By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  Now she would never be able to say anything to Amelia ever again.

  A peculiar loneliness descended over Belle after Clive’s and Amelia’s deaths. Amelia had always been a shy follower. Always satisfied to live in Belle’s shadow, and even content to marry a man Belle rejected.

  I never took Amelia seriously enough. I was too consumed with Fafa, and the shop, and becoming a respected draper. Did I ever ask her what her own dreams were?

  Never.

  Belle couldn’t muster any regret for Clive’s passing, but it was just as well since her remorse over Amelia consumed her for several weeks, nearly rendering her immobile.

  Compounding her grief was the realization that she’d made no real friends since arriving in London, other than Miss Austen, who lived in faraway Hampshire. The London elite’s interest in her was tepid fascination, sure to disappear when her work at the Pavilion was over. The Prince Regent’s attentions lacked propriety. Mr. Crace despised her presence. And Mr. Nash she wasn’t quite sure about.

  Except for Wesley, she’d lost everyone who’d ever meant anything to her. And Wesley was disturbingly unmoved by their deaths. Within a couple of days, he was no longer mentioning his friend and was once again pre-occupied with campaigning for Belle to make him an owner of the shop.

  She evaded his arguments and pleadings, finally fleeing the shop to find peace and solace elsewhere.

  She was surprised by where she headed for it.

  Belle pushed open the door to Putnam Boyce’s shop. There was no one in the outer display room, but she could hear a raucous combination of laughing, sawing, and hammering coming from the workshop. She stepped tentatively toward the back, still unsure as to why she was actually here.

  Inside the workshop, Put stood in the middle of the activity in his apron, his right thigh steadying a long plank of wood as he held it with his left arm and sawed it with his right. The work was demanding, evidenced by his straining arm muscles and the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  Around him, three other workers were in the process of finishing various pieces. The boy who had escorted Belle to Lady Derby’s was pulling a scraper across a table to smooth it out. Another man was partially curtained off from the others. He used a rag to apply a noxious oil to a frame that looked as though it might eventually hold a mirror. The third man was organizing planks of wood by size and color inside a large, shelved cupboard.

  Belle stood in the doorway, taking in the noise, the smells, and the obvious camaraderie of the men. She was about to interrupt when Put looked up and saw her standing there. He put down his saw and casually passed a hand through his hair. Wood shavings sprinkled down from his forearms, littering his shoulders and the floor around him.

  Everyone else stopped what they were doing, as well.

  He smiled. “Miss Stirling, welcome. I didn’t hear you in the outer room or I would have come to greet you. How can I help you? Was Lady Derby pleased with her desk?”

  Belle suddenly felt very foolish coming here. She was sure to make a spectacle in front of these men.

  “Ah, yes, the desk was fine. Just fine. I only wanted to, er, come here, to, um ...”

  Belle, you idiot, how could you possibly be faltering in such an innocuous setting?

  She had to give it to Mr. Boyce, though. He had instinct. “I need to get something else from the woodpile. Perhaps you can accompany me outside and tell me about the order you need to place? The rest of you, no need to gawp.” He crossed the maze of worktables, tool chests, and half-finished projects in just a few steps, and guided Belle through the back door into his lumberyard.

  Here she saw immense stacks of wood planks, one end facing her, piled up between trees used as bookends to contain them. Canvas tarps were hung from tree to tree, presumably to protect the woodpiles from rain and snow. Each treed-off section held planks of varying thickness, but all looked to be at least eight feet long.

  Belle pointed to one of the stacks’ ends. “That looks like an entire tree trunk was sliced up and layered back in its original formation. How did you manage that?”

  “That’s Caribbean mahogany. I pay extra for it from the sawyer. He has it cut just as you say, in planks as even as possible, then reassembled with spacers in between the planks so air can circulate around them while they season.”

  “Why would you pay extra for that? What difference does it make?”

  “It makes it easier to book-match the pieces. In other words, if I want the wood grain on one cabinet door to match that of a door next to it, it’s much easier if I’m working with wood that has literally grown up together.”

  “I see.” She ran her fingers across the ends of the planks, recalling what she’d read about various woods in her studies with Mr. Nash. She became distracted by her own thoughts again. Was Mr. Nash to be her only friend in the world now? If so, what did that say about her ability to manage relationships? What if she’d never decided to purchase that bedeviled gig mill in the first place? Maybe Clive would have never lost his reason. Her marriage to him wouldn’t have been perfect, but then he wouldn’t have dragged Amelia to Wales, and then ...

  Put cleared his throat. “Miss Stirling, your face is troubled and you’re as jumpy as a cat tied to a mule’s leg. What worries you?”

  And without warning, tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned to wipe them away, completely irritated by her own weakness. She never cried, not even in front of Wesley. Now she was a blathering little ninny. What in the world had possessed her to come here?

  “Come now, Miss Stirling, what’s on your mind? My shoulder is strong.” He patted his right shoulder for effect.

  Although she knew he didn’t seriously mean for her to cry on his shoulder, the temptation was too great, and to her own mortification, she flung herself at him, crying as heartily as Amelia had just days ago.

