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Authors: Christine Trent

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“Well, no, not exactly. But I must protect myself.”
“From what,
exactly?
Miss Stirling, I would merely like to escort you to a pleasure garden, not see you off to the gallows that you call ‘marriage.' I'm a cabinetmaker, what do I know about fancy cloths? I only see the yardage my clients give me to cover their chair cushions and I take little note of it. In fact, it seems to me that our work is complementary to one another. There's no need to fear me.”
“You're right,” she said before she could swallow the words.
“Then you'll accompany me out one evening soon?”
“No, our relationship must remain platonic. One tradesman to another.”
Put grunted in exasperation. “Miss Stirling, I've never once in my life begged for anything, and I'll not start now. But I will ask one final time, why not?”
“Well.” She laughed weakly. “I promised the Prince Regent I'll become his mistress once I get married, so I have to do all I can to avoid that fate.”
She provided no explanation to his confused countenance, instead jumping up and fleeing the cabinetmaker's lumberyard as quickly as she'd once fled Mr. Crace's presence.
So is this your new solution for all of life's problems, Belle Stirling? Run like a frightened rabbit into your safe little warren whenever you feel the slightest threat to your livelihood?
Well, it certainly worked for most rabbits. Except for the ones who didn't see the fox coming.
Her reaction of fear to Put's proposal was justified, though. For she and Wesley attended Guy Fawkes Night celebrations on November 5, their first London experience with the event's bonfires, fireworks, and the spectacular practice of setting blazing tar barrels in the streets. While there, she saw Put in the distance with another young woman on his arm. He was laughing and gesticulating with the happy, open expression of a man in love.
I guess Mr. Boyce forgot me quickly enough, didn't he?
Or else he'd played her false and this was a woman he'd been squiring for some time. He was behaving quite familiarly with her. And looked content.
Even worse, perhaps he'd made overtures to Belle because he sought work at the Pavilion.
She suddenly felt nauseated, and handed Wesley her kidney pie without explanation, asking that they go home immediately.
She realized that her rabbit instincts were serving her well.
 
In all of Belle's self-pity, she'd forgotten her friendship with Miss Austen. But a letter from the authoress changed that.
Dear Miss Stirling,
My heart is too heavy over what I will share with you now in our private correspondence. My family is greatly affected, and the pall over the cottage almost forbids discussing it. But my pen and paper are quiet confidants, and I'm grateful for this medium in which to reveal my unhappy news.
I believe I told you that my brother Henry is a banker, in addition to having brokered agreements to have my books published. He has always taken great care to protect my works. Several months ago, he even repurchased the copyright for an earlier work,
Susan,
so that we could republish it ourselves.
Alas, publication of that novel has been postponed, possibly forever. For Henry's bank failed in March, leaving us all in dire financial straits, since all of my brothers were invested in the bank and they were supporting Mother, Cassandra, and me from its profits.
I have felt poorly as of late, undoubtedly due to this alarming turn of events. But I am determined to finish
The Elliots
quickly, so that Mr. Murray can publish it and perhaps I can make some small contribution to my family's welfare. Did I tell you that the second edition of
Mansfield Park
was published last month? It has not done as well as hoped, although
Emma
has thus far proven successful.
I longingly await your news, dearest Belle, which must surely be happier than my own. Although I cannot abide the prince, I do admire his highly capable draper and eagerly long to know how she fares at Brighton.
Yours affectionately,
J. Austen
Belle wrote back immediately, grateful for the companionship, albeit long-distance, of another female. She consciously avoided discussion of her troubles, instead sharing news about her latest work on the Pavilion and that she'd met the famed Maria Fitzherbert.
Belle was delighted to receive a quick reply, accompanied by a small, wrapped package containing a book.
Dear Miss Stirling,
Your fortunes grow. I am in wonder that you met Mrs. Fitzherbert, and confess myself to be nearly agog that she will have you to supper. You must write me soonest afterwards and tell me of your visit. I am most particularly interested in her attitudes and feelings about the prince, although you seem loath to discuss him outside of the details of your project.
And now, you may recall that certain gentleman, the prince, who, through his man, Mr. Clarke, contrived to assist me in a complete conversion of my writing practices. I, of course, view it as a change to my entire realm of existence, into one that the highly esteem'd prince, whom you know I hold in the highest regard, might view with approval.
It would prove to be my proudest moment as an authoress to find that not only the prince himself, but his insightful and gifted librarian, should find the enclosed guidance for prospective writers to be of any small value. Perhaps he will maintain copies at all of the royal residences. In my pursuit of having it published as quickly as possible, I erred in forgetting to make a dedication to His Grace, to credit him with the idea of writing it in the first place.
I trust you will enjoy it.
Yours affectionately,
J. Austen
Jane made no mention of her family's financial situation. Belle wondered if sales of
Emma
had resolved things. She unwrapped the book. It was a thin volume, titled
Plan of a Novel, according to Hints from Various Quarters
. Leafing through it, she saw that it was a satire on how to outline a book, employing the full force of Jane's scathing wit. Although Mr. Clarke was unnamed in it, Belle recognized how Jane was poking fun at his suggestions during their visit to Carlton House. Belle stayed up far into the night with her friend's book, enjoying it immensely and nearly forgetting all of her worries at Brighton.
 
