By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  Even more interesting were the names of artist-designers, such as Frederick Crace and Robert Jones. Mr. Crace she would soon meet. Would she maybe one day meet Mr. Jones, as well?

  According to Nash’s notes, the wealthier families were discarding the Georgian décor of the last hundred years, creating great opportunities for architects and artist-designers. Aristocratic and affluent merchant families were today remaking their homes to reflect the emerging style dictated by the man who would become George IV but was now merely titled the Prince Regent.

  Nash offered his opinion of the impact the Prince Regent would have on interior style. The prince had eclectic tastes, and loved nothing more than mixing them together in a chaotic blend of color and style. Straight, neo-classical lines could be happily combined with chinoiserie wallpaper and French over-gilding, making the prince giddy with joy.

  No wonder Belle thought the Circular Room at Carlton House looked ridiculous.

  And now she understood Nash’s outrageous ideas for the Pavilion.

  For further study, Belle even paraded about London, seeking out the designs of architects Nash had listed as noteworthy. The Drury Theatre façade improvements by Robert Adam; Henry Holland’s East India House, home to the British East India Company; and Nash’s multitude of terraced homes, as well as the beginnings of his planned Regent’s Canal, opened Belle’s eyes to the magnificent world of London architecture.

  She also spent time near Carlton House, walking the length of the street improvements Nash planned between the residence and Marylebone Park. She grasped now why there was such animated discussion in Parliament, given the extraordinary scope of it, and the number of existing homes and buildings to be torn down in the process of creating this straightened thoroughfare. An impressive and ambitious project, she decided.

  Inside Marylebone Park was a sign describing a canal that had just been approved by Parliament as part of the redevelopment of the area. The canal would begin from the River Thames at Limehouse, running under bridges, through locks, and past basins on its way to the Paddington Basin. The sign boasted that upon the project’s completion, London’s shipping efficiency would be unparalleled. The project was being financed by the Regents’ Canal Company. She ran a finger across the list of company leaders. John Nash was a director.

  Was there anything in London he wasn’t involved in?

  Belle hardly slept during these few weeks, instead transforming herself into a sea sponge, absorbing information then lying down to dry out before absorbing even more. Between studying and visiting customers in their homes to opine on their décor based on her newfound knowledge, she was exhausted.

  A Lady Derby sent a note summoning Belle to her residence at 23 Grosvenor Square. Belle arrived there with a bundle of samples, unsure whether Lady Derby was shopping for dress material or draperies. She soon realized that the countess really just wanted to see who Belle was.

  “Surely you’ve heard of me, Miss Stirling.”

  No, she hadn’t. It seemed a peculiar habit of the aristocrats she was meeting to assume that everyone knew of them and their great accomplishments.

  “I’m afraid I am at a loss... ,” Belle said helplessly.

  Lady Derby, a tall, slender woman of probably fifty years, who was nevertheless still quite beautiful, played the coquette with an increasingly uncomfortable Belle. “As notorious as I am, and you’ve never heard mention of me?”

  “I’m afraid I’m quite new to London. I’ve been many years in Yorkshire, madam.”

  “I started my own life from humble beginnings, too, in Liverpool. But I came to London and became the darling of Drury Lane. Are you sure you’ve never heard of me? I was Berinthia in Sheridan’s Trip to Scarborough, and Miss Tittup in Garrick’s Bon Ton. No? I married Lord Derby after leaving the stage, oh, fifteen years ago.”

  Something the woman said struck a memory in Belle’s mind. “Sheridan? Do you perchance mean the member of Parliament?”

  “Yes, he’s held posts in the government for years. It’s all he has since his theatre burned down three years ago. He and the prince are famous carousing partners. Have you met him?”

  “Not exactly. I saw him speak in Parliament when I went there to complain about the Luddites.”

  “You went to Parliament? And spoke during session?” Lady Derby looked at her thoughtfully. “How very remarkable.”

  Belle was uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Yes, madam. About the fabric you wished to inspect?”

