14
The heart will break, but broken live on.
—Lord George Gordon Byron, British poet, 1788–1824
April 1820
Put carted over a new coffin the next day, confessing that he built it once the trial started, in anticipation of an unhappy outcome. He obtained Wesley’s body and transferred him to the mahogany box, the top of which was intricately decorated with inlaid swirls and acanthus leaves.
Belle’s throat nearly closed in gratitude. She knew coffins were typically a good source of income for cabinetmakers, since there was always a steady stream of customers for them, but they were usually hastily constructed of cheap pine, and not always even painted, much less oil-rubbed and embellished as this one was.
Along with Frances and a local priest, they buried Wesley, and Belle entered the drudgery of daily life without her brother. She stumbled through the next few weeks in a murky fog. Her feet carried her automatically to the shop every day, where a series of curiosity seekers and gossips stopped in to ask her about Wesley’s role in the conspiracy. She responded to everyone with as much politeness as she could muster. She would have felt more gracious if these nosey rumormongers were actually interested in purchasing some fabric.
Her customers who normally made regular purchases were giving the shop a wide berth. A few of them even sent notes, explaining that continued patronage of her shop would be simply impossible, what with her brother’s unfortunate demise.
She cast all of the unwanted correspondence into the parlor fireplace, watching with satisfaction as it turned to ash in dark, withering curls.
Even worse was when she visited Lady Derby in Grosvenor Square to check up on whether the countess needed further help with her bedchamber. Belle swallowed her fear and disgust of nearby Number 39, Lord Harrowby’s home, yet was rewarded with a curt “We no longer need the services of a traitor’s sister, thank you” by Lady Derby’s housekeeper and a slammed door in her face.
Perhaps I really will be driven to leave London.
She gratefully accepted Frances’s invitation to sup with her and Put, realizing now that the Boyces might be her only friends left in London. Put and his cousin studiously avoided any discussion about the conspiracy, even though it continued to be a topic of great interest in the newspapers, and instead chatted about mundane items, such as the weather and a neighbor’s child who had a chronic cough. Their suppers together became a regular occurrence, and Belle learned how to communicate with Frances through a series of hand gestures and explicit pronunciation while directly facing her. It was hard to believe she’d once viewed this lovely girl as an enemy.
Especially now that Belle was surrounded on all sides by enemies.
One evening at the dining table, Put wordlessly handed her a newspaper. She scanned it, immediately finding the article he wanted her to see, which read like a hysterical clamoring for witchcraft trials.
. . . and having ferreted out this latest of insurrections against king and country, it makes every thinking man realize that for every radical who is caught in his misdeed, there are three, four, nay, five more in his shadow, waiting for an opportunity to step into the gas lamp’s light and take his brother’s place.
And should not all concerned men consider this in a literal sense? Are not the most likely candidates to emerge from a radical’s shadow his own relatives? That they would embrace such unwise actions before a man’s friends and acquaintances? Good sense requires that we examine a man’s brothers, his father, his uncles. Yes, even his female relatives, for are they not the weaker sex and therefore even more prone to accepting foolish notions?
All of the king’s subjects would be well-advised to serve him by keeping watch for suspicious behavior by the relatives of these convicted miscreants.
She handed it back to Put. “What drivel. Just because one man is a fool doesn’t mean his entire family is equally muttonheaded.”
“No, but it does mean you might be in danger from those who take the newspaper seriously. I think you should stay here while tensions are high in the city. I know Frances would be pleased to have you here, and it would make us both rest easier to know you’re safe.”
“Thank you, but no. I don’t think anyone would seek out a mere draper. And Wesley’s role was insignificant in the conspiracy. They’ve more prominent relations to seek out. Those of Thistlewood’s, for instance.”
Put slammed the paper down on the dining table. “Belle, you couldn’t be more wrong. First, Wesley’s participation was not that of some innocent dupe. He knew full well what he was doing. He was Thistlewood’s trusted agent. Second, a populace frightened by a perceived radical movement isn’t going to empathize with a ‘mere draper,’ as you say. You’ll join the list of possible suspects. And that places your life at risk. You shake your head no, but I tell you, the threat to your person is real.”