December 1816
London
 
Arthur Thistlewood was pleased with the turnout at Spa Fields. Although he'd doubted the success of his plan, especially after his fellow radical Mr. Hunt had refused to hear him out, things had turned out well.
Or, dare he say, almost with divine intervention?
Perish
that
thought. Man was in control of his own destiny. A man's reason was what made a difference in his fate, not reliance on some old-fashioned, foolish religion. His time in France during the Revolution had taught him that truth.
Yes, Mr. Hunt had ignored Thistlewood, but had answered the call from someone else to address a meeting in November at Spa Fields, in north London, to whip up support for a petition to the Prince Regent from the people of London, asking for relief from all of the distress they were suffering. Sweeping reform of Parliament was a centerpiece of the petition, to include universal suffrage for men, annual general elections, and a secret ballot.
Mr. Henry Hunt was the perfect man to give the speech asking for support. After all, he not only agreed with Thistlewood and the other reformers, but he was such an impassioned speaker that he was nicknamed “Orator.”
Exceeding even Thistlewood's expectations, the meeting at Spa Fields had over ten thousand people in attendance, a sure sign that the time was right for these reforms. With the enthusiastic support of the peaceful crowd, it was decided that Hunt and Sir Francis Burdett, a member of Parliament sympathetic to the movement, would deliver the petition to the Prince Regent. Burdett, however, declined the honor. Good riddance to a false friend.
But the petition fell on deaf ears anyway. Hunt made two futile attempts to secure an audience with the prince, both of which were refused.
And it was what happened after that for which Thistlewood was so greatly contented.
Hunt returned to Spa Fields to tell the crowd that he'd been unsuccessful, but arrived to find Thistlewood there, standing on a platform decorated with banners, already declaiming against the prince and exhorting them as the patriots of Paris prior to their storming of the Bastille.
And eerily reminiscent of the attack on that famous prison, the Londoners reacted in nearly the same way. They marched on a gunsmith's shop and robbed it of its weapons, killing a pedestrian or two in the process.
Thistlewood, Hunt, and the rest of the mob made their way to the Royal Exchange, where they were greeted by a group of constables.
The resulting melee was predictable, and Thistlewood along with Hunt and several others were arrested and charged with high treason, and they now languished in jail awaiting trial.
Thistlewood's spirits were high, though. He had great confidence that he would be freed. His reason and faith in himself dictated it.
Change was coming to England. And no jail cell would prevent Arthur Thistlewood from being at the center of it.
7
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.
 
