By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  Wesley, who hadn’t had a nightmare episode in weeks, asked Belle if she would like to accompany him to the event. “I’ve been reading about the planned festivities in the paper. Let’s close up for the day and attend. I think most of the shops on Oxford Street will be shut down, anyway.”

  “What? Miss Smythe or Miss Davidson didn’t want to accompany a handsome gentleman such as yourself?” she asked, smiling.

  “Many of the ladies who patronize the shop would think that only drunkards, escapees from Newgate, and fallen women will be there. I prefer your company, anyway. And I flatter myself that you prefer mine. Of course, our appearance together might ruin my chances for obtaining a proper wife.” Wesley’s eyes rolled upward as he laughed at his own joke.

  Wesley’s initial resentment of her refusal a few months ago to make him her equal in the shop had vanished quickly, and he was much as she remembered him in Leeds: fun and lighthearted.

  Her brother was in good spirits as they approached the crowded grounds of Hyde Park. The rectangular park, with its serpentine lake slicing it vertically down the middle, was teeming with people, tents with gaily flapping flags, and temporary booths set up to sell pies, drink, and souvenirs. Jubilee nuts and Regent cakes were popular offerings, with anxious buyers crowding the stands to purchase what were surely just bags of sugared almonds and plain biscuits.

  Tapped barrels of ale, porter, and stout were flowing regularly into tankards, and men were carrying their refreshments with them to enjoy any of the myriad of impromptu entertainments spread all over the grounds. A fiddler sawed his instrument merrily with several drunken bystanders sloppily dancing nearby.

  Stages had been erected, each offering different performances representing Napoleon’s defeat against their fancy, painted backdrops. Actors shouted to be heard against competing theatrical troupes, vendors hawking, and the booming of a band from the other side of the lake. Belle and Wesley strolled from stage to stage, trying to catch all of the shows.

  Children ran everywhere, shouting happily and enacting their own versions of the emperor’s downfall.

  Belle had never seen anything like it. Her mouth must have been hanging open, for Wesley looked at her and laughed.

  “London is madness, isn’t it? But I think the best is yet to come. Look there.” Wesley pointed to the lake. She’d not noticed the fleet of ships on its surface.

  A fleet of ships in the middle of a park? How could that be?

  Belle frowned, and Wesley laughed again at her confusion.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it? The papers referred to it as a Naumachia, which I believe is scheduled to start shortly.” He pulled out a pocket watch to confirm his statement. “Yes, any time.”

  “But what is a ... what is it called?” Belle asked.

  “A Naumachia. A mock sea battle. I’d say this one is Trafalgar. They’re just reduced wooden replicas of great sailing ships. The ships will chase each other around and the sailors aboard each one will fire blank shot at the enemy.”

  As if in response to Wesley’s words, several distant pops rang out and plumes of white smoke rose from one of the smaller ships. Men on board the French-flagged ship screamed in imaginary distress, but were soon laughing uncontrollably. Onlookers at the water’s edge joined in the merriment, shouting encouragement to the “French” sailors to jump into the water and drown themselves.

  Soon all of the ships were firing at one another in a melee of good humor, as those watching kept up their taunts and jeering that the French should surrender and strike their colors. At the conclusion of the “battle,” in which the French ships did indeed lower their flags in defeat, the crowd’s cheering was raucous and deafening.

  It was also completely thrilling.

  A great whoosh emanated from one of the French ships and Belle could see a tower of flames rising from it. The crowd was now delirious, and she found herself clapping and cheering. A small rowboat appeared on the lake, carrying one portly passenger and an oarsman. It came to the center of the lake while the play ships scattered to either side. The passenger stood, revealing the finery that couldn’t conceal his puffy figure. Spectators gasped in recognition and rushed to the water’s edge on both sides of the lake to hear what he had to say.

  Wesley gripped Belle’s shoulder. “It’s the Prince Regent!” he said as he pulled her along to get a better view.