Deep concern was etched in his face, and Frances grasped both of Belle’s hands in her own, as if by doing so she could pass a secret message to her.
“Thank you both for your concern,” Belle said. “I have to think on things.”
How easy it would be to become part of this family. To be Put’s wife and embrace Frances as a sister. Put’s home on the edge of Shoreditch was simple but clean, and a house any merchant’s wife would be proud to own. Belle respected his woodworking talents—there were few shops that produced furniture as well built as his. He was strong, kind, and fiercely loyal.
If only she didn’t worry so much about losing her livelihood to a husband. She’d been her own woman ever since she could remember, and couldn’t stop now.
Well, what she could do was stop dwelling on it. Her primary concern was combating attacks on her reputation. She’d kept quiet about the ongoing decline in her shop’s business, but it took enormous will not to share with Put the letter she received from John Nash, temporarily severing their relationship and informing her that the king would not require her services, saying that “... in light of the current circumstances, His Majesty deems it best that a connection to the name ‘Stirling’ be put in abeyance until the agitation over recent events has settled down.”
Belle knew full well that this suspension on her services extended to Mr. Crace, so there was no point in trying to seek business from him or anyone else connected to Brighton.
What was she to do? Her reputation and business were collapsing around her like a hailstorm.
There was more disaster to come.
Arriving early at her shop one morning, she found the words “A Traitor Lived Here” painted across the panes on her front window. Anger replaced her grief and fear. How dare some busybody deface her property like that? She scrubbed away the paint until the glass sparkled anew, but there was more in store for her.
Days later, she sat behind her counter, going through her account books once again to see how much longer she’d last at her declining rate of sales, especially with losing the king’s custom.
Her situation was grim.
No matter, Belle would survive it. She’d move back to Yorkshire; she’d start a cloth-finishing factory; she’d raise chickens and sell eggs if necessary. She stretched her arms and picked her pen up again. Maybe she could find a miscalculation somewhere that might prove to be in her favor.
The crash of glass startled Belle from her computations. She looked up to realize that a small, jagged rock had been thrown through her clean window and now rested innocently in the middle of the shop’s floor. Two more stone missiles soon joined it, each one breaking a different section of the front glass.
Now what? Was someone planning to charge into her shop? Set it afire? She drew a deep breath. Perhaps Put was right about the menace she was facing.
Ignoring her nerves, Belle pulled one of her pistols from its hiding place behind the counter. Hiding the unloaded weapon behind her back, she darted to the front door, flinging it open violently and shouting, “What do you want here?”
A pair of teenage boys stood in the middle of Oxford Street, making obscene gestures and laughing at her.
Boys. Mere boys. Thinking they could ill-treat an innocent shopkeeper. She felt rage creeping up her spine, white-hot and scorching. This was just like the invasion of her family’s shop back in Leeds.
“So, my little friends, you thought you’d have a little fun with my shop, did you?”
“We didn’t mean nuthin’! We were just having fun. Besides, we were told that you were easy pickings.”
“Is that so? How about if I pick your little ears off the sides of your heads?”
A wagon rolled to a stop behind the boys, and a burly laborer jumped down.
“Something wrong here?” he asked.
Thank goodness, help had arrived to serve justice to these two street rats.
“Yes, sir,” said the taller of the two boys. He pointed at Belle.
“She’s been threatening us, and all we were doing was tossing a ball out here.”
What?
The laborer frowned at her. “Aren’t you a relative of one of them radicals? A niece or something?”
Belle lifted her chin. “My brother was convicted in the Cato Street Conspiracy, yes. What of it?” She pointed her chin to the window. “What’s that to do with my window, broken by these two little scoundrels?”
The man rubbed his unshaven face. “Not really a crime if you’re a secret radical, is it?”
“Not a crime? Do I really look like a radical to you?” She glanced down at her simple dress and back up at the man.
“I guess I don’t know what a lady radical looks like. But your brother was one, and I hear as they’ve been poisoning all of their relations with crazy thoughts. So you just might look like a radical.”
