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Authors: Christine Trent

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“I think you wish to help her, Your Highness.”
“Indeed, a pleasure it would be to help such a winsome lady in distress. Yes, it would. So, Nash, what have you heard about moving forward on the new street? Or Regent Street, I'm proud to say it will be called.”
And from there, the prince and Nash absorbed themselves in talk about the demolition and rerouting of London streets that would provide for a direct promenade route from Carlton House to Marylebone Park. The prince's excitement for the project was palpable. The two men talked as if Belle didn't exist anymore. Being ignored was almost as bad as the members of Parliament mocking her.
When George finally looked up again and noticed she was still sitting there, he dismissed her casually, as though she were a servant. Her cheeks flamed as she retreated backward out of the Circular Room, and into the presence of another servant who stood waiting outside to escort her out of Carlton House.
Had she been completely disregarded by both Parliament and the prince in just a few short days?
It didn't matter. She still retained enough anger and fervor to return and fight another day.
 
As the door clicked behind Belle, Nash looked knowingly at his patron. “She is an interesting girl, isn't she?”
“Quite. Positively enchanting. Lots of pluck.” The prince laced his fingers across his belly, contemplating.
“She would be an entertaining guest to have about at the Pavilion.”
“Yes, but she's no one. No connections. Just a tradeswoman. Different from you, of course.”
“Of course. And quite different from my wife, Mary Ann, yes?”
“Ahem, yes, different there, too. But Mrs. Nash holds reign in our hearts well. As do her children.”
“Of that, she and I have no doubt. Miss Stirling did have very insightful ideas about décor, though. It's too bad she isn't working with me on the Pavilion project, for then she'd be passing through the halls regularly.”
“Yes, it would be a divine happiness to listen to her righteous passion as she claps those delicate little hands together to make her points. Most unlike the braying and carping of my supposed wife.” The prince shuddered. “I've restricted that harpy Caroline's movements and her access to our daughter in order to curb her foul disposition and to show her that I am her master, but still she plagues me. You've heard the rumors of her paramours, I presume? Disgusting for a princess of England to behave so immorally.”
“Most distressing for you, I'm sure, to have your wife acting in a most unbecoming manner.” Nash and everyone else in London had listened to the prince's complaints about Caroline of Brunswick for years. The couple had spent only the first twenty-four hours of their 1795 marriage together. George hated Caroline on sight for her poor hygiene, and spent their brief time together drunk. She returned the sentiment because of his obesity and unchivalrous manners, and was stoic through two nights of rough fumbling in the dark in an attempt to get an heir. They parted mutually almost immediately afterwards.
The miraculous result of their brief, loveless union was a daughter, Charlotte, whom George kept sequestered away from her mother, in order to teach Caroline vague and incomprehensible lessons.
But the prince was becoming diverted from the point. Nash must bring him round.
“True enough, the princess cannot compare to the charming Miss Stirling. If only Miss Stirling had some sort of role at the Pavilion, so that I could bring her there on working visits.”
George sat up straight. “D'you know, I have an idea. Have Mr. Crace use her as the Pavilion's exclusive draper. Let her pick out fabrics and trims and other decorative gewgaws. I should definitely like to spend more time in Miss Stirling's company.”
“An excellent idea, Your Highness. I'll take care of it straightaway.”
And so John Nash knew he had secured himself even further in the prince's affections. Presumably he could convince Frederick Crace of the great wisdom in bringing Miss Stirling into their merry band of players.
His only problem would be holding the prince at an acceptable length away from Miss Stirling. Even their brief encounter was making the prince's favorite architect fond of the young woman. If he wasn't careful, he might consider her his own daughter. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake in giving the girl too much royal exposure.
3
It was a pleasing gay Retreat,
Beauty, and fashion's ever favorite seat:
Where splendor lays its cumbrous pomps aside,
Content in softer, simpler paths to glide.
 
