Burning Bright by Tracy Chevalier Page B

would not have it be quite so long. London women seemed to push the length of a ribbon or the angle of a hat just that bit further than Anne Kellaway would dare to herself.
    Among the traffic walked a man with a tray of white crosses on his head, calling, “Hot-cross buns! Four a penny, cheap for Easter, hot-cross buns! Buy ’em now, last day till next year!” He stopped in front of the house, just below Anne Kellaway, having found a customer. From the other direction strolled Miss Pelham, her bonnet festooned with tiny yellow ribbons. Anne Kellaway snorted, trying to mask the laugh that had begun to bubble up.
    â€œWhat is’t, Ma?” Maisie asked, looking up from wiping clean the table.
    â€œNothing. Just Miss Pelham in a silly hat.”
    â€œLet me see.” Maisie came over to the window, peered down, and began to giggle. “She looks like she’s had a pile of straw dumped on her head!”
    â€œShh, Maisie, she’ll hear you,” Anne Kellaway replied, though not very fiercely. As they watched, a gray horse pulling a peculiar two-wheeled vehicle trotted up the road, scattering bonnet wearers and potential bun buyers to the right and left. The cart had big wheels and peculiar dimensions, for though short and narrow, it had a high roof; on the side was a long vertical sign that proclaimed in black letters, ASTLEY’S ROYAL SALOON AND NEW AMPHITHEATRE PROUDLY ANNOUNCES ITS NEW SEASON BEGINNING TONIGHT! SPECTACULAR ACTS TO EXCITE AND STIMULATE! DOORS OPEN 5.30 P.M., PROMPT START 6.30 P.M .
    Anne and Maisie Kellaway gaped as the gig drew up in front of Miss Pelham’s house and a boy jumped down and said something to Miss Pelham, who frowned and pointed up at the Kellaways’ window. Anne Kellaway shrank back, but was not quick enough at pulling Maisie out of sight as well.
    â€œWait, Ma, she’s beckoning to us!” Maisie pulled Anne Kellaway forward again. “Look!”
    Miss Pelham was still frowning—as she always did when anything to do with the Kellaways disturbed her—but she was indeed gesturing to them.
    â€œI’ll go down,” Maisie declared, turning toward the door.
    â€œNo, you won’t.” Anne Kellaway stopped her daughter with a steely tone and a hand on her shoulder. “Jem, go and see what they want.”
    Jem left the pot he had been scouring and raced down the stairs. Maisie and Anne watched from the window as he exchanged a few words with the boy, who then handed him something white. He stared at whatever it was he held, while the boy jumped back into the gig and the driver tapped his whip lightly on the horse’s neck and sped away up Hercules Buildings toward Westminster Bridge Road.
    Jem returned a moment later, a puzzled look on his face.
    â€œWhat is’t, Jem?” Maisie demanded. “Oh, what have you got?”
    Jem looked down at some bits of paper in his hand. “Four tickets for Mr. Astley’s show tonight, with his compliments.”
    Thomas Kellaway looked up from the piece of beech he had been whittling.
    â€œWe’re not going,” Anne Kellaway declared. “We can’t afford it.”
    â€œNo, no, we don’t have to pay. He’s given them to us.”
    â€œWe don’t need his charity. We could buy our own tickets if we wanted.”
    â€œBut you just said—” Maisie began.
    â€œWe’re not going.” Anne Kellaway felt like a mouse chased by a cat from one side of a room to the other.
    Jem and Maisie looked at their father. Thomas Kellaway was gazing at them all but did not say anything. He loved his wife, and wanted her to love him back. He would not go against her.
    â€œHave you finished that pot, Jem?” Anne Kellaway asked. “Once you do we can go for our walk.” She turned away toward the window, her hands shaking.
    Maisie and Jem exchanged glances. Jem went back to the pot.

2
    In the two weeks they’d been in Lambeth, the