By the King's Design (15 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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Belle and Wesley continued their promenade around the park, finding a secluded path away from much of the chaos produced from the free-flowing liquor. Wesley plucked a rose of deep coral from a bush and handed it to Belle, who tucked it over her ear inside her bonnet.
Belle was strangely pleased by her brother's tender action. Maybe she was wrong not to make him her equal partner. He was her only blood relative, after all. And he really had been very dedicated to the shop's success. She would have to think more on it.
They stopped at the sound of distant booming. Across the lake, behind the cluster of now-inactive ships, fireworks were exploding into the air in an animated display of reds, blues, whites, and yellows. The drawn-out screeching, followed by the rapid-fire pops of each fireworks spectacle, sent the blood coursing through Belle's veins. She was alive, and happy, and proud to be a Briton in her country's hour of glory. She was especially proud to be here with her brother, Wesley, who was—
Where was he?
She looked all around her. She was alone. She stood on tiptoe to see over the shoulders of people in the distance. Why would Wesley have abandoned her?
And then she saw him, slipping rather furtively in between the flaps of an unmarked tent. A man stood in front of the flap, facing out, with his arms crossed on his chest, after Wesley went in. Belle started to go after Wesley, but realized that perhaps she wouldn't be welcome there.
He had invited her to accompany him to the fair. Why was he disappearing so mysteriously, without a word about where he was going?
She shook her head. Sometimes her brother was impossible to decipher.
She left the path to visit a long row of booths offering commemorative souvenirs near her brother's tent. Vendors barked and hawked their wares at her, nearly driving her senseless. She fled to the end of the selling area, to a tented booth where the seller wasn't booming about the quality of his wares. Instead, he sat quietly in an ornately carved chair before a spread of equally figured smoking pipes and walking canes on a table.
Gentlemen's accoutrements.
Even though he was seated, Belle could see the man was tall and lean, yet he had the sinewy muscles of a hardworking craftsman running through his arms. He rose as she approached his booth, revealing that he wore a carpenter's leather apron.
“Madam,” he said. His voice was warm and good-humored. “May I interest you in something for your father? Or perhaps your husband?”
“I have neither. But I'm here with my brother. He's somewhere nearby. I thought I'd do some shopping.”
“He left you alone?”
“No, no, he went to ... visit with friends. He'll be by shortly.” The man nodded slowly. “I see. Perhaps he would like a walking stick. This one”—he held up a cane of ebony, topped with a bust of Napoleon wearing his famed military hat, carved in a pale, yellow wood—“allows the user to keep the former emperor under his thumb at all times. Actually, all of the wood here was taken from one of Napoleon's supply carriages.”
“Truly? How did you take possession of one?” Belle ran her hand over the cane's carving. It was exquisitely detailed.
“There is a waxworker, Madame Tussaud, who has a traveling exhibition in Great Britain. She purchased a selection of Bonaparte's artifacts to create a tableau of his capture. I sometimes create furniture pieces for her tableaux. She did not need the carriage, and I had good use for its wood.”
A waxworker? How interesting. The man's face was interesting, as well. Or, rather, arresting. Particularly his eyes. The right one was a more intense shade of green than the other. The green of a dense forest where one could become frighteningly lost without a map to retrace one's steps. And almost as if that eye knew it had an advantage over the left one, he used it to appraise her more fully, turning his head just slightly so that his right eye was dominant in her line of sight.
She cleared her throat and broke from his gaze. “Yes, well, what of these objects?”
He smiled lovingly at the smoking pipes, as though they were his own children. “I particularly enjoyed carving these. As you can see, each one has a face carved into the bowl. Here is the Prince Regent, this one is the Duke of Wellington, and this is one I did from a painting of Lord Nelson. I use imported woods, like olive-wood and mesquite, to ensure hardness. These pipes will last forever.”
Belle picked one up. They were just as detailed as the walking sticks. This man took great pride in his work. She wondered if Wesley was interested in picking up smoking.
“I'm no expert, sir, but it seems to me that you are a fine craftsman.”
The man blushed. “You honor me.”
“It is no honor to hear the truth. My only dilemma will be which one to purchase.”
The man gently took the pipe from her hand. His calloused thumb brushed her palm. Belle was surprised at the tenderness of his touch.
“My apologies, miss. I didn't mean to offend. Let me show you something else I have.” He lifted the lid of a plain oak trunk that sat on the ground next to him. Belle gasped.
The exterior of the trunk was completely unfinished, raw, and ordinary, but as he pushed the lid back on its brass hinges she was taken aback by the interior. It was decorated with a bouquet of roses, pansies, and daffodils, done entirely in different-colored woods, each petal somehow cut and glued together perfectly, with no gaps between them. The flowers sat in a Greek urn, the pattern of which was also delicately cut from multiple types of wood.
In fact, every inch of the interior was covered with designs: Fleur-de-lys, vines, and geometric patterns lined the sides, bottom, and trays of the trunk. Ironically, the trays contained mostly dusty tools.
As usual, Belle spoke before thinking. “Such a beautiful home for such unattractive guests.” She put a hand to her mouth as though she could somehow stopper her words back up.
The man reached into the depths of the trunk and pulled out another pipe, bringing it to her. He smiled as she took it. “My tool chest is my calling card. Every cabinetmaker owns one and takes great pride in it. But we never finish the outside, since it sits in the shop and is subject to wood shavings, splinters, and falling tools. I open it to show potential customers the inlay and marquetry I'm capable of making. I'm hoping to find some new customers while selling these tributes to the Great Peace.”
