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

 

The 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.

“You’re a liar, and will burn on a pyre.” In his ear, the voice cackled happily at her own rhyme. “Liars burn on pyres, pyres are for liars, liars roast in fire on the pyre, heeeeeee!”

The voice seemed to swoop quickly up away from him into the tree branches, shaking and rattling them. Small acorns struck him in the face. And then the voice, or woman, or whatever it was, plunged back down, settling at his ear again.

“I thought you loved me, Wesley, my dearest.”

“I did, Alice, I did.” Sweat was trickling in rivulets down inside his collar.

“But not now?” Her—its—breath was now burning hot on his ear. The stench of something acrid assailed him. Had Death finally come for him? Was it the final divine joke to face your guiltiest moment before descending into Hades?

“No. I mean, yes. Of course yes. I don’t know what you want, Alice.” Wesley could feel his hands being pushed off the tree trunk. Was he falling? He clawed out in front of him, grasping for anything solid. He regained his footing as he made contact with something unrecognizable. It was soft and pliable, like the sweetest of women, yet thick and gummy. His hands were lodged securely in it. He pulled back gently, but could not extricate his hands.

What the hell was it?

It was at this moment that Wesley realized there was no light at all in the woods. Or had he been blinded? He tried again to extract his hands from the gelatinous substance in front of him.

“Pl-please, Alice. It wasn’t my fault. What can I even do now about what happened to you?” If he wasn’t careful, he’d start weeping.

“You can do nothing, my love. But I can do many things. Over and over. Forever and ever and ever. You’ll never leave me behind again, sweetheart.” Her giggle was barely perceptible over the echo of the word “sweetheart.”

And with that, his arms disappeared into the viscous substance up to his elbows and he tipped forward, his face against the slimy, jellied thing in front of him.

And then it was gone.

He was standing alone again in the dense grove of trees. He was no longer sweating, but instead was overtaken by a distinct chill. The chill rapidly plummeted into frigidity. He flexed his hands to work warmth into them, and tried to turn around to once again quit the landscape.

But again his legs were uncooperative. So he stood rooted to his place, shivering and blowing our great plumes of frost. For how long would he be made to stand here, taking this punishment?

And then she was back.

He preferred her in her gelatinous form.

For her voice was back against his ear, hot and heavy with a malicious desire. “No, sweetheart, you’ll never leave me behind. Not while I have you in my arms.”

And those arms, strong as the tree limbs above him, wound their way around his chest, gripping him in a deathly vise. Alice had been fleshy and strong, but he didn’t remember her as being quite so powerful. And with such a long reach.

For her arms were now endless, wrapping around him again and again, a spider entangling an unwary insect in her secret web. And he was the fool who had wandered—no, dashed—into it.

She was squeezing him now. He couldn’t breathe. Wesley could feel a small tingle in the back of his throat, as though she had inserted a thin, hairy leg in his mouth and was probing him.

Not just probing him, choking him. Seizing his breath by both her embrace and her evil scraping from within. He closed his eyes, willing her away, but knowing that she would eventually claim him as her own. He fell to the ground, staring sightlessly through the tree canopy at the moon’s reappearance from the cloud cover, unable to do more than emit a faint gurgle.

And then he awoke.

Wesley sat straight up in bed. The moon was indeed bright. It couldn’t be past midnight. He frantically checked himself in his fading panic. There were no deadly tentacles around him and his hands were not covered in anything gummy. He swallowed. Nothing there, either.

But he was sweating profusely, the only reminder of his nightmare. He picked up the package on the table next to his bed and examined it.

I’ll eat no more opium. Ever.

But he knew there would be more. There would always be more. More and more and more until Alice completely devoured him from beyond the grave.

 

August 1814
London

 

While Belle’s business grew, and Nash’s projects expanded, war raged relentlessly across the Continent for the next year. Following Napoleon’s disastrous retreat from Russia in October 1812, Prussia, Sweden, Austria, and a number of German states reentered the war, seeing opportunity in the emperor’s defeat. Even the indefatigable Napoleon Bonaparte could not long survive the coalition built against him. In June 1813, the Duke of Wellington broke the will of the French Army at the Battle of Vitoria in Spain. Napoleon was subsequently defeated again at Leipzig in October 1813, and by March 1814 his forces were stretched too thin to effectively protect Paris, which succumbed to his enemies on March 30, 1814.

The hopelessness of his situation forced Napoleon to abdicate at Fontainebleau on April 4, in favor of his son, Napoleon II. However, the allies refused to recognize his successor, and instead reinstalled the House of Bourbon, placing Louis XVIII on the French throne.

Napoleon himself was exiled to the island of Elba, off the coast of Tuscany. Chillingly, Napoleon promised his troops that it was not the end but that he would return to France “when the violets will bloom.” His troops rested assured that their god-like leader would come back for more victories.