  Prince George was unsteady on his feet in the rowboat, and put his hand on the rower’s shoulder for balance. With his other hand, he brushed something from his waistcoat, an affectation she’d seen before. His garments were the most elegant she had ever seen on him so far, but then, she knew little about royal attire. His clothing was dark, and he wore a high collar with a white neck cloth artfully arranged inside it. The medallion attached to a wide sash across his shoulder winked brilliantly even at a distance in the waning hours of daylight. He also wore what looked to be an admiral’s hat. In the distance behind him, the fired ship continued to spark flames upward.

  Belle held her breath. What would he say?

  “Dear people, fellow countrymen, what happy news brings us to this day.” The prince’s voice carried clearly across the water. “First, we celebrate the Glorious Peace that comes from our victory over that tyrant and oppressor, Bonaparte.”

  Huzzahs filled the air.

  “Our fearless military commander, the Duke of Wellington, showed that despot that even a hundred thousand of the best-trained French troops are no match for a handful of our brave and intrepid lads.”

  “Long live the Duke of Wellington!” shouted someone from the crowd. The people responded with cheers.

  “Quite right.” The prince raised his free hand to quiet everyone as he nodded toward the sound of the voice.

  “May this Glorious Peace reign over our country as long as the House of Hanover has reigned in gentleness and compassion over its people. For today we also celebrate the centennial anniversary of Hanoverian rule in England!”

  The applause and shouts of approval were more scattered this time. But George held up a hand again as though quieting a roaring crowd.

  “Yes, for one hundred years my family has presided over Great Britain, with no thought for our own comfort but only for the solace, cheer, and well-being of the citizenry.”

  He paused for the crowd’s approval, which was even sparser this time. Undaunted, he continued. “And so, my good friends, let us eat to contentment, have drink in good cheer, and place our faith in God’s providence that He will maintain the peace and Hanoverian rule for a hundred years more! I hereby decree that the tapped barrels throughout the park be made to provide one free tankard to all who gather here!”

  And this did stimulate widespread applause and shouts, as people stampeded to be the first to secure a cup of beer. Hardly anyone noticed as the prince sat down heavily again in his boat and was rowed back to shore, where he was helped into a waiting coach by no fewer than three liveried footmen.

  Belle and Wesley continued their promenade around the park, finding a secluded path away from much of the chaos produced from the free-flowing liquor. Wesley plucked a rose of deep coral from a bush and handed it to Belle, who tucked it over her ear inside her bonnet.

  Belle was strangely pleased by her brother’s tender action. Maybe she was wrong not to make him her equal partner. He was her only blood relative, after all. And he really had been very dedicated to the shop’s success. She would have to think more on it.

  They stopped at the sound of distant booming. Across the lake, behind the cluster of now-inactive ships, fireworks were exploding into the air in an animated display of reds, blues, whites, and yellows. The drawn-out screeching, followed by the rapid-fire pops of each fireworks spectacle, sent the blood coursing through Belle’s veins. She was alive, and happy, and proud to be a Briton in her country’s hour of glory. She was especially proud to be here with her brother, Wesley, who was—

  Where was he?

  She looked all around her. She was alone. S
he stood on tiptoe to see over the shoulders of people in the distance. Why would Wesley have abandoned her?

  And then she saw him, slipping rather furtively in between the flaps of an unmarked tent. A man stood in front of the flap, facing out, with his arms crossed on his chest, after Wesley went in. Belle started to go after Wesley, but realized that perhaps she wouldn’t be welcome there.

  He had invited her to accompany him to the fair. Why was he disappearing so mysteriously, without a word about where he was going?

  She shook her head. Sometimes her brother was impossible to decipher.

  She left the path to visit a long row of booths offering commemorative souvenirs near her brother’s tent. Vendors barked and hawked their wares at her, nearly driving her senseless. She fled to the end of the selling area, to a tented booth where the seller wasn’t booming about the quality of his wares. Instead, he sat quietly in an ornately carved chair before a spread of equally figured smoking pipes and walking canes on a table.

  Gentlemen’s accoutrements.