—Mary Lloyd, “Brighton: A Poem,” 1809
 
July 1812
London
 
B
elle resigned herself to the idea that she'd accomplished nothing for all her efforts thus far, other than to acquire a shop location. And if Wesley didn't send her any inventory, her new plans might be terminated quite soon. She'd had no word at all from home, and didn't know if her brother had burned her letter, shared it in laughter with Clive and his friends, or in his own anger burned the letter along with the shop while standing around fanning the flames with his friends. But she was ecstatic when a long wagon piled high with her belongings rolled up in front of her lodgings.
Surprisingly, he'd sent her goods.
Even more unexpectedly, Wesley himself accompanied the wagon.
His sheepish appearance nearly melted her hardened heart on the spot. Perhaps he really had been influenced by Clive and had come to his senses. After all, they were family. The only family they had was each other with both parents gone and neither one of them married.
Belle now had no intention of ever encumbering herself with a husband if it meant he would be another Clive: an enemy clothed in a friend's warming cloak.
Wesley begged her forgiveness to the point that it embarrassed her. “Sister, I was a complete idiot. Just extend me some grace, and I swear to you I will never, ever again be misled by men like Clive Pryce. I can't imagine what I was thinking to agree to do something that would destroy our livelihood and dishonor the memory of our parents.”
But as much as she was glad to be reunited with her brother, she'd learned a hard lesson.
“I do forgive you, Wesley, as though it had never happened, and we will never speak of it again. However, this is a fresh start for me in London, and the shop I'm forming will be mine alone. You are welcome to work here with me, but you will not own it. Am I clear?”
“Yes, yes, anything. Just so we can be affectionate siblings again. Oh, and I brought this for you.” He pulled a folded letter from his pocket and handed it to her.
Her first name was written across the front in a scrawl she recognized.
It was from Clive.
The letter was undated, and contained no greeting.
Although you have turned your back on everyone who loves you, I still consider you affianced to me. I may have made a simple error of judgment, but this in no way excuses your appalling abandonment. Banns are being said in church each week, so you can return right away to resume your promised place as my wife. I will forgive you all if you will only return to me. But you must do so quickly to secure my forgiveness.
Belle looked up at Wesley, who shifted uncomfortably.
“Do you know what this says?” she asked.
“I think so.”
She crumpled it up and tossed it back to her brother. “If you ever see my former fiancé again, you may assure him that my greatest hope is for his perpetual roasting in hell.”
Which concluded any further discussion about Clive.
“How is Henry?” she asked.
“Mostly recovered, although I suspect his back will always give him trouble. He found work in a heckling shop, where the work is easier than cropping.”
“What of everyone else?”
“Gone to other cropper shops. A couple of them left town altogether.”
They arranged additional lodgings for Wesley with Belle's landlady, then took the goods to Belle's new shop location, working all through the night to set everything up. Wesley had brought nearly everything, even managing to dismantle and stow the counter on the bottom of the wagon. All that remained back in Yorkshire were about a dozen bolts of fabrics, which he promised would arrive soon.
Despite the lack of sleep, Belle was happy. She made mental lists of what still remained to be done. First and foremost, she needed to have a sign made to hang outside, one painted to show the ram with the golden fleece, the motif of the Drapers' Company, underneath the name “Stirling Drapers.”
She also needed to create a tableau in the shop window to show off her fabrics. Except she would not do what the average draper did, which was to dangle fabric in long, softly folding cascades in the window from the ceiling. Such arrangement was designed to show women what fabric would look like when constructed in a dress, which she found tiresome and boring. Instead, Belle planned to create frequently changing vignettes in different color schemes, to show off the fabrics as potential chair coverings, draperies, and other interior décor.
She'd done this to a small extent back in Leeds, except there weren't many of her neighbors seeking to redecorate their homes. Most of the women just wanted to see the latest fabrics being used for the current season's fashion. Humdrum.
As for the rest of the shop behind the windows, she made use of the existing shelving lining the walls. Rows of deep, round openings lined the back wall, in which they stored the cloth bolts, letting about three feet of fabric dangle down from each bolt so that customers could browse the cloth, rubbing it between their fingers. Along one of the long sides of the shop, shelves stored and displayed laces, ribbons, threads, and buttons. The other wall presented tassels, buttons, and upholstery padding.
She stowed her pistols, now reunited with one another, back under the counter, which Wesley had rebuilt at the front of the shop, hiding them behind her usual collection of cutting and measuring supplies. Unfortunately, the shop was entirely too small for her to consider bringing in another gig mill to finish fabric, so from now on she would only sell ready cloth to the public.
So on a bright, sunny morning, she and Wesley threw open the front doors, inviting in their very first patrons. Belle prayed for success and Wesley's continued dedication to the new shop.
 
