By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  I’ve waded this far in, I may as well soak my head.

  “I don’t know. Different in a way that is intriguing, I suppose. Both look at me, but you only focus one on me. It’s almost ... unnerving. Do you do this on purpose? Is it a trick you are playing on me? Are you teasing me?” Belle had finally voiced the questions that had been bothering her.

  “Teasing you? You think this amounts to an attempt to mock you?” Put pointed at his left eye. “If I didn’t know you for a serious woman, I’d think you were teasing me.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would I tease you? I’m asking a civil question.” At least, it seemed like a reasonable question when she’d asked it.

  But now Put was nearly belligerent.

  “Questions are apparently civil only when you ask them, Miss Stirling. My questions are to be evaded at all costs.”

  “Mr. Boyce, I—”

  “Damnation, woman, I have great regard for you and I told you to call me Put!” His fist came down, sending everything atop the counter into tremors. Startled, Belle backed up against the shelves on the wall behind the counter.

  How had he not broken his hand against the hard oak?

  Belle could read many things at once in his face. Regret for having behaved boorishly. Embarrassment for admitting affection. Hope that his plea had not fallen on deaf ears.

  But she was too stunned to formulate a response. She remained against the shelving, one hand on her waist and the other clutching an empty shelf behind her.

  He shook his head sadly. “Very well, Miss Stirling, I’ll answer your question. My left eye seems, well, weaker, then my right eye because it is. In fact, it isn’t really an eye at all. I lost my real eye from a large splinter that kicked up while I was splitting a particularly knotty piece of wood. It felt like I’d taken an entire log into my eye socket. I’ll spare you the details of what the surgeon had to do to me, but in the end I was left with a patch to cover the void.”

  “Oh,” Belle said. It sounded like a squeak in her own ear.

  “You recall that I do some work for Madame Tussaud, the waxworker?”

  Belle nodded.

  “I was helping her son set up a tableau of Lord Nelson one day, and she commented that the admiral and I had something in common, except that she could help me, whereas the good admiral was long in his grave. And so she did help me. She procured a glass eye for me; I have no idea where she gets them. She makes them herself for all I know. She matched the color as closely as she could, but said my shade of green was difficult.

  “The surgeon helped to set it, and now I’m as good as new, except that I don’t see as well as I used to, which is why you notice me focusing with my right eye.”

  “Mr. Boyce, I mean, Put, I didn’t mean to—” Belle stepped forward to the counter and tried to put her hand out to his, but he jerked away angrily.

  “I don’t want charity from you.”

  Belle shuddered. Weren’t those Clive’s last words to her? What else of Clive might be hidden beneath the surface?

  “And now, Miss Stirling, I believe we are fairly matched in confessions. You are a stubborn draper who will be very successful one day if you can manage to control your tongue, and I am a dented, scratched man of wood who has never learned to control his sentiments. A sorry pair we make. Good day, Miss Stirling.”

  “Put, please, I—” But there was no use in it. He turned on his heel and left, tugging at his collar as he roughly pulled the door shut behind him.

  More death and disharmony followed on the heels of Jane’s passing and Belle’s explosive call from Put. This time, however, all of England suffered the effects.

  On November 6, Princess Charlotte, daughter to the Prince Regent and Princess Caroline, was taken back to bed with severe stomach pains after fifty hours of labor, in which she was finally delivered of a dead baby boy. The princess then began to vomit uncontrollably, and soon lapsed into convulsions, dying herself before the day was out. She and her husband had been married just over a year, and by all accounts were very devoted to each other.

  Belle remembered Mrs. Fitzherbert saying that the Prince Regent could hardly stand his daughter. It seemed incongruous to the newspaper reports of his hysterical outbursts and dramatic calls to be sealed away in his room forever. Apparently, Princess Charlotte’s husband, Prince Leopold, had the unenviable and utterly ridiculous task of soothing and comforting his wife’s father during his frenzied and frequent outbreaks of dramatic lamentation.