A few people were gathering to watch their exchange. By this point, the boys had skittered away.
Belle clutched the pistol firmly behind her back. She wished she’d loaded it before bringing it outside, but it took so long to complete the steps.
She spoke up loudly, so that everyone around could hear. “The idea that because my brother was convicted of a crime that I am necessarily guilty of the same is completely absurd. I’ve been operating my shop on this street for nearly eight years. In fact, many of you have patronized me. At least, you used to patronize me, until you started believing lies. Surely over the years you’ve learned far better about me.”
The watchers shrugged and moved on, with one muttering, “She’s doing no harm.”
“Seems to me you’re the one with the learning to do, miss.” The man walked close enough to her that she could smell his foul breath. He could grab her if he wanted; everyone else was too far away and too disinterested to care.
“Step away from me, if you please.” Did her voice falter?
“I don’t think you should be quite so high-and-mighty, miss. You might be a traitor.”
Now, Belle.
She pulled the pistol out from behind her back, holding it level with the man’s expanding belly. She prayed he wouldn’t notice its unloaded state.
“Sir, I’m going to suggest once more that you step away from me, lest in my high-and-mighty state I accidentally pull this trigger and send you to the place where all radicals end up.”
The man licked his lips. “There’s no need to be angry about it. I was just trying to protect those boys.”
“I’m sure you were. Please don’t darken my doorstep ever again.”
Belle held the pistol steady as the man backed away from her and ran back to his wagon, lumbering up onto the seat and whipping his nag unnecessarily to move her forward. As he rumbled out of sight, Belle leaned against the shop’s door in exhaustion.
She’d prevented any real violence today, but could she continue to do so? What if rioters showed up while she wasn’t here? What then?
She went back inside and turned the sign to read “Closed.” She stood in the middle of the shop, hands on her hips as she contemplated the damage. Further compounding her problems was that her window was irreparably shattered. With what money would she replace it?
The dollmaker from next door paid a visit the next day.
“I saw your bold defense of this shop yesterday,” Lady Greycliffe said. “I confess I was watching from my own window and was planning to intervene, but then I saw you brandishing the most marvelous brass-handled pistol. I assumed then that you had the situation well in hand. Vous êtes très brave.”
Belle blushed. “Hardly, madam. I was merely doing what any tradeswoman who is frightened out of her wits would do. Actually, I’m not sure I could have actually shot someone, no matter how threatened I was.”
Lady Greycliffe’s laughter resonated inside the shop. “And we have all had our frightened moments, have we not? I came to say that I am sorry for the loss of your brother, Miss Stirling. Also, I heard of your, shall we say, persecutions, since the trial. It is unconscionable. I myself have also had my shop attacked. In fact, it was once nearly destroyed by some rioters.”
Lady Greycliffe’s eyes clouded over at some memory, and she shook her head. “And so we must each be un protecteur for our livelihoods every day, no? But I have another purpose in my visit.”
The dollmaker pointed up to a large roll of fabric. “I’m planning my most ambitious set of dolls ever, a complete set of the queens of England. Remarquable, no? I believe I will need copious amounts of different-colored velvets. I’ll also need some silks. I don’t see anything resembling sixteenth-century cloth of gold here. Can you find something less expensive and order it for me? And I’ll certainly need dozens of pearl buttons, small as you can obtain, ribbons, and leather for shoes.”
Belle searched out paper to write down Lady Greycliffe’s considerable order, and promised to have everything in two weeks’ time. The two women shook hands, and Lady Greycliffe laid a gloved hand on Belle’s cheek. “All will be well, my dear.”
After Lady Greycliffe’s departure, Belle reviewed the woman’s order. As she calculated it out, she realized that the dollmaker had just rescued her from going under.
At least for the moment.
Darcey White stood in the middle of her parents’ ballroom. The rich green wallpaper with its trompe l’oeil landscape pattern was a vivid contrast to the fringed draperies of mauve and gold stripes. The chandeliers and sconces gleamed brightly, as though issuing a welcoming smile to all who entered. All of her mother’s hand-selected furniture pieces were arranged just so in anticipation of a multitude of guests.