She had no notion of how remarkable the success might be. Just days after opening the shop, she received a request to call on Mr. Nash at his home on Dover Street, to discuss an important commission he might have for her.
She was shocked by what she found there. In front of his spacious home were several wagons being loaded up with household goods. A dozen workers were carrying out tables, mirrors, paintings, chairs, and other furnishings for loading onto the wagons, under the severe supervision of a beautiful, if exasperated, woman standing in front of the four-story home. Wearing a gown of radiant yellow, she was issuing orders from beneath the shade of a columned portico shading the front entrance.
Belle approached the woman. “Excuse me, madam? I am looking for Mr. Nash. Is he here?”
The woman passed an irritated glance over her. “We've no more charity to give today, and we're very busy. Try elsewhere.”
Belle's cheeks flamed. Couldn't the woman see that her clothing might be simple, but she wore a fine cut of cloth? Was her wardrobe really that awful? “No, madam, I don't seek charity. I have an appointment with Mr. Nash.”
“Regarding?”
“I don't actually know. A possible commission for my shop. I'm a draper over on Oxford Street.”
The woman shrugged, unimpressed, but opened the door behind her, calling for a servant. When a sweaty and out-of-breath maid in uniform appeared, the woman gave her instructions.
“Margaret, take this young lady—what is your name again?”
“Annabelle Stirling, madam.”
“Take Miss Stirling to the drawing room, go find Mr. Nash, and tell him he has a visitor.”
The maid nodded in obedience. “Yes, madam, but the drawing room has been nearly emptied of furniture.”
The woman sighed. “Yes, Margaret, half the rooms of the house are nearly empty, but this girl insists she has a meeting with him.”
The maid bobbed toward the woman and turned back into the house, leaving Belle to follow. Belle wondered if the woman was Mr. Nash's wife, but the maid gave her no opportunity to ask a question, instead hurrying through the circular, domed staircase hall into a dining room filled with sketches of homes, and to the drawing room beyond that.
Belle nearly ran to keep up, but it didn't prevent her from noticing that Mr. Nash lived almost as regally as the prince himself.
They entered a room that was, indeed, nearly empty. “Wait here, please,” the maid said as she closed the door behind her.
A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Mr. Nash entered. Like everyone else Belle had seen so far, he looked overexerted, and beads of perspiration covered his forehead. But his smile upon seeing her was genuine.
“Ah, Miss Stirling! What a delight to see you again.”
She held out her hand to his. “And you as well, sir. I would like to apologize for my unforgivable behavior at—”
Nash waved away her concern. “Think no more on it. Actually, as I told the prince later, it was all quite amusing. You are an unusually outspoken young woman. Perhaps it is no wonder you aren't married yet.”
Belle drew herself up to retort, then realized he was gently teasing her. “Well, my brother has more than once accused me of lacking an appropriate amount of humility.”
“And yet somehow you do not lack for charm. No, the apologies due are my own. I regret our rather sparse circumstances here. My household is headed down to Brighton for a time, and there's quite a bit of confusion as we decide what will go with us and what will stay here.”
“Brighton?”
“Yes, it's in Sussex, directly on the Channel. A marvelous place for the health, really. People have been bathing in the seawater there for more than sixty years. The prince's interest in that town is making property values rise there. He has a residence there, called the Marine Pavilion, and I am making grand modifications to it. Would you like to see my drawings?” He searched through an open crate of long scrolls standing on their ends until he found what he wanted, and unrolled it on top of a stack of crates marked “Books—Architectural.”
It was a sketch of the front exterior of an immense home, the centerpiece of which was a round, domed entry surrounded by columns, and this center section flanked by two wings echoing the curves of that center focal point. It expanded out farther on either side in a jumbled, uncoordinated way. It was impressive from a size standpoint, but utterly lacking in ornamentation and style.
“So what do you think of it, Miss Stirling?” Nash asked.
“I believe that I have no opinion whatsoever, sir.”
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling in their amusement. “Fear not, Miss Stirling, your opinion is clearly expressed on your face, and I am of the same view. It looks like an undecorated cake, does it not? It is missing the rosettes and edging that would make it a confection suitable for a prince.”
“I must agree with you.”
“This is how Henry Holland redesigned the farmhouse that sat there. I cannot blame him, for it was conceived as a seaside retreat, never as a royal palace. But the prince is now enamored of the Oriental style, and I intend to use his preference to create the most audacious and improbable home ever designed for a sovereign, which he will in due course become. So now I will show you my own plans to improve the home, which I am determined to call the Royal Pavilion.”
He went back to the crate and selected another rolled-up drawing, unrolling it on top of the first.
Belle drew in a breath. The architect was right. It was bold and extraordinary. The classically styled columns in the center of the house were to be replaced with tall Indian pillars, and a mild, rounded top was built up further by an onion-shaped dome. The flanking wings remained the same except for some minor architectural detailing, but the expanding pieces of the house to either side were brought to heel through a restructuring of their fronts, which incorporated even more onion domes. At corners on each side of the plan's domes were tall columns topped with what looked to be miniature onion domes.
“What are these?” she asked, pointing to the rooftop columns.
“My interpretation of minarets. They go well with the domes, don't they?”
She had no idea what he was talking about. But the effect was otherworldly.
Belle knew she looked like a wide-eyed calf, but there was no help for it. “Mr. Nash, I know that I am no jaded London sophisticate, but this is the most astonishing thing I've ever seen.”
“And what do you suppose the interior of such a residence should look like?”
“Why, I don't know. Something Hindu? Moorish? Chinese?”
“In fact, it will be all of these. Don't you think it would be quite a feat to make the interior complement the exterior?”

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