Belle looked again at the woman, whose soft gaze only reflected a deep, inner serenity. Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep. What would Giovanna Baccelli have to say about marriage and the wisdom of relying on a man for happiness?
She realized that the prince was looking back and forth between her and the portrait, his expression amused.
“My apologies, sir, I forgot myself.”
“Your beauty requires no apology. Standing here, I am reminded of how much you are like the talented Baccelli.”
“Sir? I’ve taken no duke as my protector. Nor would I.”
“No, but the Baccelli relied on something unreliable—the duke—to satisfy her life. She refused to marry elsewhere when her youth and beauty might have made her a better marriage match. Instead, she waited until she was nearly an old woman, and wed herself to some droopy man of insignificance. I wonder, Miss Stirling, if you rely too heavily on your independence, and will end up sacrificing great happiness.”
“As long as I have my shop, sir, I’ll always be happy.”
“Indeed. But of course I speak selfishly, for I’m in great need of you to take wedding vows, so that we two can become lovers, eh? I’ve not forgotten your promise to me, Miss Stirling.” He playfully wagged a finger at her.
She teased him in return. “Well, Your Highness, it does seem as though for me to live up to the considerable charms of Miss Baccelli, I will have to start right now to find myself a duke. Although I have no skills in the art of dance to woo my potential husband, so perhaps I’ll have to settle for an earl, or a lowly baron. Someone willing to marry a cloth merchant.”
The prince’s demeanor turned grave. “I could secure someone for you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I can find a titled man, someone older and more experienced—a widower, maybe?—who would be more than happy to marry you. Would you like me to help you? Think how much sooner we could achieve our goal of being together. Ha!” The prince snapped the pudgy fingers on his right hand for emphasis.
Belle blanched. Their banter had turned serious, and was eerily reminiscent of what Wesley had intimated.
“Your Highness, sir, I was just jesting. I’m too busy and happy working on the Pavilion to even consider a husband. But I’ll remember your generous offer.”
At that moment, a servant entered to notify the prince that his bath had been drawn, to ready him for his planned outing to the theatre with Lady Hertford that evening. With the prince’s attention diverted to his own toilette, Belle made her escape back to the safety of her shop.
The Horse and Groom had become Wesley’s favorite retreat. The ale was plentiful, the fare was served hot, and someone was always willing to throw dice. He could forget everything that irritated him when he was here.
Especially when there was the delightful Darcey White to entertain him. She’d finally made eye contact with Wesley after several weeks of just winking at him but otherwise ignoring him. In fact, Darcey White simply fascinated him. The daughter of a member of the House of Commons, she didn’t behave at all like a young lady from an important family. What would Mr. White think if he knew his eldest daughter was frequenting taverns when she was supposed to be visiting an ailing friend?
Darcey lounged about the taproom in the Horse and Groom like any common trollop, but her dress and manners spoke the truth of her refined upbringing. This was a woman who should be attending dances in the Assembly Rooms, not lounging about in a taproom with disreputable persons, on hard benches with her elbows on rickety tables.
Wesley’s interest in her had started as it always did. Once he’d finally captured her attention, getting her to nibble at the hook, he’d pull on the line with imperceptible gentleness, so that she didn’t realize she was being drawn to his boat until he was lifting her over the side.
Or was Darcey the one actually tugging on the line, determined to bring him over the side into the water with her?
Darcey drank dark ale from mugs, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and swore like the lowest jack-tar in His Majesty’s navy. All while wearing the prettiest, filmiest dresses with her hair done up in the fashionable face-framing curls the ladies liked these days.
It was over one of these mugs that Wesley suspected he might be falling in love.
“So, tell me, Wesley Stirling, what do you do to earn money?” She hid a belch behind her hand. “You’re here at the Horse and Groom as often as I am, you cur.”
“I’m a draper. I have a shop on Oxford Street.”
“That right? Do you think you’ve got anything that would make my bosom look smaller?” She sat straighter and turned to give him her full profile.
Wesley knew exactly what Belle would think of such a woman; moreover, he knew what he should think, too, but to have a member’s daughter thrusting herself teasingly at him was too much.
“I believe that in your case, Miss White, ‘less’ would be the watchword. I don’t think such delicacies should be kept too well hidden.”
She laughed, her even, white teeth another reminder of her gentle breeding.
“My father would disagree with you. Course, he is a most disagreeable sort. Never allows me any freedom.”
“Yet you’re here.”
“That’s because I make my own freedom. What the father doesn’t know about, he can’t punish.” She licked her lips. “You won’t be telling on me now, will you, Wesley Stirling?”
And risk losing her company? Never.
Darcey tapped her empty mug on the table. “Speaking of disagreeable sorts of people, I’m all out, and may turn into one myself soon.”
Wesley happily got her a refill.
“So, Miss White, how does your father restrict your freedom?”
“He’s obsessed with his position in Parliament. Nothing can interfere with his reputation or his dignity. He parades my younger sister and me in front of his important guests, and we curtsy, and say, ‘Good evening, my lord,’ and, ‘Would you like to see my embroidery sampler, my lady,’ and other nonsense, then we’re sent to our rooms like little children.”
