By the King's Design (13 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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“Impressive.”
“Furthermore, I intend to use the support columns around the center of the room to bring in the styling of the Banqueting Room.”
“I don't understand. How will you make them decorative?”
“Ah, Miss Stirling, you will see in due time. Speaking of time, I think we should see where the prince is.”
They found him, or rather, he found them, in a room untouched by construction. After their requisite deferential greeting, Nash evaporated from the room.
The prince wore a gray-striped waistcoat with a neck so high it almost completely obscured his voluminous chin. A gold watch fob dangled perilously from the top of his dangerously stretched black leggings, which disappeared into high-topped boots. He looked like a melon perched on two spindly twigs.
“You admire my suit, Miss Stirling?” the prince asked.
“Your Highness, I've never seen anything quite so unforgettable in my life.”
The prince brushed off an imaginary speck from the sleeve of his dark overcoat, a poorly disguised attempt at modesty.
“Our happenstance meeting here today is quite fortuitous, Miss Stirling.”
“Happenstance, sir? Mr. Nash said—”
“I've given you much thought since our first meeting. And of how compatible we could be.”
Compatible? What was he talking about? She didn't like the direction of this. Where had Nash gotten himself off to?
“I have much to offer the right woman. The right woman is, of course, one who pleases me. And I believe you would please me well.” The prince folded his hands across his belly. “Are you ready to try to please me?”
Belle's mind raced. Mr. Nash had arranged this meeting so she would be permitted to work in the palace, hadn't he? Surely Nash wasn't trying to broker an arrangement between her and the Prince Regent.
Or was this the prince's way of being coy and clever?
Oh, honestly.
“Your Highness, as tantalizing as your offer is, it is completely impossible for me to become your mistress.” She hoped she looked sufficiently disappointed.
“Dear girl, what impediment could there possibly be?” The prince reached over and rubbed a sausage finger along her cheekbone. Belle kept her smile stitched in place.
“Why, sir, everyone knows that you prefer married ladies as your companions. And since I am clearly still just a maiden, I am therefore totally unsuitable as a mistress.” She dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “But, sir, the moment I take a husband, I'll surely let you know.”
The prince dropped his hand from her face, blinking in disbelief.
She held her breath. Would he now banish her from the royal property?
A small quiver of his lip was only a precursor to his subsequent hearty laugh.
“Miss Stirling, you do tickle me. What a breath of sweet, fragrant air you are. Right then, I take your challenge. A lovely bottle of perfume like you won't sit on the shelf long before an enamored buyer comes along, so we'll be discussing a liaison in no time, won't we?”
“But sir, I am a fragrance that smells sweet in the bottle but bitter on the wrist. So I shall probably linger on the shelf until I turn to vinegar. And then a man of your delicate sensibilities would never be interested in putting such a foul container among his other fragile, crystal-stoppered flagons.”
The prince's eyes nearly disappeared in the folds of his face as he grinned at her. “If only my harpy of a wife had your qualities, I wouldn't be forced to seek love and companionship elsewhere. I am
most
unfortunate in my marriage, you know. She is my worst enemy. If only I were the king, I'd rid myself of her. She's done nothing but cause me heartache—”
The prince continued on his tirade for several more minutes, until he exhausted himself and dismissed an equally worn Belle to return to Nash. She did her best to avoid skittering out like a gazelle being tracked by a lion, and immediately sought Nash out.
She cornered him in a vestibule for answers as to where the prince had gotten the idea that she would be amenable to being his mistress. When no answer was forthcoming, she nearly quit on Nash, but the desire to actually work on the Pavilion was too great.
Chastened but still in good humor, Nash led Belle farther throughout the property. A man's voice called out to Nash as they entered a room whose décor looked old and shabby. He followed them in and Nash shook hands with him. The man was flat faced and wore a measuring tape about his neck.
“Ah, Crace, there you are. May I introduce Miss Stirling to you? This is the young woman the prince wishes to provide fabrics for the Pavilion's new interiors.”
Crace was half of Nash's age, and possessed half his humor. He tilted his head back in order to look imperiously down his nose at her. “So you're the little orphan I must feed and succor,” he said. “How very unpleasant.”
What was this? First the prince was overtly flirtatious, now Mr. Crace was utterly disdainful of her.
“Sir, have I caused you some injury?” she asked, dropping the hand that he refused to take in greeting.
“Not yet, but undoubtedly you will. Nash, I'd like an opportunity to discuss the windows in the Music Room when you've time. Alone,” he added, with another derisive glance at Belle.
But Nash was never one to lose his happy demeanor. “Of course,” he replied, his smile wide. “It's unfortunate that Miss Stirling will be returning to London soon, so she'll have to extend her regrets at not being able to join us.”
“Quite.” Crace turned on his heel and left.
Belle looked at Nash questioningly, but he merely patted her shoulder. “Never mind him. His brain is fogged by wallpaper paste. He'll soon come to appreciate you as much as the prince and I do.”
So, she'd definitely offended Mr. Crace, and probably offended the prince. Her main concern, though, was whether the prince would still welcome her back to the Pavilion. However, she soon got a report from Nash that she still remained in the prince's favor. Far from being insulted by her refusal of his advances, he was charmed.
She sighed in relief. Mr. Crace, however, would require more work to earn his cordiality. If he was capable of it.
Belle spent a week further at Brighton, walking through the Pavilion with Nash, drawings in hand, and further understanding his and the prince's vision for it. Mr. Crace never reappeared.
She returned to London, her head stuffed with her own ideas for fabrics to complement the planned exotic Hindu exteriors. She promised to return soon with cloth samples for Mr. Crace's inspection.
4
Are we aware of our obligations to a mob? It is the mob that labor in your fields and serve in your houses—that man your navy, and recruit your army—that have enabled you to defy the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob; but do not forget that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people.
 