Despite Napoleon’s confidence of his eventual retaking of the French throne, England’s happiness over the peace resulting from his abdication lasted for months, and now a splendid exposition, called the Jubilee Fair, replete with fireworks and entertainments celebrating peace, was to take place at Hyde Park on August 1.

Wesley, who hadn’t had a nightmare episode in weeks, asked Belle if she would like to accompany him to the event. “I’ve been reading about the planned festivities in the paper. Let’s close up for the day and attend. I think most of the shops on Oxford Street will be shut down, anyway.”

“What? Miss Smythe or Miss Davidson didn’t want to accompany a handsome gentleman such as yourself?” she asked, smiling.

“Many of the ladies who patronize the shop would think that only drunkards, escapees from Newgate, and fallen women will be there. I prefer your company, anyway. And I flatter myself that you prefer mine. Of course, our appearance together might ruin my chances for obtaining a proper wife.” Wesley’s eyes rolled upward as he laughed at his own joke.

Wesley’s initial resentment of her refusal a few months ago to make him her equal in the shop had vanished quickly, and he was much as she remembered him in Leeds: fun and lighthearted.

Her brother was in good spirits as they approached the crowded grounds of Hyde Park. The rectangular park, with its serpentine lake slicing it vertically down the middle, was teeming with people, tents with gaily flapping flags, and temporary booths set up to sell pies, drink, and souvenirs. Jubilee nuts and Regent cakes were popular offerings, with anxious buyers crowding the stands to purchase what were surely just bags of sugared almonds and plain biscuits.

Tapped barrels of ale, porter, and stout were flowing regularly into tankards, and men were carrying their refreshments with them to enjoy any of the myriad of impromptu entertainments spread all over the grounds. A fiddler sawed his instrument merrily with several drunken bystanders sloppily dancing nearby.

Stages had been erected, each offering different performances representing Napoleon’s defeat against their fancy, painted backdrops. Actors shouted to be heard against competing theatrical troupes, vendors hawking, and the booming of a band from the other side of the lake. Belle and Wesley strolled from stage to stage, trying to catch all of the shows.

Children ran everywhere, shouting happily and enacting their own versions of the emperor’s downfall.

Belle had never seen anything like it. Her mouth must have been hanging open, for Wesley looked at her and laughed.

“London is madness, isn’t it? But I think the best is yet to come. Look there.” Wesley pointed to the lake. She’d not noticed the fleet of ships on its surface.

A fleet of ships in the middle of a park? How could that be?

Belle frowned, and Wesley laughed again at her confusion.

“Fascinating, isn’t it? The papers referred to it as a Naumachia, which I believe is scheduled to start shortly.” He pulled out a pocket watch to confirm his statement. “Yes, any time.”

“But what is a ... what is it called?” Belle asked.

“A Naumachia. A mock sea battle. I’d say this one is Trafalgar. They’re just reduced wooden replicas of great sailing ships. The ships will chase each other around and the sailors aboard each one will fire blank shot at the enemy.”

As if in response to Wesley’s words, several distant pops rang out and plumes of white smoke rose from one of the smaller ships. Men on board the French-flagged ship screamed in imaginary distress, but were soon laughing uncontrollably. Onlookers at the water’s edge joined in the merriment, shouting encouragement to the “French” sailors to jump into the water and drown themselves.

Soon all of the ships were firing at one another in a melee of good humor, as those watching kept up their taunts and jeering that the French should surrender and strike their colors. At the conclusion of the “battle,” in which the French ships did indeed lower their flags in defeat, the crowd’s cheering was raucous and deafening.

It was also completely thrilling.

A great whoosh emanated from one of the French ships and Belle could see a tower of flames rising from it. The crowd was now delirious, and she found herself clapping and cheering. A small rowboat appeared on the lake, carrying one portly passenger and an oarsman. It came to the center of the lake while the play ships scattered to either side. The passenger stood, revealing the finery that couldn’t conceal his puffy figure. Spectators gasped in recognition and rushed to the water’s edge on both sides of the lake to hear what he had to say.

Wesley gripped Belle’s shoulder. “It’s the Prince Regent!” he said as he pulled her along to get a better view.

Prince George was unsteady on his feet in the rowboat, and put his hand on the rower’s shoulder for balance. With his other hand, he brushed something from his waistcoat, an affectation she’d seen before. His garments were the most elegant she had ever seen on him so far, but then, she knew little about royal attire. His clothing was dark, and he wore a high collar with a white neck cloth artfully arranged inside it. The medallion attached to a wide sash across his shoulder winked brilliantly even at a distance in the waning hours of daylight. He also wore what looked to be an admiral’s hat. In the distance behind him, the fired ship continued to spark flames upward.

