By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  “I’ll confirm with Lady Derby, but I believe she’ll pay that. Please pick me up on your way to deliver it, so that we may present it together.”

  “As you wish.” He tugged at the material surrounding his neck again.

  And with no more business to conduct, Put escorted her home. Belle’s stomach fluttered as he bent over her hand in farewell.

  Stop that. He’s a craftsman, nothing more. Nor need he be more.

  Still, she looked forward to seeing him again in a month.

  But she was to be disappointed, for he sent one of his apprentices to her shop with the piece and she was trapped riding to Lady Derby’s with a young man, a boy really, who nattered on incessantly about the new Bilbo Catcher toy his employer had taught him to carve and the number of times he’d managed to swing the wooden ball into the cup thus far.

  It made for a long and dissatisfying expedition. And yet, it was a comfort, for now she knew that the cabinetmaker was not interested in her, else he would have come himself, and she would no longer be even the tiniest bit diverted from her resolve to stay in the unmarried state.

  Although a draper’s shop would be quite complementary to a cabinetmaker’s, wouldn’t it?

  There will be no more thoughts like that, Belle Stirling.

  But think about it she did, until Nash summoned her back to Brighton again.

  6

  Name or title what has he?

  Is he Regent of the sea?

  By his bulk and by his size,

  By his oily qualities,

  This (or else my eyesight fails),

  This should be the Prince of Whales.

  —Charles Lamb, 1812

  August 1816

  London

  “Your Highness, the food riots occurring across the country are of grave danger to your regency. Tens of thousands of people are dying. Your subjects need to know that you are concerned for them. Combine their suffering with the clamor for parliamentary reform that isn’t forthcoming and I believe we may have a dark confrontation with your subjects.” Lord Liverpool watched as George poured three different liqueurs into crystal glasses. The prince was experimenting with some new flavors imported from Italy.

  “But I do have sympathy for the plight of the downtrodden. Haven’t I told you so many times?” George sniffed appreciatively at one of the glasses, which held a thick, lime green liquid.

  The Prince Regent claimed to champion the Whigs and their desire for parliamentary reform, but Liverpool suspected his support was only due to his great hatred for his father, who was a staunch supporter of the Tories.

  Liverpool tried again.

  “Yes, but telling your ministers is not quite the same as the people seeing your face. Please, Your Highness, your subjects need comfort and assurance.”

  George drained the glass. “How often must I remind you that the people always love their monarch as long as Parliament defends him. If you were doing your work properly, the people wouldn’t need constant assuaging.”

  “But this is not a matter of simple unity between Parliament and monarch, sir. There are not only riots occurring, but typhoid fever in Ireland. If we do nothing, we may experience dangerous uprisings.”

  “Then perhaps I should repair myself to Windsor while you manage things.”

  Liverpool resisted the treasonous urge to strangle the Prince Regent. He hoped the monarchy could survive this man after he became king.

  Mr. Nash was waiting impatiently for her at the coaching inn in Brighton this time.

  “Heavens, my girl, what happened?”

  “A storm passed through Blindley Heath, and with the ground already so soft this year, trees were uprooted in the roads. We were rerouted twice.”

  “I see. Well, Mr. Crace is impatient to see you. Did you bring your samples?”

  Belle held up one of her two traveling cases. “In here.”

  “Then let’s not delay.”

  So without a moment to change or freshen up, Belle was whisked to the Royal Pavilion. Nash parted from her at the entrance so that he could find the prince, leaving her to face the Pavilion’s artist-designer on her own.

  Mr. Crace was standing in the middle of what was to become the Music Room, and which the artist-designer declared would be his finest achievement inside the palace. Crace had dictated colors of bright crimson, peacock blue, and burnished gold for this room that would eventually accommodate hundreds of guests to be entertained with selections from the prince’s favorite operas. For now, though, the room was barely more than an open space full of scaffolding. Belle’s draper shop could fit in here four times over.