—George Gordon Noel Byron, maiden speech to the House of Lords, February 27, 1812
 
February 1813
London
 
T
he memories of Clive's betrayal, Wesley's treachery, her humiliation in Parliament, and the king's immodest proposal all flew from Belle's mind as she immersed herself into the world of room design. She remained up late each night in her rooms, surrounded by samples clipped from her bolts and her growing collection of books, floor plan drawings, and colored plates representing Mr. Crace's designs.
She matched and rematched samples together against the artist-designer's plans, finally wondering how it was she thought she was capable of any of it.
You're just a draper. You sell cloth. You're not a designer. You have thoughts of grandeur way beyond your station.
Yet she loved the challenge and wasn't about to relinquish her task.
And, besides, Mr. Nash told her before she left Brighton not to obsess to perfection over her suggestions, for he and the prince were sure to make numerous changes.
Wesley was of great comfort to her, for he'd taken to his role of her assistant with great aplomb. He was charming and affable to the women who visited the shop, and although Belle suspected he succumbed to the attentions of the more persistent female patrons, she closed her eyes to it. Her brother was discreet, business was thriving, and how could she stop him even if she so desired?
She had to shut her eyes even tighter against his periodic disappearances for hours, so reminiscent of his behavior in Leeds, but she trusted that all would work out.
In January, her Luddite wound was reopened briefly when she heard that George Mellor and his mob of men were convicted in the uprisings in Yorkshire. Thirty-six hours after their conviction—with no time for appeal—he and two of his compatriots were summarily executed before a silent crowd. Dozens more Luddites were transported to the Colonies, and another round of executions resulted in the deaths of fourteen more of Mellor's followers.
Belle hoped this was the end of worker fanaticism in England.
 
