Burning Bright by Tracy Chevalier Page A

further.
    â€œNot a bodger, exactly, sir,” Jem answered. “He don’t travel from town to town, an’ he makes proper chairs, not the rickety ones bodgers make.”
    â€œCourse he does, lad, course he does. Where does he get his wood?”
    â€œOne of the timber yards by Westminster Bridge.”
    â€œWhose yard? Bet I can get it for him cheaper.”
    â€œMr. Harris. Mr. Astley introduced Pa to him.”
    Dick Butterfield winced at Philip Astley’s name. Maggie’s father could negotiate good deals most places, but not when Mr. Astley had got in before him. He and his landlord kept a wide berth of each other, though there was a grudging respect on both sides as well. If Dick Butterfield had been a wealthy circus owner, or Philip Astley a small-time rogue, they would have been remarkably similar.
    â€œWell, if I hear of any cheaper wood, I’ll let you know. Leave it with me, lad,” he added, as if it were Jem who’d approached him for advice. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call in one day, shall I, and have a word with your pa. I’m always happy to help out new neighbors. Now, you’ll be expected back home, won’t you? They’ll be wonderin’ what kept you.”
    Jem nodded and got up from the stool. “Thank’ee for the beer, sir.”
    â€œCourse, lad.” Dick Butterfield hooked his foot around Jem’s stool and dragged it back under the table. Maggie grabbed Jem’s half-drunk beer and took a gulp. “Bye,” she said.
    â€œZ’long.”
    On his way out, Jem passed Charlie standing with a crowd of other young men. Charlie glared at him and shoved one of his friends so that he knocked into Jem. The youths laughed and Jem hurried out, glad to get away from the Butterfields. He suspected, however, that he would see Maggie again, even if she had not said, “Bye for now,” this time. Despite her brother and father, he wanted to. She reminded him of September blackberries, which looked ripe but could just as easily be sour as sweet when you ate them. Jem could not resist such a temptation.

PART II
April 1792

1
    Anne Kellaway sometimes felt that a cord was tied at one end to her wrist and at the other to the window in the front room. She would be scrubbing potatoes, or washing clothes, or cleaning the ash from the fire, and find herself at the most inconvenient moment—hands smeared with dirt, sheets half-wrung, ash dusting the air—tugged to the window to look out. Often there was nothing unusual to see, but occasionally she was rewarded with something worthwhile: a woman wearing a hat trimmed with long peacock feathers; a man cradling a pineapple as if it were a newborn baby; a boy carrying an uprooted bay tree, its leaves trimmed into the shape of a dove. Maisie or Jem would have called to the others to come and see these unusual sights, but Anne Kellaway preferred to keep such little moments of pleasure to herself.
    Today there were no potatoes or ash or laundry keeping her away from the window: It was Easter Monday and she was meant to rest. Maisie and Jem were clearing up after their midday meal, leaving Anne Kellaway to gaze down at the crowds of people moving along Hercules Buildings, many of the women dressed in new Easter gowns and bonnets. She had never seen so much color, such bright cloth, such daring cuts, and such surprising trim on the bonnets. There were the usual daffodils and primroses as you might see on hats outside the Piddletrenthide church, but there were also exotic feathers, bunches of multicolored ribbons, even fruit. She herself would never wear a lemon on a bonnet, but she rather admired the woman passing who did. She preferred something simpler and more traditional: a plait of daisies or a posy of violets, or one ribbon, like the sky blue one she’d just seen dangling down a girl’s back almost to her knees. Anne Kellaway would happily wear that, though she