Belle held her breath. What would he say?

“Dear people, fellow countrymen, what happy news brings us to this day.” The prince’s voice carried clearly across the water. “First, we celebrate the Glorious Peace that comes from our victory over that tyrant and oppressor, Bonaparte.”

Huzzahs filled the air.

“Our fearless military commander, the Duke of Wellington, showed that despot that even a hundred thousand of the best-trained French troops are no match for a handful of our brave and intrepid lads.”

“Long live the Duke of Wellington!” shouted someone from the crowd. The people responded with cheers.

“Quite right.” The prince raised his free hand to quiet everyone as he nodded toward the sound of the voice.

“May this Glorious Peace reign over our country as long as the House of Hanover has reigned in gentleness and compassion over its people. For today we also celebrate the centennial anniversary of Hanoverian rule in England!”

The applause and shouts of approval were more scattered this time. But George held up a hand again as though quieting a roaring crowd.

“Yes, for one hundred years my family has presided over Great Britain, with no thought for our own comfort but only for the solace, cheer, and well-being of the citizenry.”

He paused for the crowd’s approval, which was even sparser this time. Undaunted, he continued. “And so, my good friends, let us eat to contentment, have drink in good cheer, and place our faith in God’s providence that He will maintain the peace and Hanoverian rule for a hundred years more! I hereby decree that the tapped barrels throughout the park be made to provide one free tankard to all who gather here!”

And this did stimulate widespread applause and shouts, as people stampeded to be the first to secure a cup of beer. Hardly anyone noticed as the prince sat down heavily again in his boat and was rowed back to shore, where he was helped into a waiting coach by no fewer than three liveried footmen.

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.

Calling themselves Spence’s “forty disciples,” they vowed that his struggle would not end here. On the contrary, they would move forward with enthusiasm and at great risk to their own lives. They renamed the movement the Spencean Philanthropists, and endeavored to start branches of the group all over London, encouraging them to convene clandestinely in public houses all over London to formulate the best ways of achieving an equal society.

Thistlewood became the de facto leader of the Spenceans, and was elevated to a level of esteem he could have only imagined when one of the followers reported to him that the government had become concerned about him and the newspapers were reporting him to be a “dangerous character.”

Thistlewood preened under the new respect and deference shown him by his fellow Spenceans. Not that he ever showed his pleasure in public, for it wouldn’t have been in keeping with their philosophy of all-men-are-equal. Nevertheless, at night, when lying in the darkness of his room with Susan snoring and wheezing beside him, he realized that he was finally achieving a dream. He just wasn’t sure what that dream would morph into eventually, but it was building steam.

He looked over at his wife. Although he wasn’t particularly sure what the end of his dream would be, he was fairly certain she didn’t belong there.

7 January 1815, Saturday

Had another dream of Alice last night. How can she be plaguing me from the dead like this? What will I have to do to rid myself of her?

Ordered four bolts of bird-and-thistle chintz. B——says it is an excellent drapery fabric, but I wish she would remember that customers also desire to have clothing made.

Weather dreary today. Endless rain the past three days.

B——plans to return to Brighton again for a visit. Asked her again to make me her partner. Again she refused. What will I have to do to prove myself? It is not seemly for a man to be under the thumb of his younger sister.

Must remember to find seamstresses for hire for drapery work. B——keeps reminding me.

April 1815

 

Belle’s work in the shop overtook her as she prepared her own sketches and ideas for the Great Corridor at Brighton.

It was to be the spine of the Pavilion, linking all of the important state rooms together, and was also the most Chinese part of the palace. Nash had shown her a sample chair—a Chinese export of intricately designed satinwood and bamboo—as well as a panel of Mr. Crace’s intended wallpaper, consisting of repeating murals of waving bamboo plants on linen. Her task was to choose fabric for seat covers in the palm green and salmon–colored gallery.

Only the comb, which occupied the center of her dresser top, provided an easily forgotten reminder that she planned to thank Put personally for having provided her with a gift Wesley loved so well.

Finally remembering that Put had told her his shop was in Shoreditch, she settled for dashing off a quick note the day before leaving in a privately hired coach.

Aghast at the expense of the private hire, Belle reluctantly handed over the fee to take her back to Brighton. Mr. Nash assured her by letter that he would submit it to the Pavilion’s Lord Chamberlain for payment as part of the Pavilion’s cost. Nash wanted all of the material samples and drawings Belle was bringing to be as clean and undamaged as possible. Hauling bags on and off public transport would never do.

She relished being back in Brighton, although it was bitterly cold and wet on the coast this time of year. The chill made her hands feel like glass that might crack upon any impact.