“So a bunch of rabble were executed, and the court may have been corrupted,” George said to Lady Isabella, who had just shared the news with him. “What of it? They were criminals terrorizing the countryside. Besides, their anger is at Parliament, not
me
. I've done nothing. Therefore, there's nothing to worry over. When will supper arrive?”
On cue, a servant entered with an overloaded tray of steaming dishes, which he set on the table between the prince and his mistress. Lady Isabella had suggested that they dine here in her rooms, but now questioned the wisdom of that idea, given that the table might collapse under the weight of their food.
The prince signaled for another glass of wine, and endeavored to acquaint himself with selections from every plate.
Lady Isabella sighed. Her royal lover didn't understand that the people could bring great ruin to the country if their ire was sufficiently roused and they might find the differences between Parliament and the Crown to be mere nuances.
He held up his knife, which had a slice of crispy-skinned duck on it. “Besides, there are so many other problems plaguing me that I can't be worried about what goes on in the north. Jane Austen has a new novel out, and I've yet to secure an inscribed copy for Carlton House. She's very evasive. Must have my librarian Clarke see to it.
“And of course Caroline continues to try my patience. I've isolated her as best I can, and now all of the
ton
patronize my parties, not hers. But she's in league with that cursed Whig, Henry Brougham, and together they're stirring up propaganda against me. But I can wage my own campaign, can't I? And one that might get Parliament's attention enough to help rid me of that millstone.”
Apparently the ongoing war with the Americans and Napoleon's unrelenting agitation on the Continent were of little concern to him in light of his personal domestic matters. Lady Isabella felt her patience being tried. If only his fixation were limited to obsessing over his wife, she wouldn't be concerned. But now he was consumed with his building projects. It didn't bode well for the future if his attentions were to be diverted so far from her.
“My dearest heart,” she began, reaching over for a piece of gingerbread cake. “How often will you be leaving me to go to Brighton to visit your new residence? You know how much I miss you when you're away.”
“Not too often. Just when Mr. Nash needs me to make approvals. And for periodic checks on progress.”
“You haven't invited me to accompany you yet. I should like to see the progress, too. Or don't you plan to have me preside there as your hostess? Have you someone else in mind?”
“No need for you to worry, my love. I am as constant as the North Star. You know that, don't you?”
And that's what was so worrisome. George's constancy was well-known to everyone. And now he was focusing his attentions in Brighton, where Maria Fitzherbert still resided, and where the prince had now employed some young chit to paper his walls and unroll rugs.
Lady Isabella's own constancy these days was a peculiar feeling of dread.
Belle stared at the letter in her hand. Was she angry? Sad? Over a year had passed since her life had so dramatically changed. Ambivalence was the most passion she could muster. She read it again.
14 June 1813
Dearest Belle,
I have momentous news to share with you. Clive and I have married, and are leaving for Wales to be near some distant relatives of his that have promised him work.
I pray you are not too terribly shocked or angered. You know Papa always liked Clive. He thought what went on at the shop was a complete misunderstanding, and that you would soon return to your rightful place here in Leeds. When you didn't, and we never heard from you except to return that bit of borrowed money, well, Clive gave up hope and sought my father for comfort.
It led to us developing a close friendship, which Papa encouraged. And, truthfully, I saw no other prospects for myself and welcomed Clive's attentions. Please, dearest friend, may I have your blessing on our union?
Your faithful friend,
Amelia
Belle shared it with Wesley. He read it impassively. “So your best friend is marrying your fiancé.”
“He was no longer my fiancé. Not once he connived you into ruining my life.”
“Sister, I've apologized for—”
She held up a hand. “I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to unearth the dead. Consider the topic reburied.”
Wesley held up a length of Osnaburg linen. It had a grease stain on it. He threw the cloth on a pile of other fabric scraps to be discarded.
“It does bring up an interesting question, Belle. When do you plan to get married, and stop your obsession with decorating people's homes?”
“Why, Brother, the minute you decide to get married and stop carousing the streets at night like a wharf rat.”
“Peace, Sister, peace. Although, in my defense, if I bring a bit of joy to a lonely woman's life, what harm have I done? But I believe we should agree to leave each other alone on this topic, eh? Besides, there are more important concerns for us. For instance, I've served this shop well and faithfully for a year. Isn't it time you let me share in its management?”
Except that you haven't been faithful, Wesley. You slip out for hours at a time with no explanation. If I run an errand, I never know if you'll be here on my return.
His overt affection for some of the shop's patrons reminded her of his fancy for the girls who frequented the Pack Horse Inn. A little too indiscriminate.
And there were some of his strange comings and goings late at night. Occasionally, Belle could hear him banging into their lodgings in the wee morning hours and stumbling off to his room to sleep for an hour or two. That day, there would be no odor of rancid alcohol on him, but he would behave like a man in the aftermath of a drunken stupor, tired and slow. By supper he was fine again. It never affected his sales, for women were too enamored of his cocoa-colored eyes framed by long lashes to notice that he was a little off.
Belle noticed. She'd not said anything because it had only happened a handful of times. But the tiny kernel of doubt that had sprouted inside her was beginning to flourish. She loved Wesley, but, regrettably, she didn't trust him.
“I don't know if the time is right for that yet,” she said, turning away so he wouldn't see the unease on her face.
But she didn't move fast enough to avoid seeing the resentment in those narrowing brown eyes.
 
Wesley had the dream again. Not a dream, really, more like a tortured limp through a maze of pain and confusion.
It began as so many of them did.
He was walking through a park late at night, alone. The moon hung low and bright, its dark surface shadows stark against the glow. It was warm and utterly still, without even a stray bat flying overhead for company.
Wesley strolled through the park with a cane, whistling aimlessly. He was always happy in the beginning of the dream, his whistling carefree and joyous and his body that of a hale and hearty young man. He had the sense of being wealthy, and being respected by all he encountered. That feeling of importance was calming and satisfying.
But as he neared a copse of trees in the center of the park, clouds drifted across the face of the moon, sending the park into gloomy grayness as the moon struggled futilely against the jagged-edged mist beginning to obscure it.
His instincts now prickling him with the urge to flee, Wesley kept walking toward the trees, his mind issuing an alarm but his legs unheeding of the warning.
He now reached the canopy of overhanging branches from the oaks and elms on the outer edge of the copse. The leafy spreads served to conceal the filtered moonlight even more.
Still he continued. Now he knew that someone was calling him from inside the grove. A woman's voice, pleading and begging. For her life? For Wesley to do something? The sounds were indecipherable. Where was she? He could hear her, but couldn't find her.
In the darkness of the trees, the temperature dropped low enough that Wesley knew he should be shivering, but instead he was sweating profusely. His disobedient legs continued their pace forward, and he was incapable of ordering them to do otherwise.
The woman's voice was rising, becoming more hysterical. And now he was closer, so he could make out words. “It's you, Wesley Stirling. You did this to me.” The “me” ended in an anguished choke. “I'll be with you forever. I'll never let you go.”
Wesley stopped to mop his brow with a kerchief. But his legs only permitted a moment's rest, so determined were they on their course.
“Why?” The woman's voice was rising to a screech. “How could you leave me behind? To be devoured?”
Wesley put his hands against a tree, in an effort to stop his legs from carrying him to what was surely hell. “I didn't mean it, Alice,” he whispered. “Truly. I couldn't help it.”
“You're a liar, Wesley Stirling.”
Wesley jumped. He could feel the warm breath against his ear as the words flowed in like poison.
“No, you must listen to me. I was forced to leave you there.” He wasn't even sure where to address his words. Up in the treetops? Next to him? Toward the center of the woods? But surely he was near the center now.

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