She barely glanced at the pipe, so entranced was she by the chest. “I've been reading lately on those very subjects.” She pointed at the chest. “The patterns and designs that don't actually create a picture, such as the scroll along that one tray, that's inlay. Whereas your spectacular floral bouquet is marquetry.”
“And just how did you come to read about wood designs?”
“I'm a draper, but I've been called on to do work on the prince's Pavilion in Brighton. I've been studying everything I can about interior design. To include furniture.”
“Is that right, Miss ... ?”
“Stirling. Annabelle Stirling.” Drat him, he didn't believe her. She held out her hand. “And you, sir, are ... ?”
He took her hand and bowed over it across the table of pipes. “Putnam Boyce. My friends call me Put. Rhymes with ‘shut.' ”
He said it like a poem he'd repeated thousands of times. He probably had.
“We Boyces have been cabinetmakers for four generations, and before that, my great-great-grandfather was a sailmaker who did odd carpentry jobs on a ship. Myself, I've been cabinetmaking for about ten years now, since I was fourteen.”
“Do you work with your father?”
His smile faded. “My parents are both gone. I keep the shop by myself except for a couple of apprentices and a journeyman. I saw no need to turn it over to anyone else just because my neighbors thought I was too young to manage on my own.”
Why, he's just like me.
She gave him her own tentative smile to try to restore his good humor. “Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Put-rhymes-with-shut Boyce.”
Oh dear, but his face did gleam when he was amused. He held her gaze an uncomfortably long time.
She cleared her throat again. “And so, you wanted to show me another pipe?”
“Yes. I wasn't planning to sell this one. Thought I might keep it. But I'll sell it to you.”
She held it up for closer inspection. The dark bowl was shaped like a stallion's head, its mane carved to look as though the horse was galloping. It had a long stem that tapered up into a fine point for a mouthpiece.
“Mr. Boyce, I couldn't buy this. First, it must be very expensive, but also, it's a grand piece that you should probably hand down to your son.”
“I suppose that one day when I'm married and have a son, I can carve another one.”
She was oddly pleased to learn he wasn't married.
Belle, get hold of yourself. What difference does it make what this man's status is? You've no interest in men. Remember, you'll lose control of your shop if you permit a man to share your life.
A good reminder to keep Wesley at bay a little longer.
“So how much do you want for it?” she asked.
He named a price far lower than what he was asking for the other pipes on display. She started to demur, but he was already reaching over again and folding her hands around the pipe. His hands were rough and thick with years of shaping wood, yet held hers as though she were a delicate teacup. They belied his relatively young age.
“Your brother should be able to enjoy many years of smoking with this. My salutations to him.”
She handed over a few coins to him, which he dropped inside his apron. “Ah, while I'm thinking of it, you should also have this.” He reached once again into his trunk, and pulled out a wooden hair comb. The teeth were perfectly spaced on the dark brown wood, and the spine of the comb contained a small rose inlay in a pale wood.
“It's beautiful, Mr. Boyce. Are you sure?” She didn't even attempt to say no. The comb was a spectacular piece of art. And he was making a gift of it to her.
“It is my pleasure. And if you ever have any furniture needs, I hope you will come to my shop on Curtain Road in Shoreditch. I also make musical instruments, wall and ceiling moldings, and sconces.”
Oh. He was just using the comb as his calling card. Very well.
“Thank you, Mr. Boyce. I will remember you. I'm sure I'll have need of a cabinetmaker in the future. For the prince's residence.”
He smiled. “Yes, Miss Stirling.”
She turned to leave, but he stopped her. “I believe the wine and ale are free-flowing now, and it will be dark soon. Please be careful with your person, Miss Stirling. I wouldn't like to see you come to any harm.”
She tucked both the pipe and the comb inside her reticule. “I'll be careful.”
Not seeing Wesley anywhere yet, Belle decided to return to the path she was on, to see what other fragrant blooms she might find. She quickly lost interest in the flowers and shrubbery as the sun sank lower in the sky. The darker the sky became, the blacker her mood grew, despite her interesting conversation with that cabinetmaker.
Why hasn't Wesley returned?
Mr. Boyce was right. The drunkards, thieves, and who knew what other rabid creatures would be marauding about soon, wreaking havoc with their addled pates and foolish courage brewed in mugs. Wesley had left her alone and defenseless.
How dare my brother simply abandon me?
Enough. Belle raised her chin and marched with determination to the tent where Wesley had disappeared. Not only would she retrieve her brother so they could go home, but she was feeling just spirited enough to give him a stern lecture about leaving her alone to be preyed upon by wandering criminals.
To poor Wesley's shock, she did just that, loudly demanding his presence from outside the tent, fixing him with a glare reminiscent of the one she'd given him during his feigned Luddite attack, and sermonizing the entire way back home about his poor treatment of her. And after his activities in the tent, he had little presence of mind to respond to her verbal lashing, which angered her even further. She concluded her lecture by hurling the pipe at his chest, demanding that he learn to smoke tobacco.
As he nursed his emotional wounds later that evening over a nibble of opium, Wesley wondered: Why couldn't a man ever have some peace?
He flipped the pipe over in his other hand. Excellent work. And he'd heard that some fellows were beginning to smoke opium blended with tobacco, not just eat from the sun-dried bricks. Smoking supposedly made the sensations more intense. Interesting.
 
December 1814
 
Arthur Thistlewood and his comrades had been forever changed. Their beloved leader, Thomas Spence, died in September, and more than three dozen of his followers, including Thistlewood, buried him quietly but with resolve.

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