Mrs. Nash still spent most of her time with her children, but joined her husband and Belle in the evenings to chat trivialities. Mary Ann Nash was partial to sweet almond liqueur, whereas Nash preferred cognac. Belle kept her own imbibing to a minimum, only because she’d witnessed how foolish it had made Wesley in the past.

Belle treasured these quiet, comfortable evenings with the Nashes. Both husband and wife were affable in their own ways, and John Nash’s knowledge, which he happily shared, was vast and comprehensive.

Outside of Amelia, from whom she hadn’t heard since her move to Wales with Clive, the Nashes were the closest things Belle had to real friends.

Belle and Nash decided on an impromptu visit one morning so Nash could finish showing Belle the kitchen. Since her last visit, the fireplace and its smoke jack were completely installed, the surround painted green, and the entire thing topped with an elaborate copper awning.

In fact, copper was the order of the day, with a similar awning on the opposite wall to cover a lengthy cooktop. Open crates full of copper stockpots and saucepans were stored in a corner.

Large paned windows high up on the wall flooded the space with light, accented by a multitude of chandeliers strung from the ceiling.

And the support columns, why, they’d been made over to look like tall bamboo sticks. Her awe must have shown on her face, for Nash said, “And they aren’t done yet, Belle. Wait until you see what else I do with them.”

Belle avoided more than a polite visit with the prince this time, enough to get his approval on her suggestions for the Great Corridor, which she knew was presumptuous of her, since Mr. Crace had not yet heard her ideas.

She returned to London quickly, anxious to implement everything according to Nash’s patient explanation. She was once again amazed and humbled to be working on a royal residence.

 

Napoleon escaped Elba on February 26, 1815, and returned to France. With sixteen hundred troops at his back, he invaded Paris on March 1, successfully taking control of the government once again.

Bonaparte was on the loose again, determined to have Europe for himself.

The residents of Brighton were alarmed. The seaside resort lay open on the English Channel, and Bonaparte had threatened invasion before. Knowing that Bonaparte was capable of massing great strength, would Parliament send troops to protect them?

Nash talked to the Prince Regent to express his concerns for the people and the safety of the Pavilion project, but the prince’s airy reply focused merely on moving progress forward on the Pavilion as quickly as possible.

“Either the prince is confident British troops can repel the French, or, well, he doesn’t understand... .” Nash let his words drop inside his library one evening.

Mrs. Nash’s brow was furrowed. “I’m sure it’s the former. In the meantime, I guess we should carry on as though nothing is wrong.”

As though nothing is wrong? Belle thought as she stared distractedly into the fireplace. She’d lived through her parents’ deaths and Clive’s betrayal, which still sometimes gave her nightmares. But the idea of French troops landing on Brighton’s shores to invade England, and pillaging their way north to London, made her tremble uncontrollably.

Perhaps Mrs. Nash was made of sterner stuff than she was.

She bent down to pick up a copy of Mr. Chippendale’s The Gentleman & Cabinetmaker’s Director from the floor. It was a book Nash had not loaned her as part of her training. Nash must have carelessly tossed it down after using it. She flipped through the book. The oversized leather volume was finely tooled, and not only contained an explanation of the classical architectural orders but included Chippendale’s drawings of bookcases, chests, commodes, mirrors, frames, chairs, bed frames, and all manner of tables.

A page titled “China Case” was dog-eared. It contained a drawing of a closed, three-section cabinet atop eight thin, squared legs. Fretwork decorated the front of the cabinet, and the top of the center section of the cabinet had a decoration on it made to resemble a pagoda. A note in Nash’s hand on this page read: Styling for Aqualate Hall, Staffordshire—Entrance Hall—Lord Boughey—approval 25 March 1808.

Belle ran a hand across the furniture sketch. How very exotic. It finally brought back to mind Putnam Boyce. Did he have enough talent to build such a piece? She was sure he did.

Enough woolgathering, Belle. She shut the book and slid it in between companion cabinetmaker directories from Mr. Sheraton and Mr. Hepplewhite.

“Miss Stirling, I’ve decided to give you an important assignment,” Nash said, as he stretched out his legs before the fire during their evening talk. The April evenings were still quite chilly.

“Shall I get my sketchbook?” she asked.

“No, this is a different sort of assignment. More of an errand, really. The Prince Regent greatly admires a certain author, whose books he keeps in all of his residences. He realized that he does not have a set for the library at Brighton, and is quite insistent that he must have them immediately. He’s written to his librarian, a Mr. James Stanier Clarke, instructing him to have the author deliver copies to Carlton House. I want you to go to London and retrieve the books personally.”

“But, sir, can’t the books be sent by mail to Brighton?”

“I’m afraid not. The prince is quite adamant that they be handled carefully and that they are brought down right away. I’d like you to leave tomorrow morning for London.”