Now, why had she come in here?
Oh, of course, she’d left her guest list on the settee in here. The one specially placed to enable her to look out over the back gardens. She spent many hours here, either sitting or standing up before the window, gazing down at the Whites’ neatly planted rows of flowers and shrubs. Sometimes it was just so nice to sit and relax from all of her myriad of responsibilities.
She sat down and picked up her list of guests for the engagement party her parents planned to host for her and Wesley. The tattered piece of parchment was full of scribbles and cross-marks through names. Really, she should just start over. Coming up with the proper mix of guests for her grand ball had proven entirely too difficult. After all, only the right sorts of people, amusing and witty, could be invited, and she wanted everything to be perfect for Wesley.
Yes, finalizing the list was a grueling challenge, but Darcey White wouldn’t relax until she’d done her best.
She spent several minutes adding more names and crossing off others, then picked up a small bell from the floor next to the settee and gave it several vigorous shakes. A maid appeared and stood between Darcey and the window.
“Maggie, it took you entirely too long to tend to me. I expect promptness from the staff here.” There. It was always wise to occasionally put servants in their places.
“Yes, miss.” Maggie’s face was blank.
“Has my father returned home from his club?” Darcey asked. “I need to go over my revised guest list for my engagement party.”
“No, miss, Mr. White isn’t here.”
“Of course not. He and Mother completely ignore me these days. There’s so much work to be done before a ball, and my parents just don’t seem to care.”
“Yes, miss.”
Darcey allowed her gaze to wander off from the maid. Yes, her parents were proving very selfish lately, but wasn’t Wesley, as well? He hadn’t come to see her at the Horse and Groom in quite some time. Presumably he wasn’t wasting time slavishly following his cow of a sister around.
How dare Belle Stirling think she had the right to influence her Wesley?
Soon they would be married, and would take a cottage somewhere far away from her parents and his sister. Maybe they could return to Yorkshire where he’d grown up. No one would follow them there.
She’d talk to Wesley about it straightaway.
But then, Wesley never listened to her anymore. Why was that?
Wait, wasn’t Wesley sick in the hospital? A breathing problem? Or had he perhaps died? No, that couldn’t be right. It was so hard to remember every little detail of life these days.
She turned her attention back to the maid.
“Well, then, send Jane to me. I want her to copy this list over. It will be good practice of her penmanship.”
“Yes, miss. Can I get you some tea and a novel while you wait?”
What was that foolish look on the girl’s face? How dare she look pained! “No, I do not want tea. Why is everyone constantly offering me tea, biscuits, a cold compress, or an escort to my room for a nap? Doesn’t anyone realize how much work I have to do? Time is running short.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And I noticed a fine layer of dust on the mantelpieces. I want them cleaned immediately.” She hadn’t really noticed the fireplaces, but it was also desirable that one exhibit as much power as possible. Wesley’s friend, Mr. Thistlewood, had shown her that.
The maid bobbed a curtsy and turned to leave.
“Don’t forget to send Jane to me,” Darcey called out after Maggie, who didn’t bother to acknowledge the instruction. Insolent girl.
Darcey stood and went to the window. Too many blooms were shriveling and in need of clipping. She turned away from the window. My, but the bamboo chairs in this room were stunning. Perfect accoutrements for her party. She imagined the perfumed and graceful young ladies sitting in them along the walls, waiting for their opportunities to dance with Wesley, practically choking with jealousy to know that he belonged to Darcey and was completely off the marriage market.
Yet something niggled at the back of Darcey’s mind. Something about Wesley and his future. It was important. She felt her stomach turn one revolution as she struggled to recall what it was. She turned back to the window and touched her forehead to the glass.
Ah yes, Wesley had accidentally thrown a vase out of the Cato Street window and broken it. Quite a mess it was. And a ridiculous fuss made over it by the authorities. Although they finally declared that it was Wesley’s fault.
As though fault could be assigned in something that was so clearly an accident. A mistake.