  Charlotte was buried at St. George’s Chapel in Windsor, and the entire country joined her husband and the Prince Regent in mourning, for the princess had been immensely popular with the public. George’s own sense of empathy and suffering was not so great, though, that he even bothered to send a letter to Princess Caroline, now residing in Italy with a lover, to inform her of her own daughter’s passing.

  The public was shocked to hear that Caroline learned of her daughter’s death only because George’s letter to the pope informing him of such was intercepted from the courier passing through her town.

  For George, the good news was that with his daughter now departed, Caroline had little hope of regaining her standing in the royal house by virtue of her daughter’s succession to the throne.

  The rest of the country also realized this, and wept silently.

  Belle imagined, however, that the Prince Regent was enormously heartened by Caroline’s weakened position.

  “My suffering is great, too great for someone as gentle and sensitive as I am.” The Prince Regent, seated before a writing table, waved away the servant carrying the carafe. It wouldn’t do to have wine poured while he was working himself up into a righteous state of self-indignation. Others might misconstrue his sincerity. He settled for a quick bite of one of the pastries on a platter at his elbow.

  And perhaps he should have chosen a different location than the Circular Room inside Carlton House. It was too vast a meeting place for the men before him to adequately appreciate his distress.

  He’d summoned Lord Liverpool, Speaker of the House Charles Abbot, and Sir Francis Burdett to once again drum up support for a divorce from that screeching, grubby trollop he’d been forced into an unholy alliance with. She was now cavorting about in Pesaro, Italy, and rumored to have publicly taken a mere servant into her bed.

  Good Lord, how did the man climb in bed with her each night without retching?

  And how could the men seated before him not understand how ghastly the past year had been for him? Must he reiterate it again?

  “Gentlemen, as you know, this year has been particularly difficult for us. First was that distasteful delegation trying to submit their nitwit petition to me for parliamentary reforms. As though that was of any concern to me. In fact, it was apparently more the concern of one particular person here.” He purposely avoided looking at Burdett.

  “Then there was the shooting incident that occurred while I was driving out to Westminster to open the new session of Parliament. I’ve said it before: We were perilously close to a crisis. Had whatever deranged person who took the shot at me had any sort of good aim, I might not be here to address you this day, and England would be adrift without my steady hand.

  “Parliament’s messages to me of loyalty after the incident were, of course, greatly appreciated, but then I had so much more to endure after the passage of the Gag Acts, since the public, having no comprehension of the danger to the nation’s stability, reacted so violently to the suspension of Habeas Corpus and the suppression of reforming societies and clubs.”

  Lord Liverpool sat before him like a statue.

  “Then my own dearest, darling daughter was taken away from me by the angels, lifted up to heaven where she now sings lullabies to her son.” George made the motion of cradling an infant in his arms.

  Would nothing generate a reaction in these idiots?

  “Yes, I have endured many calamities this year, and this latest indecency by my so-called wife is beyond the pale. I am collect
ing evidence against her, sirs, for I know that she is committing treason in her sordid liaison with that Pergamo, her servant. I think he’s her stable boy, or some such thing. It’s really too much for me to contemplate on top of all of my other concerns; however, as a loving prince, I must. It is my intent to begin proceedings against the Princess of Wales for treason once my case is solidified. But I can’t be successful in this on my own.”

  Liverpool muttered something to Abbot, seated nearby, but they were too far away for George to catch the comment.

  Indeed, this room was entirely too large for the performance, er, discussion he had intended. But he wasn’t finished yet.

  “And so, my lords, I throw my weakened and frail self upon your mercy. Will no one rid me of this turbulent woman?”

  He resisted the urge to grin. He’d been thinking up that last bit for days now, as his pièce de résistance. It was a reference to Henry II’s grousing about his Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket. Henry’s plea to be rid of his turbulent priest had unwittingly set several of his men out to literally rid the king of the archbishop, hacking him down inside Canterbury Cathedral.

  Although such a fate was entirely too kind for Caroline.