  Put allowed it, wrapping his right arm around her waist and stroking her hair with his left hand. “Hush now, what could be the matter that a little spitfire like you becomes so distressed?”

  How she hoped no one could see them, standing together amid the trees in what looked like an embrace. This was all terribly inappropriate. Yet she liked his comfort. His leather apron, blended with the odor of wood, was soft and reassuring.

  Finally, she sighed and broke free of his embrace, still unsure why she was here with this man she hardly knew. He led her to a half-sawn log on the ground and sat down on it with her.

  He put a calloused finger under her chin to make her look at him. One green eye looked at her, looking for unspoken answers. “If you stay here much longer without stating your purpose, I’ll have to assume you are seeking employment, and I’ll set you to hauling planks into the workshop.” He tried to look very stern, but his exaggerated frown made her laugh despite her misery.

  Swallowing, she told him everything that had happened to her over the past few years, from the deaths of her parents to Clive’s and Amelia’s miserable endings. She left out nothing, uttering for the first time her disappointment in Wesley’s betrayal. Put listened patiently without interruption.

  She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her face when she was finished, embarrassed by her most unladylike act. He pulled a cloth from the front pocket of his apron, shook the wood chips from it, and gave it to her.

  It reminded her of a wood fire burning on a chilly autumn evening.

  Comforting. Calming.

  “Well, Miss Stirling, you’ve certainly done well for yourself, given your circumstances. But, may I ask, did you actually say you handled a pistol?”

  “I had to. They were threatening my livelihood.”

  Put laughed and cupped a hand around her cheek. “Delightful. Miss Stirling, I know my question is rather untimely, but may I have permission to pay you court? Or should I ask your brother? Perhaps we can stroll through Vauxhall Gardens, and take some refreshment there together.”

  She hadn’t expected this. Or had she? What was she thinking, prostrating herself bef
ore a fellow merchant whom she hardly knew?

  Mr. Boyce probably thinks I came here with a tale of woe just to ensnare him.

  Although the idea of being courted by him was not entirely unwelcome.

  Yes, it is. Remember what happened before.

  She gently removed his hand from her face. “I cannot, Mr. Boyce. I told you about Clive Pryce. He pretended to love me for who I am, and in reality planned to take away everything in my life that was significant to me. I won’t let that happen again. My shop is my own and I won’t share it with a man—a husband—who will take it from me.”

  Put frowned. “And you would toss me into the same stockpot of chicken as the inestimable Mr. Pryce?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. But I must protect myself.”

  “From what, exactly? Miss Stirling, I would merely like to escort you to a pleasure garden, not see you off to the gallows that you call ‘marriage.’ I’m a cabinetmaker, what do I know about fancy cloths? I only see the yardage my clients give me to cover their chair cushions and I take little note of it. In fact, it seems to me that our work is complementary to one another. There’s no need to fear me.”

  “You’re right,” she said before she could swallow the words.

  “Then you’ll accompany me out one evening soon?”

  “No, our relationship must remain platonic. One tradesman to another.”

  Put grunted in exasperation. “Miss Stirling, I’ve never once in my life begged for anything, and I’ll not start now. But I will ask one final time, why not?”

  “Well.” She laughed weakly. “I promised the Prince Regent I’ll become his mistress once I get married, so I have to do all I can to avoid that fate.”

  She provided no explanation to his confused countenance, instead jumping up and fleeing the cabinetmaker’s lumberyard as quickly as she’d once fled Mr. Crace’s presence.

  So is this your new solution for all of life’s problems, Belle Stirling? Run like a frightened rabbit into your safe little warren whenever you feel the slightest threat to your livelihood?

  Well, it certainly worked for most rabbits. Except for the ones who didn’t see the fox coming.

  Her reaction of fear to Put’s proposal was justified, though. For she and Wesley attended Guy Fawkes Night celebrations on November 5, their first London experience with the event’s bonfires, fireworks, and the spectacular practice of setting blazing tar barrels in the streets. While there, she saw Put in the distance with another young woman on his arm. He was laughing and gesticulating with the happy, open expression of a man in love.

  I guess Mr. Boyce forgot me quickly enough, didn’t he?

  Or else he’d played her false and this was a woman he’d been squiring for some time. He was behaving quite familiarly with her. And looked content.

  Even worse, perhaps he’d made overtures to Belle because he sought work at the Pavilion.

  She suddenly felt nauseated, and handed Wesley her kidney pie without explanation, asking that they go home immediately.

  She realized that her rabbit instincts were serving her well.

  In all of Belle’s self-pity, she’d forgotten her friendship with Miss Austen. But a letter from the authoress changed that.

  Dear Miss Stirling,

  My heart is too heavy over what I will share with you now in our private correspondence. My family is greatly affected, and the pall over the cottage almost forbids discussing it. But my pen and paper are quiet confidants, and I’m grateful for this medium in which to reveal my unhappy news.

  I believe I told you that my brother Henry is a banker, in addition to having brokered agreements to have my books published. He has always taken great care to protect my works. Several months ago, he even repurchased the copyright for an earlier work, Susan, so that we could republish it ourselves.