  Mr. Crace looked up from where he was discussing some measurements with a carpenter. Visibly scowling, he gestured the workman away and crooked a finger to Belle to join him.

  “So I suppose you have the samples?”

  Belle opened the case and laid out several groupings of fabrics. Each group also had a coordinating wallpaper strip with it.

  “My shop is next to a wallpaperer. I had him make some samples, as well. I thought this grouping of cream and gold might—”

  Mr. Crace’s voice sliced through her. “So am I to understand that I am not only required to buy my fabrics exclusively from you, but my wallpaper, as well?”

  Belle was startled by the venom in his voice. “No, I just thought you might like to see—”

  “You think entirely too much, Miss Stirling. Keep your presentation to simply fabrics. Lest I soon have you telling me what musical instruments and dance chairs to put in here.”

  Belle blinked. What had she done to offend this man? Somehow, she was certain it was the prince’s doing, but there was no help for it at the moment.

  Clamping down on the oath forming in her mind, she instead replied, “As you wish,” and tossed the wallpaper sheets back into her bag.

  Having scored this victory over Belle, Crace was much more civil for the rest of the discussion, eventually deciding on many of Belle’s recommendations, including a long, knotted gold fringe for the festooned draperies planned for the room.

  He haughtily informed her of the deadline for the fabrics, a date that was nearly impossible to meet.

  “Mr. Crace, the mills will never be able to produce so much of this blue silk-satin so quickly. Even the mills that have machinery couldn’t do it. I’ll need a month more, at least.”

  “Naturally, I shouldn’t have expected that you could fulfill such a simple request.”

  Such a simple request?

  And then she realized that Frederick Crace had no interest whatsoever in tutoring her, or buying a single scrap of cloth from her. Somehow the prince’s fondness for her had resulted in Crace being forced to take her on. The question was, what was Mr. Nash’s participation in it?

  And was she in any position to question it?

  But for certain she wouldn’t be questioned and harangued by this dour, ill-tempered brute.

  Her next words tumbled out with abandon. “Mr. Crace, I’ve no doubt that you are a brilliant designer, and justifiably command the prince’s respect. However, you are quite despicable in your practices with your equals. And make no mistake, Mr. Crace, I am your equal. We both serve the prince, and we both enjoy the patronage of aristocrats. I provide high-quality goods and am fair in my pricing. I’ve spent many hours matching the best fabrics and passementerie possible according to your own instructions. I will not be misused like some French doxy just arrived in port.” Belle emphasized her words by thrusting all of her samples back into her bag and latching the straps closed.

  Crace stared at her, eyes bulging, though whether from shock or anger she wasn’t about to wait to find out. Belle escaped with her yardage orders as quickly as she could.

  Quickly realizing that Mr. Nash had already left the property as well, she set out back to his lodgings on her own, calming her temper as best she could and not thinking about the repercussions to come from her outburst.

  As she walked along the Steine, she notice
d an elegantly dressed woman carrying a parasol stepping out of one of the large homes facing the green. Belle paused. Wasn’t that the home Nash had pointed out as belonging to Maria Fitzherbert, the prince’s earlier wife?

  Belle paused by the gate, waiting for the resident to exit onto the street. She dropped her bags and curtseyed before the woman, which seemed to please her.

  “Mrs. Fitzherbert?” Belle asked.

  “Yes. And who might you be, miss?” the woman said, a smile on her aging but kindly face.

  “Annabelle Stirling, madam. I’m the draper to the prince’s refurbishment of the Pavilion. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Belle dropped another quick curtsy.

  “Draper? Hasn’t Mr. Nash employed Mr. Crace?”

  Belle felt her cheeks redden. “Yes, madam, but my shop has been selected to provide the fabrics.”

  “Is your shop in Brighton? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “No, back in London. My brother runs it with me.”