  Liverpool finally spoke. “Your Highness, thus far, there is no real evidence of the princess’s infidelities, just rumors. If the people believe that you are persecuting her, they will turn against Your Highness’s government. It is a great risk for very little reward.”

  “Little reward! Shedding that albatross would be no little thing. Sending her to prison—or at least into permanent exile—would bring sunshine back to England.”

  “Sunshine has already returned, sir, with the dissipation of volcanic ash from Mount Tambora.”

  Gads, what an iron pole the prime minister was. George contemplated throwing himself on the floor in a fit, but settled for mopping his forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief taken from his waistcoat pocket. Who had given this to him? Was it old enough to be from Maria, or was it from Lady Hertford, or perhaps ... ?

  He realized Lord Liverpool was waiting for an answer.

  “Indeed, Lord Liverpool, the literal sun has returned. But my wife has blocked the figurative light from the land. She is Caligula, Beelzebub, and Jezebel tied together in one hideous package. It is your duty to help me. For England.”

  George sensed that the men were not with him. They were sitting there, disengaged, despite his best speechmaking.

  Well, no matter. The prince was determined to be rid of his wife.

  Whatever it might take.

  Wesley was glad Belle had gone off to St. Bart’s again with her basket of charity. The flood of refugees into London had stopped, but Belle continued with her weekly visits there. Must be her attempt to feel better over the death of her author friend, Jane whatever. His sister hadn’t been herself since that girl’s death. As far as Wesley was concerned, it was taking Belle entirely too long to get over it.

  Or maybe Belle’s trips to St. Bart’s were to assuage her guilt over Clive, although it was misplaced guilt in Wesley’s opinion. Clive had duped them both, hadn’t he? Nearly ruined Wesley’s relationship with his sister.

  In fact, because of Clive, Wesley had been forced to come groveling to Belle in London, the complete opposite outcome of what had been planned with the shop back in Leeds. It was all Clive’s idea. And Clive’s fault.

  Of course, there was the matter of Belle’s friend Amelia. Mousy girl, as Wesley recalled. Scared of all shadows except Belle’s, whose shadow she resided under. It was difficult to remember what Amelia even looked like, so unremarkable was she.

  Nevertheless, Wesley enjoyed his Sunday afternoons away from the shop, with Belle also gone. The free time gave him an opportunity to write in his journal, prowl about town, indulge in his favorite pastimes, and dwell on how unfair life had been to him thus far.

  How was it that Belle was achieving success, and a certain amount of fame, too, whether she realized it or not, while he was languishing in the background? He’d cozied up to the wealthiest of women and their daughters, and although they’d been pleasant diversions, none had resulted in any sort of progress for him. At most he’d gotten gifts: a fine suit of clothes, a pocket watch, a chess set. Nice, but of little value in establishing his own name.

  Belle gave hardly anyone the time of day, other than that cabinetmaker who hadn’t been around in a while, yet she was profiting handsomely. What the deuce did Belle have that he didn’t?

  She was too outspoken, enjoyed verbal thrusts and parries, and didn’t understand her place at all. Whereas Wesley was charming, well liked, and understood exactly what his place in the world should be.

  If only Wesley knew how to harness Belle’s power and make it his own. His attempts at sarcasm and rebellion since Belle’s ascension had only led to his own humiliation, heartbreak, and an increasingly untidy fascination with opium. How much better life would be if he could surge and flow the way his sister did.

  Would it always be like this? He, a daring, fearless man, always under the dominance of his younger sister? There must be a way to achieve supremacy over her.

  The thought made the hair on his neck prickle in a satisfying, secret sort of way.

  And he just as quickly banished it. Fool. Your sister loves you and forgave you when you didn’t deserve it. You’re fortunate to still have a place with her, and you’re incapable of managing a shop on your own, anyway.

  God, how he hated this ongoing argument with himself.

  He scraped a little opium from his brick, dropped it into the pipe Belle had given him accompanied by one of her sharp tongue-lashings, and packed some tobacco on top of it. This diversion was perilously close to becoming a habit, but Mr. Ashby provided it so conveniently, sometimes even stopping by his lodgings to check that he had enough supply.