Then the lawyers and courts had swept in with sheaves of papers to be read aloud and signed and folded back up for safekeeping. Very pompous and self-important they were. She recalled one solicitor having a tinny, high-pitched voice that cracked as he read his documents. So many people watching the proceedings, too. Much ado over a bit of nonsense.
Darcey laughed, a sharp noise in the stillness of the ballroom. She made a mental note to mention it to Wesley when he returned that evening. He would surely enjoy remembering it over a smoke.
Now, why had she come in here?
Belle accepted Put’s invitation to visit Madame Tussaud’s wax exhibition, which had again returned to London for a limited engagement in anticipation of the king’s coronation. The exhibit was as fresh and engaging as it was when Belle had toured it four years ago, and just as crowded with eager patrons.
Belle reached up to touch Queen Elizabeth’s wax face. Here was a woman accused of heresy by her sister and who nearly lost her life as a result. A monarch who rose from the ashes to become great and successful.
Like the owner of the waxworks.
“Madame Tussaud nearly had to start over at one time, didn’t she?” Belle asked.
“Yes,” Put replied. “She’s undergone exhibition losses more than once because of tragedies from riots to shipwrecks. She always rebuilds with remarkable speed and efficiency.”
“But she must be quite old. Hasn’t she been traveling with her exhibition for nearly twenty years now?”
“I’d say she’s nearly sixty. She and her son have been touring Great Britain since 1802.”
Belle was quiet as they passed through the other tableaux in the exhibition. Other women before her had risen above their terrible circumstances, why not her? And both the illustrious queen and Tussaud had done so almost completely on their own, without husbands or brothers to help them.
Lady Greycliffe’s purchase was an excellent start to her own recovery. Perhaps there was hope that Belle could also revive her business and be stronger than ever.
Perhaps there was much to be learned from a proprietress like Madame Tussaud.
Put offered to introduce Belle to the great lady, but she was away on a buying trip on the Continent, although Belle had the opportunity to meet her twenty-year-old son, Joseph, a solemn man who became animated when honoring Belle’s request to tour the young sculptor’s own favorite pieces in the collection.
After the waxworks, Belle and Put walked to a nearby coffee shop for cups of chocolate, and by the end of the day she was feeling cheered about her future. She found herself conversing happily about what she could do to expand her shop and revive interest in her goods. Put smiled indulgently at her endless chattering during their walk back.
Her enthusiasm broke off in a gasp as they neared the shop. The scene before her was horrifyingly unreal.
“Good Lord, what happened here?” Put said.
Strewn in front of the Stirling Drapers shop was a heaping, stinking pile of trash. Food scraps, small animal carcasses, and other debris had been amassed at the front door.
And was that ... ?
Belle disengaged her hand from Put’s arm and ran to her newly repaired window. The stench was nauseating. She looked back to Put. “Excrement. Someone has flung feces at my shop. At my shop. First those boys, now this.”
Atop the refuse mound was a crudely painted sign:
ALL CONSPIRATORS WILL BE FOUND.
NONE WILL ESCAPE PUNISHMENT.
Under that was a drawing of a gallows, with a woman in the noose.
If anyone expected that Belle would cry or tremble uncontrollably, he was wrong. She was beyond any sense of fear or outrage. No, this didn’t compare to a shipwreck. Or imprisonment in the Tower by a fanatical sister.
Belle Stirling planned to fight whatever forces were ranged against her. And they would sorely rue raising hands against her.
Put set down the jack plane he was using on some freshly delivered satinwood intended for a cradle he’d specially designed for a customer’s set of twins.
“Good Lord,” he said, and realized that he was saying it more and more often these days. From Belle’s ferocity in reestablishing her ground again in her business, to the ongoing swirl of political chaos in England, to the rumor Gill had just brought him, well, there was much about which to be concerned.
Telling his other workers that he’d be back shortly, he slipped into the streets and nearby taverns to see what else he could learn.
What he discovered was disturbing. Yet it was clear what he had to do next.
He hurried to his house to talk to his cousin, who by now had simply moved in with him permanently. Put liked her company, and felt it provided respectability to Belle’s visits.
