Ma,’ Maisie murmured, as if soothing a child. ‘Let’s get some things inside now. What about these pots?’
Jem let Maisie calm their mother. He had heard often enough during their journey of her worries about London. She had never betrayed such nerves in Dorsetshire, and her rapid transformation from capable countrywoman to anxious traveller had surprised him. If he paid too much attention to her, he began to feel anxious himself. He preferred instead to study the girl holding the horse. She was lively looking, with tangled black hair, brown eyes fringed with long lashes, and a V-shaped smile that made her chin as pointy as a cat’s. What interested him most, however, was seeing the terror and regret that flashed across her face as she mentioned the dead man; when she swallowed, he felt sure she was tasting bile. Despite her cockiness, Jem pitied her. After all, it was certainly worse to discover a dead man than a dead cat – though the cat had been his, and he’d been fond of it. He had not, for instance, found his brother, Tommy; that grim task had been left to his mother, who had run into the workshop from the garden, a look of horror on her face. Perhaps that explained her anxiety about everything since then.
‘What you doin’ at Hercules Buildings, then?’ Maggie said.
‘Mr Astley sent us,’ Jem answered.
‘He invited us to London!’ Maisie interjected. ‘Pa fixed a chair for him, and now he’s come to make chairs in London.’
‘Don’t say that man’s name!’ Anne Kellaway almost spat the words.
Maggie stared at her. Few people had a bad word to say about Philip Astley. He was a big, booming, opinionated man, of course, but he was also generous and good-natured to everyone. If he fought you, he forgot it a moment later. Maggie had taken countless pennies off him, usually for simple tasks like holding a horse still for a moment, and had been allowed in free to see shows with a wave of his liberal hand. ‘What’s wrong with Mr Astley, then?’ she demanded, ready to defend him.
Anne Kellaway shook her head, grabbed the pots from the cart, and strode up to the house, as if the man’s name were physically propelling her inside. ‘He’s one of the best men you’ll meet in Lambeth!’ Maggie called after her. ‘If you can’t stomach him you won’t find no one else to drink with!’ But Anne Kellaway had disappeared upstairs.
‘Is this all of your things?’ Maggie nodded at the cart.
‘Most of it,’ Maisie replied. ‘We left some with Sam – he’s our older brother. He stayed behind. And – well – we’d another brother too, but he died not long ago. So I’ve only had brothers, you see, though I did always want a sister. D’you have sisters?’
‘No, just a brother.’
‘Ours be marrying soon, we think, don’t we, Jem? To Lizzie Miller – he been with her for years now.’
‘Come on, Maisie,’ Jem interrupted, reluctant to have his family’s business made public. ‘We need to get these inside.’ He picked up a wooden hoop.
‘What’s that for, then?’ Maggie asked.
‘A chair mould. You bend wood round it to make it into the shape of a chair back.’
‘You help your pa make chairs?’
‘I do,’ Jem answered with pride.
‘You’re a bottom catcher, you are!’
Jem frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘They call footmen fart catchers, don’t they? But you catch bottoms with your chairs!’ Maggie barked with laughter as Jem turned bright red. It didn’t help that Maisie joined in with her own tinkling laugh.
Indeed, his sister encouraged Maggie to linger, turning back as she and Jem reached the door with the hoops looped around their arms. ‘What’s your name?’ she called.
‘Maggie Butterfield.’
‘Oh, you be a Margaret too! In’t it funny, Jem? The first girl I meet in London and she do have my name!’
Jem wondered how one name could be attached to two such different girls. Though not yet wearing stays the way Maisie did, Maggie was fuller and curvier, padded by a layer of flesh that reminded Jem of plums, while Maisie was slim, with bony ankles and wrists. Though intrigued by this Lambeth girl, he didn’t trust her. She may even steal something, he thought. I’ll have to watch her.
Immediately he felt ashamed of the thought, though it didn’t stop him from glancing out of the open front window of their new rooms a few minutes later to make sure Maggie wasn’t rummaging in their cart.
She wasn’t. She was holding Mr Smart’s horse steady, patting its neck as a carriage passed. Then she was sniggering at Miss Pelham, who had come back outside and was discussing her new lodgers in a loud voice. Maggie seemed unable to keep still, hopping from one foot to the other, her eyes caught by passers-by: an old woman walking along who cried out, ‘Old iron and broken glass bottles! Bring ’em to me!’, a young girl going the opposite way with a basket full of primroses, a man pulling the blades of two knives across each other, calling out above the clatter, ‘Knives sharpened, get your knives sharpened! You’ll cut through anything when I’m done with you!’ He pulled his knives close to Maggie’s face and she flinched, jumping back as he laughed. She stood watching the man go, trembling so that the Dorsetshire horse bowed his head towards her and nickered.
‘Jem, open that window wider,’ his mother said behind him. ‘I don’t like the smell of the last people.’
Jem pushed up the sash window, and Maggie looked up and saw him. They stared at each other, as if daring the other to look away first. At last Jem forced himself to step back from the window.
Once the Kellaways’ possessions were safely upstairs, they all went back out to the street to say goodbye to Mr Smart, who would not stay the night with them, being anxious to make a start back to Dorsetshire. He’d already seen enough of London to provide weeks of anecdotes at the pub, and had no desire to be there still come nightfall, when he was sure the devil would descend on the inhabitants – though he didn’t say so to the Kellaways. Each found it hard to let go of their last link to the Piddle Valley, and delayed Mr Smart with questions and suggestions. Jem held on to the side of the cart while his father discussed which travelling inn to aim for; Anne Kellaway sent Maisie up to dig out a few apples for the horse.
At last Mr Smart set off, calling ‘Good luck an’ God bless’ee!’ as he pulled away from no. 12 Hercules Buildings, muttering under his breath, ‘An’ God help’ee too.’ Maisie waved a handkerchief at him even though he didn’t look around. As the cart turned right at the end of the road, slipping in among other traffic, Jem felt his stomach twist. He kicked at some dung the horse had left behind, and though he could feel Maggie’s eyes on him, he didn’t look up.
A few moments later, he sensed a subtle shift in the sounds of the street. Although it continued to be noisy with horses, carriages and carts, as well as the frequent cries of sellers of fish and brooms and matches, of shoe blackeners and pot menders, there seemed to be a quiet pause and a turning of attention that wound its way along Hercules Buildings. It reached even to Miss Pelham, who fell silent, and Maggie, who stopped staring at Jem. He looked up then, following her gaze to the man now passing. He was of medium height, and stocky, with a round, wide face, a heavy brow, prominent grey eyes, and the pale complexion of a man who spends much of his time indoors. Dressed simply in a white shirt, black breeches and stockings, and a slightly old-fashioned black