—Jane Austen,
Emma,
1815
 
April 1817
Brighton
 
B
elle's next trip to Brighton involved more interaction with Mr. Crace, although he seemed to have gained a modicum of respect for Belle and didn't treat her quite so harshly. She showed him the embroidered seat covers she'd ordered for the Music Room, and they went over more measurements and Crace's further plans for that room until Belle felt she had enough information to do more ordering.
Once her business was completed, she was free to do what she had really looked forward to: have supper with Maria Fitzherbert. It was a much more pleasant affair than Belle could have imagined.
They discussed trivialities during a meal centered on some poached cod caught that morning in the waters along Brighton's coastline, during which Belle could easily observe Mrs. Fitzherbert. Although the woman had to be in her sixties, she still retained a beautiful mass of golden hair, complemented by hazel brown eyes set in a creamy complexion. Her few wrinkles indicated that they had only developed in response to a life of laughter.
The prince's ex-wife also wore an interesting ruby cross around her neck that glittered in the candlelight.
Mrs. Fitzherbert was kind, solicitous of her guest, and carried no airs about her at all. It was remarkable, given the lady's previous status as practically the Princess of Wales.
It made Belle understand perfectly why the prince might have risked his father's wrath to have secretly married her.
Afterwards, Belle followed Mrs. Fitzherbert into her parlor and they took seats at a square gaming table. Maria took a deck of cards out of a wooden box.
“A game of Speculation?” she asked.
“Madam, I've never played cards before.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert blinked her sympathetic round eyes several times. “Truly? Well, no matter, I'll show you.” She poured out a quantity of different-colored round disks, made of mother-of-pearl, from the bottom of the card box. “Since you're new at this, I believe we should play without real money.”
And soon Belle was immersed in the fast-paced card game, selling and buying visible trump cards as well as risking bets on face-down cards. Once the game was well under way and required less concentration on Belle's part, Maria opened up conversation.
“So, Miss Stirling, tell me how things fare at the Pavilion. Are any rooms complete yet?”
“The Music Room is started, as is the Great Corridor, which will link the Banqueting Room, the Saloon, and the Music Room. The Corridor is more than a hundred feet long. Also, the kitchen is finished, and it is a wonder to behold.”
Maria sat forward. “Tell me everything about it.”
So Belle described as best she could the mechanical marvels of the Pavilion's kitchen: the lead ice-bins, enormous bread furnace-ovens, and expensive water-pipe system.
“There is even a steam table that allows dozens of covered dishes to be kept warm before being carried into the Banqueting Room. The prince wants to be able to serve at least a hundred dishes at his state dinners.”
Maria smiled sadly. “I once presided at the Pavilion, you know. What marvelous parties His Highness and I used to host. Everyone flocked to Brighton to attend. They still come to Brighton in droves, of course, but rarely to see me. But”—she brightened considerably—“I can imagine that now the Pavilion's kitchen will light everyone's imagination afire. Oh! I believe I just made a pun!” Maria's laugh tinkled in the room, and Belle could not help but join her.
Mrs. Fitzherbert had more questions. “Are there rooms in use during the renovations?”
“Most of them are. Mr. Nash tries to ensure that there are elegant spaces available for the Prince Regent to do any entertaining. He has imported a French chef, Antonin Carême, and wants to make use of his talents frequently.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert sighed. “Yes, the prince has the finest taste. Has he hosted any grand meals recently?”
“I was not present for it, of course, but Mr. Nash told me of a grand affair in January with four soups, four fish dishes, and no less than thirty-six entrées, an assortment of soufflés, and eight majestic dessert molds designed to look like palaces and mosques.”
“A delight to his guests, I'm sure. And how is the prince himself? Is he well? Happy? I do hope so.” Maria dealt more cards.
“I don't know the prince very well, madam, but he doesn't strike me as
un
happy.”
“People misunderstand him, you know. He's led a very difficult life. What we had together was ... transcendent of mortal descriptions such as ‘love' or ‘marriage.' And I know some have thought it tawdry, and have called it a mere liaison, just because the prince was forced to end it. But I know that I will always be the wife of his heart, and we are married in God's eyes.” Maria absently fingered the cross at her neck.
The conversation had taken a decidedly maudlin turn, but Belle decided to press an advantage here. Keeping her eyes studied on her cards, she said, “I understand that the prince has formed other relationships beyond that with the Princess Caroline, madam.”
“You mean Lady Hertford? Yes, he dallies with her. I imagine his hands are quite full with her, too. Oh! There I am again! I don't suppose you've seen Lady Hertford before.”
“No, madam.”
“Ah, never mind, my little joke is lost on you. I'm certain she and her husband are colluding to bankrupt my naïve prince.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert was proving to be the prince's staunchest defender, a bullmastiff in a ruby collar.
“You're right, I'm sure. Do you know if he has cast his affections toward any other women?”
Maria hesitated. “Another mistress? Do you suspect someone in particular as his inamorata?”
How have I managed to ask such a brainless question?
“No, madam, I just think His Highness is a man of many appetites, that he might desire ... rather, that I, I think ... what I mean to say is ...” Belle faltered.
Maria turned up another card before holding Belle in her stare. “Miss Stirling, are you trying to entice the Prince Regent yourself?”
“Heavens, no! I mean, of course not. How could I possibly? He's so corpu—Er, I realize that you once were his mist—I mean, his wife—oh, fiddlesticks, madam, I must apologize for being the most harebrained person who has ever crossed your threshold.”
A deadly silence filled the room, nearly swallowing Belle whole.
And then Maria Fitzherbert laughed, her attractive voice replacing the terrible quiet. “You mean you're attempting to divine the prince's proclivities without calling attention to my own previous attachment to him? Please, don't look so troubled. I know the prince doesn't seek out younger women for company. After all, he can hardly tolerate his own daughter's presence, much less the vigor that a youthful companion would bring.”
“I understand. Please forgive my boorish questioning.”
“No matter. I caution you, though, Miss Stirling, to remember that no matter how unpopular the prince might be to the public, it is always wise for those around him to keep quiet counsel.”
First Mr. Nash, now Mrs. Fitzherbert, were warning her from being too inquisitive where the prince was concerned.
Knowing Mrs. Fitzherbert must now think she had windmills in her head, Belle turned the conversation to the paintings that filled the room. Maria enthusiastically provided details about the artist of each one. Many had been gifts from the prince.
By the end of the game, Belle had the highest trump and claimed the winning pot, although she was certain Mrs. Fitzherbert had let her win.
 
