Burning Bright. Tracy Chevalier

which he was constantly raising to ladies he recognised or would like to recognise. Accompanied by the ever-present John Fox, he trotted down the steps of the amphitheatre, strode up to the cart, raised his hat to Anne Kellaway, shook Thomas Kellaway’s hand, and nodded at Jem and Maisie. ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he cried, brusque and cheerful at the same time. ‘It is very good to see you again, sir! I trust you are enjoying the sights of London after your journey from Devon?’

      ‘Dorsetshire, sir,’ Thomas Kellaway corrected. ‘We lived near Dorchester.’

      ‘Ah, yes, Dorchester – a fine town. You make barrels there, do you?’

      ‘Chairs,’ John Fox corrected in a low voice. This was why he went everywhere with his employer – to provide the necessary nudges and adjustments when needed.

      ‘Chairs, yes, of course. And what can I do for you, sir, ma’am?’ He nodded at Anne Kellaway a touch uneasily, for she was sitting ramrod straight, her eyes fixed on Mr Smart, now up on Westminster Bridge, her mouth pulled tight like a drawstring bag. Every inch of her gave out the message that she did not want to be here or have anything to do with him; and that was a message Philip Astley was unused to. His fame made him much in demand, with too many people seeking his attention. For someone to display the opposite threw him, and immediately made him go out of his way to regain that attention. ‘Tell me what you need and I will give it you!’ he added, with a sweep of his arm, a gesture lost on Anne Kellaway, who kept her eyes on Mr Smart.

      Anne Kellaway had begun to regret their decision to move from Dorsetshire almost the moment the cart pulled away from their cottage, the feeling deepening over the week they spent on the road picking their way through the early spring mud to get to London. By the time she sat in front of the amphitheatre, not looking at Philip Astley, she knew that being in London was not going to take her mind from her dead son as she’d hoped it might; if anything, it made her think of him even more, for being here reminded her of what she was fleeing. But she would rather blame her husband, and Philip Astley too, for her misfortune, than Tommy himself for being such a fool.

      ‘Well, sir,’ Thomas Kellaway began, ‘you did invite me to London, and I’m very kindly accepting your offer.’

      ‘Did I?’ Philip Astley turned to John Fox. ‘Did I invite him, Fox?’

      John Fox nodded. ‘You did, sir.’

      ‘Oh, don’t you remember, Mr Astley?’ Maisie cried, leaning forward. ‘Pa told us all about it. He and Jem were at your show, an’ during it someone were doing a trick atop a chair on a horse, an’ the chair broke and Pa fixed it for you right there. An’ you got to talking about wood and furniture, because you trained as a cabinet maker, didn’t you, sir?’

      ‘Hush, Maisie,’ Anne Kellaway interjected, turning her head for a moment from the bridge. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about all that.’

      Philip Astley gazed at the slim country girl talking with such animation from her perch and chuckled. ‘Well, now, miss, I do begin to recall such an encounter. But how does that bring you here?’

      ‘You told Pa if he ever wanted to, he should come to London and you would help him set himself up. So that’s what we done, an’ here we be.’

      ‘Here you be indeed, Maisie, all of you.’ He turned to Jem, judging him to be about twelve and of the useful age to a circus for running errands and helping out. ‘And what’s your name, lad?’

      ‘Jem, sir.’

      ‘What sort of chairs are those you’re sitting next to, young Jem?’

      ‘Windsors, sir. Pa made ’em.’

      ‘A handsome chair, Jem, very handsome. Could you make me some?’

      ‘Of course, sir,’ Thomas Kellaway said.

      Philip Astley’s eyes slid to Anne Kellaway. ‘I’ll take a dozen of ’em.’

      Anne Kellaway stiffened, but still did not look at the circus man, despite his generous commission.

      ‘Now, Fox, what rooms have we got free at the moment?’ he demanded. Philip Astley owned a fair number of houses in Lambeth, the area around the amphitheatre and just across Westminster Bridge from London proper.

      John Fox moved his lips so that his moustache twitched. ‘Only some with Miss Pelham at Hercules Buildings – but she chooses her own lodgers.’

      ‘Well, she’ll choose the Kellaways – they’ll do nicely. Take ’em over there now, Fox, with some boys to help unload.’ Philip Astley lifted his hat once more at Anne Kellaway, shook Thomas Kellaway’s hand again, and said, ‘If you need anything, Fox’ll see you right. Welcome to Lambeth!’

       FOUR

      Maggie Butterfield noticed the new arrivals right away. Little escaped her attention in the area – if someone moved in or out, Maggie was nosing among their belongings, asking questions and storing away the information to relay to her father later. It was natural for her to be attracted to Mr Smart’s cart, now stopped in front of no. 12 Hercules Buildings, and study the family unloading it.

      Hercules Buildings was made up of a row of twenty-two brick houses, book-ended by two pubs, the Pineapple and the Hercules Tavern. Each had three storeys as well as a lower-ground floor, a small front garden, and a much longer garden at the back. The street itself was a busy cut-through taken by residents of Lambeth who wanted to cross Westminster Bridge but did not fancy their chances on the poor, ramshackle lanes along the river between Lambeth Palace and the bridge.

      No. 12 Hercules Buildings boasted a shoulder-high iron fence, painted black, with spikes on top. The ground of the front garden was covered with raked pebbles, broken by a knee-high box hedge grown in a circle, with a bush severely pruned into a ball in the middle. The front window was framed by orange curtains pulled half to. As Maggie approached, a man, a woman, a boy her age and a girl a little older were each carrying a chair into the house while a small woman in a faded yellow gown buzzed around them.

      ‘This is highly irregular!’ she was shouting. ‘Highly irregular! Mr Astley knows very well that I choose my own lodgers, and always have done. He has no right to foist people on me. Do you hear me, Mr Fox? No right at all!’ She stood directly in the path of John Fox, who had come out of the house with his sleeves rolled up, followed by a few circus boys.

      ‘Pardon me, Miss Pelham,’ he said as he sidestepped her. ‘I’m just doing what the man told me to do. I expect he’ll be along to explain it himself.’

      ‘This is my house!’ Miss Pelham cried. ‘I’m the householder. He’s only the owner, and has nothing to do with what goes on inside.’

      John Fox picked up a crate of saws, looking as if he wished he hadn’t said anything. Miss Pelham’s tone seemed also to bother the unattended cart horse, whose owner was also helping to carry the Kellaways’ possessions upstairs. It had been standing docilely, stunned into hoof-sore submission by the week-long journey to London, but as Miss Pelham’s voice grew higher and shriller, it began to shift and stamp.

      ‘You, girl,’ John Fox called to Maggie, ‘there’s a penny for you to hold the horse steady.’ He hurried through the gate and into the house, Miss Pelham at his heels, still complaining.

      Maggie stepped up willingly and seized the horse’s reins, delighted to be paid for a front-row view of the proceedings. She stroked the horse’s nose. ‘There now, boy, you old country horse,’ she murmured. ‘Where you from, then? Yorkshire, is it? Lincolnshire?’ She named the two areas of England she knew anything about, and that was very little – only that her parents had come from those parts, though they’d lived in London twenty years. Maggie had never been outside of London; indeed, she rarely enough went across the river to its centre, and had never been a night away from home.

      ‘Dorsetshire,’