  Even though he was seated, Belle could see the man was tall and lean, yet he had the sinewy muscles of a hardworking craftsman running through his arms. He rose as she approached his booth, revealing that he wore a carpenter’s leather apron.

  “Madam,” he said. His voice was warm and good-humored. “May I interest you in something for your father? Or perhaps your husband?”

  “I have neither. But I’m here with my brother. He’s somewhere nearby. I thought I’d do some shopping.”

  “He left you alone?”

  “No, no, he went to ... visit with friends. He’ll be by shortly.” The man nodded slowly. “I see. Perhaps he would like a walking stick. This one”—he held up a cane of ebony, topped with a bust of Napoleon wearing his famed military hat, carved in a pale, yellow wood—“allows the user to keep the former emperor under his thumb at all times. Actually, all of the wood here was taken from one of Napoleon’s supply carriages.”

  “Truly? How did you take possession of one?” Belle ran her hand over the cane’s carving. It was exquisitely detailed.

  “There is a waxworker, Madame Tussaud, who has a traveling exhibition in Great Britain. She purchased a selection of Bonaparte’s artifacts to create a tableau of his capture. I sometimes create furniture pieces for her tableaux. She did not need the carriage, and I had good use for its wood.”

  A waxworker? How interesting. The man’s face was interesting, as well. Or, rather, arresting. Particularly his eyes. The right one was a more intense shade of green than the other. The green of a dense forest where one could become frighteningly lost without a map to retrace one’s steps. And almost as if that eye knew it had an advantage over the left one, he used it to appraise her more fully, turning his head just slightly so that his right eye was dominant in her line of sight.

  She cleared her throat and broke from his gaze. “Yes, well, what of these objects?”

  He smiled lovingly at the smoking pipes, as though they were his own children. “I particularly enjoyed carving these. As you can see, each one has a face carved into the bowl. Here is the Prince Regent, this one is the Duke of Wellington, and this is one I did from a painting of Lord Nelson. I use imported woods, like olive-wood and mesquite, to ensure hardness. These pipes will last forever.”

  Belle picked one up. They were just as detailed as the walking sticks. This man took great pride in his work. She wondered if Wesley was interested in picking up smoking.

  “I’m no expert, sir, but it seems to me that you are a fine craftsman.”

  The man blushed. “You honor me.”

  “It is no honor to hear the truth. My only dilemma will be which one to purchase.”

  The man gently took the pipe from her hand. His calloused thumb brushed her palm. Belle was surprised at the tenderness of his touch.

  “My apologies, miss. I didn’t mean to offend. Let me show you something else I have.” He lifted the lid of a plain oak trunk that sat on the ground next to him. Belle gasped.

  The exterior of the trunk was completely unfinished, raw, and ordinary, but as he pushed the lid back on its brass hinges she was taken aback by the interior. It was decorated with a bouquet of roses, pansies, and daffodils, done entirely in different-colored woods, each petal somehow cut and glued together perfectly, with no gaps between them. The flowers sat in a Greek urn, the pattern of which was also delicately cut from multiple types of wood.

  In fact, every inch of the interior was covered with designs: Fleur-de-lys, vines, and geometric patterns lined the sides, bottom, and trays of the trunk. Ironically, the trays contained mostly dusty tools.

  As usual, Belle spoke before thinking. “Such a beautiful home for such unattractive guests.” She put a hand to her mouth as though she could somehow stopper her words back up.

  The man reached into the depths of the trunk and pulled out another pipe, bringing it to her. He smiled as she took it. “My tool chest is my calling card. Every cabinetmaker owns one and takes great pride in it. But we never finish the outside, since it sits in the shop and is subject to wood shavings, splinters, and falling tools. I open it to show potential customers the inlay and marquetry I’m capable of making. I’m hoping to find some new customers while selling these tributes to the Great Peace.”

  She barely glanced at the pipe, so entranced was she by the chest. “I’ve been reading lately on those very subjects.” She pointed at the chest. “The patterns and designs that don’t actually create a picture, such as the scroll along that one tray, that’s inlay. Whereas your spectacular floral bouquet is marquetry.”