  “How lovely for you, dear. The prince has always been a generous man, as you have now experienced. I hope to visit the Pavilion once it’s finished, but”—Mrs. Fitzherbert held up her free palm—“I doubt I shall be invited.” She giggled, a move that would be unseemly for most women her age but on Mrs. Fitzherbert was just charming.

  “So,” she asked, “I presume you’ve been all through the Pavilion?”

  “Yes, madam, several times.”

  “Wait, I remember your name. Weren’t you registered at the circulating library?”

  “Yes, as a ward of Mr. Nash’s.”

  “Yes, of course. Would you like to come to supper here soon? I don’t hold as elegant a court as I used to, but I still have a very talented chef. I should like to ask you about the work going on at the prince’s residence.”

  Belle was intrigued with the idea of dining with Mrs. Fitzherbert. After Belle told her that she was scheduled to leave Brighton imminently but that she would be back in a few weeks, they agreed upon Belle visiting Mrs. Fitzherbert when she returned.

  Belle arrived back in London, exhausted. With barely the strength to push open the door to the shop, she untied her bonnet and tossed it on a hook behind the door while smoothing her hair and readjusting pins. Wesley looked up from the counter where he was busy scribbling something.

  Belle greeted him and apologized for arriving so late. “The trip to Brighton was delayed by rains, and on the return there was difficulty getting a new team of horses at the Dorset Arms in East Grinstead, which postponed us by hours. I’m so glad to be back. I thought I’d stop to see how things were here before returning home to bathe. What are you working on?” Belle put up a hand to stifle a yawn.

  Wesley slid the pages under the counter. “Nothing, just some notes.”

  “All right. Well, if you don’t need me for anything ...”

  “No, Sister. I’ll be along shortly myself. Here, a letter came for you.”

  She opened the letter. It was from Jane, assuring her that all was well with her family. What a relief to know that she was healthy and sound during these difficult times.

  Belle retied her bonnet and left. Wesley pulled the journal back out and finished his current entry.

  Mrs. Naughton purchased five yards of embroidered Tree of Life fabric. Refused my recommendation for less expensive, printed variety.

  Doorbell broken. Will repair tomorrow.

  Have experimented with pipe. Provides a much more satisfying outcome, although dreams are even more vivid.

  Still raining. Still cold. Still people coming in from the countryside. Have not yet recognized anyone from Yorkshire.

  B——returned from Brighton. She was tired so I didn’t press her. Must talk to her again soon.

  He tied twine around the journal and took it home to his lodgings to store under his mattress.

  Belle entered St. Bart’s with a pile of blankets and a basket full of bread, which had cost her dearly. The attendant on duty at the door asked if she would mind distributing the food herself, since they were overwhelmed and short-staffed because of the ongoing influx of refugees from all over Great Britain.

  Families were huddled together in pathetic clusters, shivering. Many adults were coughing, and children stared at her with dull, lifeless eyes.

  She pulled her cloak closer around her, resisting the urge to shiver herself. Ignoring her own trepidation, she pulled out loaves, breaking them in half and distributing them where she could. Most of the refugees were too weak to do much more than clutch the bread in dirty hands. What a stark contrast this was to the opulence of the prince’s Pavilion.

  Belle entered another room where an emaciated couple shared a narrow cot together. The husband’s painfully thin arm was wrapped around his wife, as if to protect her from starvation and the never-ending damp air.

  “Hello?” Belle said as softly as she could. “I have a blanket and some bread for you if you want it.” She pulled out a loaf.

  The woman lifted her head weakly and opened her eyes, confused. She wore broken glasses repaired in the center with filthy twine.

  “Belle?” she asked. “What are you doing here?” The woman struggled to sit up on the edge of the cot, while the man remained lying down.

  Belle realized they were Clive and Amelia. She rushed to the bed, dropping the basket at the foot of it, and sat next to her old friend.

  “Amelia! How did you come to London? What happened?” She grabbed her icy hands and rubbed them between her own.