  Alas, publication of that novel has been postponed, possibly forever. For Henry’s bank failed in March, leaving us all in dire financial straits, since all of my brothers were invested in the bank and they were supporting Mother, Cassandra, and me from its profits.

  I have felt poorly as of late, undoubtedly due to this alarming turn of events. But I am determined to finish The Elliots quickly, so that Mr. Murray can publish it and perhaps I can make some small contribution to my family’s welfare. Did I tell you that the second edition of Mansfield Park was published last month? It has not done as well as hoped, although Emma has thus far proven successful.

  I longingly await your news, dearest Belle, which must surely be happier than my own. Although I cannot abide the prince, I do admire his highly capable draper and eagerly long to know how she fares at Brighton.

  Yours affectionately,

  J. Austen

  Belle wrote back immediately, grateful for the companionship, albeit long-distance, of another female. She consciously avoided discussion of her troubles, instead sharing news about her latest work on the Pavilion and that she’d met the famed Maria Fitzherbert.

  Belle was delighted to receive a quick reply, accompanied by a small, wrapped package containing a book.

  Dear Miss Stirling,

  Your fortunes grow. I am in wonder that you met Mrs. Fitzherbert, and confess myself to be nearly agog that she will have you to supper. You must write me soonest afterwards and tell me of your visit. I am most particularly interested in her attitudes and feelings about the prince, although you seem loath to discuss him outside of the details of your project.

  And now, you may recall that certain gentleman, the prince, who, through his man, Mr. Clarke, contrived to assist me in a complete conversion of my writing practices. I, of course, view it as a change to my entire realm of existence, into one that the highly esteem’d prince, whom you know I hold in the highest regard, might view with approval.

  It would prove to be my proudest moment as an authoress to find that not only the prince himself, but his insightful and gifted librarian, should find the enclosed guidance for prospective writers to be of any small value. Perhaps he will maintain copies at all of the royal residences. In my pursuit of having it published as quickly as possible, I erred in forgetting to make a dedication to His Grace, to credit him with the idea of writing it in the first place.

  I trust you will enjoy it.

  Yours affectionately,

  J. Austen

  Jane made no mention of her family’s financial situation. Belle wondered if sales of Emma had resolved things. She unwrapped the book. It was a thin volume, titled Plan of a Novel, according to Hints from Various Quarters. Leafing through it, she saw that it was a satire on how to outline a book, employing the full force of Jane’s scathing wit. Although Mr. Clarke was unnamed in it, Belle recognized how Jane was poking fun at his suggestions during their visit to Carlton House. Belle stayed up far into the night with her friend’s book, enjoying it immensely and nearly forgetting all of her worries at Brighton.

  December 1816

  London

  Arthur Thistlewood was pleased with the turnout at Spa Fields. Although he’d doubted the success of his plan, especially after his fellow radical Mr. Hunt had refused to hear him out, things had turned out well.

  Or, dare he say, almost with divine intervention?

  Perish that thought. Man was in control of his own destiny. A man’s reason was what made a difference in his fate, not reliance on some old-fashioned, foolish religion. His time in France during the Revolution had taught him that truth.

  Yes, Mr. Hunt had ignored Thistlewood, but had answered the call from someone else to address a meeting in November at Spa Fields, in north London, to whip up support for a petition to the Prince Regent from the people of London, asking for relief from all of the distress they were suffering. Sweeping reform of Parliament was a centerpiece of the petition, to include universal suffrage for men, annual general elections, and a secret ballot.

  Mr. Henry Hunt was the perfect man to give the speech asking for support. After all, he not only agreed with Thistlewood and the other reformers, but he w
as such an impassioned speaker that he was nicknamed “Orator.”

  Exceeding even Thistlewood’s expectations, the meeting at Spa Fields had over ten thousand people in attendance, a sure sign that the time was right for these reforms. With the enthusiastic support of the peaceful crowd, it was decided that Hunt and Sir Francis Burdett, a member of Parliament sympathetic to the movement, would deliver the petition to the Prince Regent. Burdett, however, declined the honor. Good riddance to a false friend.

  But the petition fell on deaf ears anyway. Hunt made two futile attempts to secure an audience with the prince, both of which were refused.

  And it was what happened after that for which Thistlewood was so greatly contented.

  Hunt returned to Spa Fields to tell the crowd that he’d been unsuccessful, but arrived to find Thistlewood there, standing on a platform decorated with banners, already declaiming against the prince and exhorting them as the patriots of Paris prior to their storming of the Bastille.

  And eerily reminiscent of the attack on that famous prison, the Londoners reacted in nearly the same way. They marched on a gunsmith’s shop and robbed it of its weapons, killing a pedestrian or two in the process.

  Thistlewood, Hunt, and the rest of the mob made their way to the Royal Exchange, where they were greeted by a group of constables.

  The resulting melee was predictable, and Thistlewood along with Hunt and several others were arrested and charged with high treason, and they now languished in jail awaiting trial.