Darcey tipped her mug back for a large swallow of drink.
“I’m not permitted to attend any parties or dances because Father is concerned that I’ll get myself in trouble and ruin his plans to make a brilliant marriage for me. Which is just his way of saying he’s hoping to make a brilliant alliance for himself. He’s my papa, so I love him, but I also hate him. I want to be free to have fun, not skulk about in secret.”
And that was when Wesley knew the hook was lodged firmly in his own cheek. For here was a woman who could understand exactly how he felt about Belle.
“So time spent here at the Horse and Groom eases the pain, doesn’t it?” he asked.
She looked at him in surprise. “Hardly. I’m here to get a breath of air away from my stuffy house, while I plot my revenge on him.” She laughed, throwing into question her seriousness.
Revenge. Now that was something Wesley hadn’t considered before.
He decided that Darcey White was a worthy companion for sharing his opium.
“Where did he put it?” Belle muttered to herself several days later. She’d closed the shop for the day, no thanks to Wesley, who had disappeared once again that afternoon.
She knew she’d seen Wesley perusing the price list from one of their preferred mills. She needed the list so she could place an order of toile that they’d just run out of today when she sold their remaining length to a woman who planned to make matching bedcovers, canopy, and draperies for her bedchamber.
Where had he hidden it? Would he have taken it back to his rooms for some reason?
After searching everywhere she could think of, she locked up and returned to their lodgings. She tapped on his door, and, hearing no response, jiggled the latch. It was unlocked.
She entered, tentative about trespassing on her brother’s domain. His bedclothes were jumbled on his bed, and clothes were equally cluttered about in piles, both o
n the bed and on the floor. Belle shook her head. How did he ever find anything?
She poked as gently as she could through his belongings in his room. Not finding the list anywhere obvious, she moved aside his bedclothes. How did he sleep with so much debris littering his bed? She touched a piece of fabric that did not belong to his bed-coverings and lifted it up. What was this?
A folded length of cotton batiste. Nearly three yards’ worth. Why had he snipped it and brought it here? She had just reviewed the shop ledger this morning, and knew that he hadn’t recorded the cut, either.
She sighed. Wesley was becoming more and more difficult these days.
Belle noticed a shallow wood box poking out from underneath his bed. It looked like something that might hold documents. Might he have accidentally stored the price list in there?
She knelt down, pulled it out, and placed it on her lap, sliding the lid out from its grooved tracks on either side of the box. Ah, Wesley’s smoking supplies. She smiled as she pulled out the pipe she’d given him, which he seemed to love so much. She also tried not to let it remind her of Put.
Wesley had several pouches of aromatic tobacco in the box, too, and the fragrance was heady. And what was this?
She pushed aside the tobacco and picked up a murky brown brick. What was this? His latest tobacco find? She pulled it closer and sniffed at it. It was cloyingly sweet. A fragranced tobacco? There was no maker’s stamp on it.
“What the hell are you doing?” Wesley banged open the door, causing Belle to jump up, dropping the box and scattering its contents. She still held the brick out to him.
“Looking for the Harrington Mill price list. I need it and I know you last had it, yet it’s completely missing from our catalog box. But now I’m looking at this. What is it?”
He came around the bed to where she was and snatched it from her. “None of your business. And I’ll thank you not to intrude on my personal belongings. I threw the damned thing away, if you must know, because I did a comparison with their last price list and they’d escalated prices ridiculously.”
“But the food riots and—”
“Have nothing to do with cotton and wool prices. And I’m sure you didn’t think I could be conscientious enough to even compare prices, did you?”
“Don’t sneer at me, Wesley Stirling. I thought no such thing. It would have been helpful if you’d at least told me you discarded the price list. Which I will ask you not to do again. Despite whatever price increases they may have had, they are one of the best manufacturers of cambric and toile in England, and I intend to continue purchasing from them for as long as I can.”
Wesley bowed mockingly, holding the brick out in his right hand. “Of course, dear sister. You are, after all, lord and mistress of both our lives.” He bent over and threw the spilled smoking supplies back to their storage box, slid the lid back on, and shoved it back under his bed.
When he rose, Belle saw that he was not only unshaven, but his eyes were bloodshot, and had a distinctly unfocused glaze to them.
“Wesley, what’s wrong? Are you ill? Is that why you’re so tetchy?” And when had he gotten so thin?
His laugh sounded like a gunshot report in the room. “Ha! So you invade my room, snooping about where you don’t belong, and then accuse me of ill humor.”
Belle straightened. “You’re obviously not yourself, Brother. I’ll go to my room now. Perhaps you’d like to join me in the morning for breakfast, and we can talk then.”
She strode out of the room before he could snap at her again.
What was happening to her brother? What if he abandoned her? He was all she had left in the world. And what was that strange substance he’d snatched away from her without explanation? For certain it wasn’t tobacco.