  “And just how did you come to read about wood designs?”

  “I’m a draper, but I’ve been called on to do work on the prince’s Pavilion in Brighton. I’ve been studying everything I can about interior design. To include furniture.”

  “Is that right, Miss ... ?”

  “Stirling. Annabelle Stirling.” Drat him, he didn’t believe her. She held out her hand. “And you, sir, are ... ?”

  He took her hand and bowed over it across the table of pipes. “Putnam Boyce. My friends call me Put. Rhymes with ‘shut.’ ”

  He said it like a poem he’d repeated thousands of times. He probably had.

  “We Boyces have been cabinetmakers for four generations, and before that, my great-great-grandfather was a sailmaker who did odd carpentry jobs on a ship. Myself, I’ve been cabinetmaking for about ten years now, since I was fourteen.”

  “Do you work with your father?”

  His smile faded. “My parents are both gone. I keep the shop by myself except for a couple of apprentices and a journeyman. I saw no need to turn it over to anyone else just because my neighbors thought I was too young to manage on my own.”

  Why, he’s just like me.

  She gave him her own tentative smile to try to restore his good humor. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Put-rhymes-with-shut Boyce.”

  Oh dear, but his face did gleam when he was amused. He held her gaze an uncomfortably long time.

  She cleared her throat again. “And so, you wanted to show me another pipe?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t planning to sell this one. Thought I might keep it. But I’ll sell it to you.”

  She held it up for closer inspection. The dark bowl was shaped like a stallion’s head, its mane carved to look as though the horse was galloping. It had a long stem that tapered up into a fine point for a mouthpiece.

  “Mr. Boyce, I couldn’t buy this. First, it must be very expensive, but also, it’s a grand piece that you should probably hand down to your son.”

  “I suppose that one day when I’m married and have a son, I can carve another one.”

  She was oddly pleased to learn he wasn’t married.

  Belle, get hold of yourself. What difference does it make what this man’s status is? You’ve no interest in men. Remember, you’ll lose control of your shop if you permit a man to share your life.

  A good reminder to keep Wesley a
t bay a little longer.

  “So how much do you want for it?” she asked.

  He named a price far lower than what he was asking for the other pipes on display. She started to demur, but he was already reaching over again and folding her hands around the pipe. His hands were rough and thick with years of shaping wood, yet held hers as though she were a delicate teacup. They belied his relatively young age.

  “Your brother should be able to enjoy many years of smoking with this. My salutations to him.”

  She handed over a few coins to him, which he dropped inside his apron. “Ah, while I’m thinking of it, you should also have this.” He reached once again into his trunk, and pulled out a wooden hair comb. The teeth were perfectly spaced on the dark brown wood, and the spine of the comb contained a small rose inlay in a pale wood.

  “It’s beautiful, Mr. Boyce. Are you sure?” She didn’t even attempt to say no. The comb was a spectacular piece of art. And he was making a gift of it to her.

  “It is my pleasure. And if you ever have any furniture needs, I hope you will come to my shop on Curtain Road in Shoreditch. I also make musical instruments, wall and ceiling moldings, and sconces.”

  Oh. He was just using the comb as his calling card. Very well.

  “Thank you, Mr. Boyce. I will remember you. I’m sure I’ll have need of a cabinetmaker in the future. For the prince’s residence.”

  He smiled. “Yes, Miss Stirling.”

  She turned to leave, but he stopped her. “I believe the wine and ale are free-flowing now, and it will be dark soon. Please be careful with your person, Miss Stirling. I wouldn’t like to see you come to any harm.”

  She tucked both the pipe and the comb inside her reticule. “I’ll be careful.”

  Not seeing Wesley anywhere yet, Belle decided to return to the path she was on, to see what other fragrant blooms she might find. She quickly lost interest in the flowers and shrubbery as the sun sank lower in the sky. The darker the sky became, the blacker her mood grew, despite her interesting conversation with that cabinetmaker.