  He waited for the comfortable, floating feeling to overtake him, hoping that it wouldn’t lead to one of those periodic walking nightmares. They were almost always about Alice, who had become his own personal Medusa, turning him to stone every time he dreamt of her.

  Wesley had been seriously interested in marrying a woman only once before, and it hadn’t been Alice. It was a disaster, and mostly his parents’ fault. He’d harbored a secret crush on a boyhood friend’s wife, Lucy, and when that friend accidentally drowned in one of Yorkshire’s many canals he considered it divine approval for him to pursue Lucy.

  His parents had been horrified by his desire for his dead friend’s wife, and kept the story away from Belle. So as not to “damage” her, they said. His father had left no stone unturned in attempting to dissuade him on his quest for Lucy’s hand, even threatening to disinherit him from the shop. It had scared him enough to abandon his suit of the widowed woman.

  Fat lot of good it was, given that Belle was running everything anyway.

  Nursing his own hurt and fury, he’d ended up in India with Alice Treadle, one of the Pack Horse Inn’s more pliable and agreeable maids, after seeking employment with the East India Company. They were happy to take on someone who had earlier been importing cheap Indian cottons from them. He’d thought life with her would be easy and companionable. And his new position as an agent smuggling opium into China, where it was forbidden, had no end of financial reward. He’d found a boon companion in Mr. Nathaniel Ashby, who had also fled England with an accommodating young woman to pursue interests in the opium trade.

  Table delicacies, luxurious surroundings, and servants were all Wesley’s. He’d learned to skim a bit from the shipments for his own personal use, but it never hurt anyone.

  Except that Alice wanted more. Of everything. More opium. More of his affection. More dresses, jewelry, and entertainment. She was exhausting to a man whose intent in bringing her along on his assignment was so that she could serve him, not the other way around.

  And so they drifted apart, although Wesley would never have turned her out, not so far from home. But without his knowledge, Alice fell in with a bad lo
t of Indian natives, and soon he suspected that she was prostituting herself to earn more money for her lifestyle. It was hard to believe that she was even more extravagant than he was.

  Alice’s appearance disintegrated. She went from pleasing plumpness to cadaverously gaunt. Her hair became greasy and unkempt, and she lost a tooth or two. She turned into a bony little shrew, disgorging vileness and heaping daily insults on him.

  Then the real trouble started.

  The demands for her services as an exotic Englishwoman grew more persistent, despite her crumbling looks. Wesley turned the other way when men appeared at the doorstep of his bungalow to call on Alice, and he swallowed his bile when she laughingly took them up to one of the guest rooms.

  One afternoon, a man arrived with his two servants. The man’s dress identified him as Vaisia caste, so probably some businessman wanting to entertain himself with a rare treat: an Anglo doxy in India. He and Alice went upstairs together while the servants waited on the landing, Alice’s mocking laughter in Wesley’s ears once again.

  But within a short time, the mirth had turned malevolent. Shouts and curses drifted over the transom of the bedchamber, reaching Wesley in his study. He heard what sounded like slaps, then Alice’s voice rising in anger above the man’s. Or was it in fear? Wesley returned to his newspaper, but couldn’t concentrate.

  Should he go up there and see what was the matter? No, Alice would just mock him. And how humiliating would it be for a cuckolded man to ask if his mistress was comfortable in bed with another man in his own house?

  He threw the paper aside and reached for his comforting brown brick. Ah, now the noise upstairs didn’t seem as loud or unpleasant.

  But even his pleasant haze couldn’t block out the clamor as the two of them came tumbling down the stairs to the intermediate landing in a deafening rush. He decided to confront the group. Best to see if Alice planned to be out all night.

  What greeted him was appalling, even if it felt remote. Now all four of them were on the landing, and as Wesley stepped out of his study he was in time to witness the businessman punch Alice in the face while the servants held her still. Blood spurted from her nose and soaked the front of her dress.