your family’d take you in, would they?”
“I think so. Oh, but how would I get there? I han’t any money, and besides, I can’t go alone, not when the baby be due soon. I don’t dare ask the Blakes—they be so busy these days, and besides, though they’ve a big house, they really han’t any money. Mr. Blake don’t sell much of what he makes because it be so…so…well, difficult to understand. I think even Mrs. Blake don’t understand what he means sometimes. Oh, Maggie, what do we do?”
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 un
derstanding 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.
“Course. I said I would, didn’t I?” Maggie didn’t add that she was still waiting for Charlie to give her the money.
Mrs. Blake was going around the walls, straightening the prints and paintings. “You will be careful, girls, won’t you? If you start to feel ill or have pains, Maisie, you’ll get the coachman to stop.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you been in many coaches, Mrs. Blake?” Maggie asked.
Mrs. Blake chuckled. “We’ve never been out of London, my dear.”
“Oh!” It had not occurred to Maggie that she might be doing something the more experienced Blakes had not.
“We’ve walked out in the countryside, of course,” Mrs. Blake continued, brushing the back of Mr. Blake’s armchair. “Sometimes a long way. But always within a half day’s walk of London. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be so far away from what you know. Mr. Blake knows, of course, for he journeys far and wide in his mind. Indeed, he’s always someplace else. Sometimes I see very little of him.” She let her fingers rest on the ridge of the armchair’s back.
“’Tis hard,” Maisie murmured, “being in one place, and thinking about t’other so.” Tears began to roll down her face. “I’ll be so glad to see the Piddle Valley again, no matter what they think of me when they see me.” She quickly dried her eyes with a corner of her apron when she heard Mr. Blake’s step on the stairs.
He came in with two small, flat, identical packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “This is for you, and that for Jem when you see him,” he said. “For helping me when I most needed it.” As he handed the packages to Maggie, she heard the sharp catching of Mrs. Blake’s breath in her throat.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Blake!” Maggie whispered in confusion as she held one in each hand. She didn’t receive many gifts, and certainly not from someone like Mr. Blake; she wasn’t sure if she was meant to open them now or not.
“Take good care of those, my dear,” Mrs. Blake said in a tight voice. “They’re precious.”
That decided Maggie—she wouldn’t open them just yet. Stacking them together,
she slipped them into her apron pocket. “Thank you,” she repeated, wanting to cry but not knowing why.
4
Another surprise awaited Maggie out in the street. Now that the Kellaways no longer lived at no. 12 Hercules Buildings, she never bothered to give the house more than a glance as she passed. This time, though, she heard Miss Pelham’s raised voice and looked to see who was on the receiving end. It was a girl Maisie’s age, rough in a torn satin skirt that strained against the protruding bump only a little smaller than Maisie’s.
“Go away!” Miss Pelham was shouting. “Get out of my garden! That family was nothing but trouble when they lived here, and look—even now they drag down my good name. Who told you to come here, anyway?”
Maggie couldn’t hear the girl’s reply, but Miss Pelham soon supplied the information. “I’m going to have a word with Mr. Astley. How dare he send a tart like you round to me! His father wouldn’t dare do such a thing. Now, away! Go away, girl!”
“But where do I go now?” the girl wailed. “No one’ll have me like this!” As she turned from Miss Pelham’s door Maggie got a better look at her and, though she’d only seen her once before, recognized the straw hair and pale face and unmistakable pathos of Rosie Wightman, Maisie and Jem’s friend from Dorsetshire.
“Rosie!” Maggie hissed as the girl reached the gate. Rosie looked at her blankly, unable to distinguish Maggie’s face from the long parade of characters she’d been involved with over the months since she’d briefly met her.
“Rosie, are you looking for Maisie Kellaway?” Maggie persisted.
Rosie’s face cleared. “Oh, yes!” she cried. “She told me to come to the circus, an’ I did just now, but there be no Kellaways there no more. An’ I don’t know what to do.”
Miss Pelham had caught sight of Maggie. “You!” she crowed. “Of course I’m not surprised to find you hanging about with tawdry trash like her. She’s a fine example of what you’ll become!”
Burning Bright Page 27