But by morning, Wesley was a different man. His eyes were clear, his face was smooth, and he offered Belle an apology for his behavior and promised to be a better brother and a more conscientious employee as he daubed butter on a bite of raisin scone.
Belle, desperate to find the sibling she’d loved so well when she was younger, accepted his apology without questioning him further about the curious substance she’d found under his bed, nor asking about the fabric that he’d taken from the shop without explanation.
“Never mind, Wesley. For me, it’s as though yesterday never happened. Let’s not speak of it again.”
Wesley grinned sheepishly, and told her he’d be along to the shop as soon as he cleaned up his room.
But Wesley really just wanted a few minutes of peace in his room after the exertion required to apologize to Belle.
10 July 1819, Saturday
Apologized to B——. D——won’t be happy, but I will explain.
Moved box to a more secure location.
Must remember to see Mr. Ashby. D——is depleting what I have. May need to nick a few shillings from the lockbox again.
She says her father is considering several marriage options for her, mostly with the second sons of fellow parliamentarians. She thinks I have the ability to break any ensuing engagement, but I don’t see how. A Yorkshire draper transplanted to London hardly has any influence anywhere, much less in Parliament. But I can’t lose D——. I already can’t imagine an existence without her.
D——says my sister should be able to help, given her relationship with the Prince Regent. As if I would ever ask such a great favor from B——. No, if I’m to break D——free of her father, I have to do it on my own.
During breakfast one morning, Belle’s interest was piqued by the sound of someone shouting, “Peterloo Massacre!” outside their lodgings. She got up from the dining table where she and Wesley were sharing a quick breakfast before heading to the shop, and peered out a window. A boy was traversing the street outside their lodgings with a cartload of newspapers, calling out, “Peterloo Massacre!” repeatedly, and people were rushing up to buy copies. She excused herself, went outside, and was intrigued enough by the sign propped up in the boy’s cart to spend twopence for her own copy.
PETERLOO MASSACRE ! ! !
JUST PUBLISHED NO. 1 PRICE TWOPENCE OF
PETERLOO MASSACRE. CONTAINING A FULL,
TRUE, AND FAITHFUL ACCOUNT OF THE INHUMAN
MURDERS, WOUNDINGS AND OTHER MONSTROUS
CRUELTIES EXERCISED BY A SET OF INFERNALS
(MISCALLED SOLDIERS) UPON UNARMED AND
DISTRESSED PEOPLE.
She carried the broadsheet back into her lodgings and read aloud to Wesley.
The Manchester Observer
21 August, 1819
The morning of the 16th was hailed with exultation by the many thousands, whose feelings were powerfully excited on the occasion. At an early period, numbers came pressing in from various and distant parts of the country, to witness the greatest and most gratifying assemblage of Britons that was ever recorded in the annuals of our history. From Bolton, Oldham, Stockport, Middleton, and all the circumjacent country; from the more distant towns of Leeds, Sheffield, etc. came thousands of willing votaries to the shrine of sacred liberty; and at the period when the Patriotic Mr. Hunt and his friends had taken their station on the hustings, it is supposed that no less than 150,000 people were congregated in the area near St. Peter’s Church.
Mr. Hunt ascended the hustings about half-past one o’clock, and after a few preliminary arrangements, proceeded to address the immense multitude, recommending peace and order for their government. Whilst thus engaged, and without the shadow of disorder occurring or likely to occur, we were surprised, though not alarmed, at perceiving a column of infantry take possession of an opening in the assembly.
Our fears were raised to horror, by the appearance of the Manchester and Salford Yeomanry Cavalry, who came galloping into the area, and proceeded to form in line ready for action; nor were they long delayed from their hellish purpose - the special constables were called in from their previous stations - the bugle sounded the charge - and a scene of murder and carnage ensued which posterity will hesitate
to believe, and which will hand down the authors and abettors of this foul and bloody tragedy to the astonished world. Men, women, and children, without distinction of age or sex became the victims of these monsters.
The people in the crowd were so compact and stood so firm that they could not reach the hustings without halting. Few, if any of the meeting, even yet, supposed that this martial display was intended for anything more than securing Hunt, Johnson, Knight and Moorhouse, for whom they had warrants. Mr. Hunt was called upon to deliver himself up, which he offered to do to a Magistrate, but not to the Manchester Yeomanry Cavalry. A gentleman in the commission presented himself, and Mr. Hunt acknowledged his authority, and departed for the rendezvous of the Magistrates; where Mr. Johnson and Mr. Saxton were taken, and from thence conducted, along with Mr. Hunt to the New Bayley prison; Mr. Knight escaped, but was afterwards arrested at his own house and Mr. Moorhouse was soon after taken into custody at the Flying Horse Inn.
It is impossible for us to ascertain the extent of loss in lives and limbs which has been thus wantonly and inhumanly occasioned - people flew in every direction to avoid these hair-brained assassins, who were supported by detachments from the 15th Hussars. The latter, however, did not deal out death and wounds with the same liberal hand as our townsmen.
A secondary article indicated that an estimated eighteen people had been killed and around five hundred were wounded, many of them women.
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