  Lady Derby cast a bored eye over her samples. “Yes, these all look adequate. I understand you were quite frank with the prince’s architect when you visited Carlton House. They say the prince was quite taken with you and has talked of little else. I had to meet you for myself. Tell me, Miss Stirling, what do you think of our townhome? What changes would you make to this drawing room, for instance?” She swept a hand around her parlor.

  Was this a test? Was she expecting an honest assessment or was she intending to mock Belle? Best to be politic.

  “Well, if I may, Lady Derby, I’m guessing by the curved niches and the curves in the vaulted ceiling, as well as the rounded mantelpieces, that this home was designed by Robert Adam. And if this is so, then I would not change a single thing.”

  “Ah, well done, Miss Stirling, well done!” Lady Derby laughed, revealing teeth that were still white and perfect, despite her advancing age. “You would do well at court intrigue. As for me, I am more comfortable with rehearsed lines than with spontaneous witticisms. I wish Lord Derby were home. He would enjoy a look at you.”

  “Madam, I am not a zoo creature.” Belle had done it again. Learn to control your tongue, she swore inwardly.

  But the countess took no offense. “No, I suppose you are not. Being onstage does make one a zoo creature, albeit a cosseted and adored one. I don’t mind it myself. So we’ve established that you are neither a monkey nor a Bengal tiger. But you are certainly quite interesting. You’ve been requested to work on the prince’s Pavilion, have you not? I hear Mr. Nash has some rather devastatingly exceptional plans for it.”

  “Yes, madam, they are quite unique. I don’t believe there will be anything like it east of India. No baker has ever made a cake so layered with decoration and outrageous ornamentation,” Belle said, remembering Nash’s own description.

  “Really?” she breathed. “Lord Derby and I simply must get invited to his new palace when it’s finished. Derby says he wants to look for a property to buy in Brighton. He says I will marvel at how the resort town is growing.”

  “I hope to visit the town soon myself.”

  But Lady Derby was too absorbed in her own musings to care about Belle’s impending visit to Brighton.

  “I wonder if the princess will be permitted to see the Pavilion? Or will he make it the paradise of Lady Hertford, much as it was once Mrs. Fitzherbert’s heavenly realm? Maybe he even plans to sequester someone else there. There’s much to contemplate, isn’t there?”

  “Madam, I know of the prince’s troubles with his wife, but who are Lady Hertford and Mrs. Fitzherbert?” Belle couldn’t keep pace with what the countess was talking about.

  “Is there no newspaper in Yorkshire? Dear girl, if you are going to successfully serve the prince, you’d best know what he is about. Mrs. Fitzherbert was his wife. Or is his wife, depending upon your viewpoint. And those who surround the prince make sure not to have a viewpoint. He married her illegally nearly, what, three decades ago. She’s Catholic, you know. But when the king offered to absolve the prince’s debts if he married his cousin, Caroline of Brunswick, well, he discarded Mrs. Fitzherbert like a tattered old glove. It was quite the scandal.

  “Now that I think about it, Mrs. Fitzherbert still lives in Brighton. I wonder if ... no, he couldn’t be thinking to do that. Anyway, he married the princess, and hated her on sight. Could hardly make his parts work in order to ensure an heir.”

  Belle winced at Lady Derby’s crude phrasing.

  The countess continued. �
��They’ve a daughter, Charlotte, but he never lets the princess see her. He screeches like a banshee to all who will listen about how distressed and maligned he is about his marriage, but he slanders himself by carrying on with married heifers like Lady Hertford. Of course there have been others. Let’s see... .” Lady Derby held up a hand to count off on her fingers.

  “Mrs. Robinson, Mrs. Eliot, Lady Melbourne, Lady Jersey, Mrs. Armistead, and I’m sure there will be more after Lady Hertford.”

  She stopped as if only just realizing Belle was still there. “Goodness, whatever possessed me to talk like this to you?”

  Belle hardly knew how to respond. “The prince must be a rather extraordinary person.”

  “Extra-corpulent, yes. Extra-repulsive, maybe. But extraordinary—you might think so only if you are his mistress or his architect.”