Not to mention that deafness had little impact on Frances’s ability to make succulent roasted duck.
“Frances,” he said, speaking directly to her. “I think there may be some trouble for me.”
She nodded and raised a palm. What can I do?
“Someone is bruiting it about that a cabinetmaker was actively involved in the Cato Street Conspiracy.”
Frances pointed at him.
“Yes, that’s what’s swirling around. Now, we may know that Belle’s brother hoodwinked me into making that secretary, but that doesn’t mean the public will believe it to be so. Belle is already so very close to the conspiracy because of her brother, and my continued association with her will only bring more suspicion on us.”
Frances frowned and shook her head. He knew this would be her reaction.
“And so”—he took both his cousin’s hands in his and kissed them—“my responsibility is to you and the shop. I’m going to break it off with Belle. If we’re fortunate, she won’t come after us, brandishing a pitchfork.”
Frances laughed despite herself. It came out in its usual strangled way.
Put smiled as his cousin put a sympathetic hand to his face and gave him a quizzical look.
“No, it’s better that I remove myself from her completely until the public’s interest in the conspirators completely dies down.”
She nodded. Removing her hand from his cheek, Frances made a scooping hand toward her mouth.
“Dear cousin, I would love a slice of your pork pie. Afterwards, we’ll discuss what to do to ensure no further trouble visits our door.”
Belle held the two letters in her hand. What was happening here?
First was the short missive from Put, informing her that due to unforeseen circumstances, he would be unable to see her for some time.
No explanation accompanied his curt declaration. What had caused him to do this? Was he angry with her for some reason? Was he tired of waiting for her to come round on their relationship? Admittedly, she’d never let the conversation return to anything near marriage. Or even courtship. But that was no reason to abandon her company entirely.
Even more disturbing was a note from a Darcey Whitecastle, who claimed she was once a patron in Belle’s shop.
Except the woman claimed she was no longer Miss Whitecastle.
She was Mrs. Stirling.
The letter rambled at great, confusing length about how Miss Whitecastle and Wesley were married some weeks prior to the Cato Street debacle. They’d kept it a secret by fleeing to the Scottish border town of Gretna Green to get married, where they could avoid the English requirement of having banns read.
Impossible. Wesley had never been out of her sight long enough to make a trip to Gretna Green.
Had he?
He never mentioned any specific woman in all the time they’d been in London. Of course, Wesley was so full of secrets and silence toward the end that it was difficult to know what he might have been doing.
Oh, Wesley, I wish I could have known the true state of your mind. I wish I had been a better sister to you, but you always wanted the one thing I couldn’t give you. And nothing else would satisfy you.
The letter went on to inform Belle that the new Mrs. Stirling intended “to make my rights on Wesley’s inheritance known.” The woman claimed that Stirling Drapers actually belonged to her as Wesley’s wife, and that Belle would be brought to justice for having stolen the shop from her husband.
What a ridiculous claim. Whoever this woman was, whether or not she had actually married Wesley—a highly dubious claim in Belle’s mind—she certainly was in no position to make claim to her cloth shop. These were the ravings of a madwoman.
Probably some lunatic who had followed the trial and sought to profit from it. Belle crumpled up “Mrs. Stirling’s” letter and tossed it aside for discard.
It was Put’s letter that disturbed her more. Reading it again, she came to a different conclusion than what he himself stated.
... I must apologize in advance that I risk your displeasure—and perhaps the loss of your affection—by withdrawing my attentions until certain of my own private concerns are resolved. Yours & etc., Put
What circumstances were these? She doubted seriously that the cabinetmaker was in frightful circumstances. And why didn’t he speak plainly to her? Hadn’t she had enough intrigue with Wesley?
Her conclusion over Put’s flowery, nonsensical words—most unusual in a tradesman, too—angered her more than all of the glass breaking and excrement throwing in the world.
Put is forsaking me, from fear for his own safety, out of cowardice, and because he is afraid to stand with me. So be it, Mr. Boyce. I’ve no need for your protection. I’ll manage the Miss Whitecastles of the world on my own.