  “Oh, Belle, life has been so difficult this past year. Nearly everyone is starving in Wales. We lost our poor daughter, Lizzy, two months ago. I was dried up and had nothing to offer the poor mite. Nothing at all.” Tears welled up in Amelia’s eyes. “She just sort of took a deep breath and gave up. What sort of mother has no milk to offer her baby? I miss her so, but Clive says I have to quit talking about her.”

  Amelia’s lips trembled in the grief that she had to bear on her own.

  “We were told that anyone with any strength left should head to London, that the Prince Regent wouldn’t let anyone in his city starve, right, Clive?”

  Clive, once a tall, proud man, was not interested in talking. He gave Belle a baleful glare and rolled over, away from them both.

  Amelia shrugged. “So far, though, this has been the only place where we’ve gotten help, and it’s not been much. Is that for us?” She was eyeing the loaf of bread still in Belle’s hands, and devoured it greedily when Belle gave it to her.

  “But why didn’t you come to me? I would have given you lodging.”

  Amelia pointed at Clive’s prone body, still except for his shallow breathing. “I suggested it. He said no. Said it wasn’t proper.” Bits of bread flecked out from her mouth onto her chin. “I didn’t dare find you on my own. So we’ve been here about a week now. But we’re weak as kittens and can’t even venture out to find employment. If there were any jobs to be had. Oh, Belle, what’s to become of us?”

  Belle hardly knew what to say, and so instead gathered her friend in her arms. Amelia’s entire body heaved as she sobbed against Belle’s shoulder. Belle sang softly to her friend and stroked her hair, until finally Amelia calmed down.

  Belle held Amelia out by the shoulders. “Now listen to me. The first thing we’re going to do is make you strong again. I’ll return tomorrow with some clothes and hot food and enough money to keep you in your own place for a while. After all, you loaned me money once, remember?”

  Amelia’s tearstained face was broken by a smile. “Yes.”

  But her happiness was short-lived.

  “Don’t want charity from the likes of you,” Clive said without even turning to face them. “Take your basket and go. We’ll be fine.”

  “But Clive,” Amelia said. “Belle wants to help—”

  “Doesn’t matter what she wants to do. I’m your husband and I say we don’t need her charity. I’ll not say it again, woman.” Clive coughed violently, rattling the cheap bed frame.

&
nbsp; Amelia was crying silently again.

  Belle got up and lifted the basket, which still contained a few blankets and loaves of bread, from the floor, setting it next to Amelia. She mouthed, I’ll be back tomorrow, but said aloud, “Well, it was good to see you both. I pray for your good health.”

  “Belle, wait.” Amelia reached out her claw-like hands and spoke softly. “Please, I want you to know how sorry I am for ... for ... what happened. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  Belle glanced down at Clive, who grunted his irritation.

  “There’s nothing to forgive, sweetest. Nothing at all.”

  True to her word, Belle returned the next day with a packet of coins, more food, and one of her own dresses to give Amelia. Wesley had protested loudly over her taking so much money out of the lockbox, even though it was for his own friend. After a great argument, though, he’d acquiesced and even accompanied Belle back to St. Bart’s, thinking he could convince Clive to accept their charity.

  It was a wasted trip for Wesley, though, for when they arrived there the cot was empty. Belle inquired with an orderly who was sweeping the hallway outside the room, and learned that their stiff bodies had been discovered early in the morning and taken away to a potter’s field.

  “Strange it was, too, because he was lying atop her, with a pillow between his face and hers. Fellow was so sick he probably didn’t realize what he was doing. More’n likely suffocated his poor wife to death.”

  The package of gifts tumbled out of Belle’s arms as she grabbed at the wall for support against the swirling images of Clive and Amelia that reverberated in her mind. This wasn’t possible. There was still so much to say to Amelia, about Belle’s love for her friend, and her understanding about Amelia’s marriage with Clive, and her own sorrow over the loss of Amelia’s baby. Yet Belle had chosen to wait until the next day, when Clive’s mood might be improved.