  “Yes, madam. I suppose I shall have to be extra-cautious and extra-vigilant while I’m around the prince. Lest I raise Lady Hertford’s ire.” Belle gathered up her samples, realizing there was no actual business to be conducted here.

  “Ha! You do know how to fire a verbal broadside, don’t you? You’re not afraid of me at all as your superior.”

  “My only fear is that I’ve wasted time here without making a sale, and that I’ve made enough of a fool of myself that you’ll warn your friends not to hire me, either. My apologies for my frankness, Lady Derby; I’m afraid my tongue is usually three steps ahead of my good judgment.”

  “I take no offense, Miss Stirling. I was on the stage for years, you know—”

  Yes, so you’ve mentioned.

  “—and there’s very little anyone can say to surprise me. And when someone speaks so cleverly, well, it’s simply a grand divertissement, isn’t it? Never fear, everyone here on the square will hear how talented you are and will be calling on you in no time.”

  Belle rather doubted it, but bid proper good-byes nonetheless.

  The Prince Regent examined his cheek in the mirror, picking at a blemish while his visitor continued talking behind him. He unscrewed a small pot of concealer and daubed it at the reddened remains of the pimple. Was it covered? He wanted his skin to be flawless for his assignation with Lady Hertford tonight, since she so admired his complexion.

  He turned back to the center of the room, which was dominated by a large, round table awash in architectural drawings.

  “Tell me, Mr. Nash,” he interrupted his visitor. “How does my skin seem to you?” The prince jutted his cheek forward.

  “Sir?” Nash said.

  “Do you see any flaw on my face?”

  “No, none at all. Did you wish for one?” Nash smiled broadly at him.

  Damned pert, the architect was. And lowborn. But he did have outstanding ideas, unmatched by any others except the prince’s own.

  He mentally forgave Nash the slight and returned to the subject. “So, before you depart for Brighton, what’s the progress of Regent Street?”

  “Sir, as you know, there were many objections and criticisms to my plan, including the new sewer down the center of the street and the considerable compensations required for owners of property not already belonging to the Crown. I am confident, though, that a bill approving the necessary expenditures will pass next year.”

  “Excellent. And what of your canal company?”

  “I’ve passed responsibility for the project on to my associate, James Morgan, so that I can more fully concentrate on the Royal Pavilion. I expect construction to begin in October.”

  “Then everything proceeds on course. Let’s talk of more important things. What do you have to show me about my dearly beloved Pavilion?”

  Nash’s perpetual smile widened into a grin. The two men were much of one mind on the reconstruction of what had once been a small seaside villa. And the architect’s vision for it was nothing less than an Oriental confection of spires, turrets, and minarets. It would be simply fantastic beyond compare when it was complete. And if his father would stop holding on so ferociously to his own miserably crazy life, why then, George would be king and could exert far more control over his own purse strings.

  Parliament was to blame, too. He couldn’t remember a time that they weren’t colluding with his father to prevent him from accomplishing his dreams. If they’d only granted him a reasonable allowance to start with, he’d never have run up a pesky debt, forcing him to marry that disgusting creature from Brunswick. And the Pavilion would be much further along now than it was.

  Did no one care about his ruined life?

  Well, Lady Hertford did. As did Mr. Nash. Ah, that reminded him. He should mention something about a lack of funds to get caught up on the architect’s fees. But as Mr. Nash continued talking animatedly about his plans for the Pavilion’s kitchen, George thought it best to drop the matter for now.

  “You say you’ll be installing steam heating? I can just see the looks on foreign ambassadors’ faces when they see it.”

  Nash nodded. “And, of course, the kitchen will adjoin your new Banqueting Room. Your guests will not only be dumbfounded by the proximity of the kitchen to that room, but will go apoplectic with jealousy over the innovations and modernizations. It will be your greatest triumph.”

  “Superb, Nash, quite divine. My palace will be the envy of the Continent. Next time we meet, I want to discuss more Hindu influences to the interior. And finally, were you able to secure the Stirling girl?”

  “Of course. She is quite flattered to be hired to work on the Pavilion, and is also honored to have an opportunity to be in your presence again.”

  “Quite so. Then we’ll meet again on the coast.”

  Nash gathered his papers and gave a bow before leaving. It wasn’t deep enough to be called respectable, though. Come to think of it, Nash hadn’t called him “Your Highness” at all during their meeting. In fact, Nash rarely addressed him properly. No, the architect was entirely too brash.

  Brash, but extraordinarily talented. The prince supposed he’d have to beg for more money from the government in order not to lose Nash.

  But the prince forgot all about Nash’s fees as his valet finished preparing him for his evening with Lady Hertford. After all, a man of his prowess needed to satisfy his own personal needs before he could possibly worry about something as mundane as financial details, didn’t he?

  Belle was enthralled by the resort town of Brighton. Unlike the expanding industrial vista of Yorkshire, or the ancient mien of London society, Brighton was vibrant and alive, practically pulsing with energy now that the Prince Regent had decided to remake his residence there.

  London’s elite visited periodically to bathe in the waters of Brighton as a cure of any number of diseases. Some had even taken to sipping glasses of seawater, hoping to cure lingering or persistent diseases. Belle purchased a cup of it, which had been mixed with milk and heated, but nearly gagged in her valiant attempt to finish it.

  Visitors to Brighton, situated as it was on the Channel, had unfettered views of the great river’s activities. Standing on the brown, pebbly-sanded beach, Belle watched fishermen plying their trade near the shore, while pleasure yachts and merchant sailing ships occupied the waters farther out.

  Entertainment abounded, from the delightful to the crude. Tea parties, fireworks, theatre, bull roasts, horse races, shopping bazaars, coffeehouses, and cockfighting all had their devoted patrons. Members of society also went to dances and played cards at one of two Assembly Rooms, one at the Old Ship Inn and the other at Castle Tavern.

  The prince’s influence lay everywhere. Belle attended her first play with John and Mary Ann Nash at the Royal Theatre, so named because the prince gave his assent to have a theatre built on the site in 1806. They watched an actor by the name of Charles Kemble, playing Macduff in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, his performance drawing fervent applause. Mr. Nash, though, spent a great deal of time grumbling about who the architect of the theatre may have been, speculating that it was a Mr. Hides, whose work he didn’t appreciate.

 
; But it was a rare occurrence to see Mr. Nash in a petulant mood. Almost nothing seemed to permeate his personality, which was as cheery and sparkling as the sunshine warming Brighton’s copper-colored beaches.

  The Nashes had luxurious lodgings only a few blocks from the Pavilion. The lodgings consisted of two townhomes connected by doors on the ground floor and the floors above it. One entire home and the upper floors were for the family’s private use, and the ground floor of the second house, with its separate entrance, was dedicated to Mr. Nash’s architecture practice.

  The family lived almost royally, with so many servants Belle could hardly keep track of them, and a houseful of valuable art and furniture.

  Contrary to Belle’s first impression of Mrs. Nash upon meeting her on the front stoop of their London home, she soon learned that Nash’s wife was kind, if a bit flighty. Mrs. Nash seemed to enjoy having another woman around her. She never mentioned her first meeting with Belle outside the Nashes’ Dover Street residence, having seemingly forgotten it.

  Most of the woman’s attention was centered on her five children, who ranged in age from four to fourteen, and who she said were the product of an earlier marriage. They ran through the house in a joyous but completely undisciplined way whenever their father was not there, but skittered off to the spacious nursery on the top floor when he arrived home. As for Nash, he seemed to take very little notice of them whatsoever.

  Nash and his wife, the former Mary Ann Bradley, made an unlikely pair. Unfailingly polite to each other both in public and in private, they seemed neither to be particularly enamored, nor to bear animosity, toward each other. Their marriage struck Belle as amiable but distant.

  In fact, both husband and wife were warmer toward Belle than to each other. Peculiar, but no business of hers.

  As with the books and drawings he had given her to study, Belle threw herself into absorbing everything the architect had to say about his past.