September 1817
London
 
Belle received a letter, but this time the handwriting was unfamiliar. She gasped at its contents.
Dear Miss Stirling,
It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that my dear sister, Jane, passed away on 18 July, of a wasting disease. She had been unwell for more than a year, although such awareness has not lessened the blow for our family in the least. My brother Henry moved us temporarily from Chawton House to Winchester in May, as he'd heard of a doctor there who might be able to cure her, but it was to no avail.
I found some of the correspondence between you among her papers, and, remembering her fond recollections of you, took it as my personal responsibility to advise you of her passing.
My sister is buried at Winchester Cathedral, should you find the means to visit and pay your respects.
With kindest regards,
Cassandra Austen
She laid the letter down in utter shock. Jane, gone? First her parents, then Clive and Amelia, and now this. It seemed God was determined that she be alone in the world. At least there was still Wesley.
She spent the day locked in her room, reading and rereading Jane's letters and fingering her books. The following morning, finally spent of tears, Belle rejoined her brother to resume her duties. He didn't seem to notice a difference in her, although his distance from her was growing marked. He wasn't exactly surly; it was more like he was somewhere else and grumpy about being there. She needed to talk to him about it, but her own grief overrode her concern for her brother.
And then she was distracted by a visitor.
One morning while she was on a ladder, rearranging bins of silk and cotton gimp, Put Boyce entered, carrying a folded slip of paper. He was wearing the same ill-fitting dress clothes as he'd worn when he escorted her to see his shop for the first time.
Climbing down to greet him, Belle shook her head. Put-rhymes-with-shut Boyce was a man meant for leather and homespun, not silks and buckskin.
An image of Put enjoying his time with the young woman at the fair appeared unbidden in Belle's mind. She wondered what the woman thought of her beau's lack of style and quickly dismissed the thought. Mr. Boyce must be here on business, else why be here at all?
“How may I be of assistance?” she asked.
He glanced around. “Is Mr. Stirling not here?”
Actually, she had no idea where he'd disappeared to this morning. “Wesley's on an errand for me.”
“Ah. Yes.” Put cleared his throat. “I found this and wished to offer my condolences.” He unfolded the paper and handed it to her. It was a copy of Jane's obituary, torn from a periodical magazine.
18 July. At Winchester, Miss Jane Austen,
youngest daughter of Rev. George Austen,
Rector of Steventon, Hants, authoress of
“Emma,” “Mansfield Park,” “Pride and
Prejudice,” and “Sense and Sensibility.”
The print blurred before Belle's eyes.
I never even realized she was ill
.
“Yes, Mr. Boyce? I am aware of Miss Austen's passing,” she said, handing the notice back to him.
He frowned. “My apologies, I did not intend to cause you further distress. But I remembered your mention of the lady as a friend you'd acquired since arriving in London, and wanted to pay my respects.”
“I told you about Jane?”
“Miss Stirling, there was little you
didn't
tell me that day.”
And despite herself, Belle laughed. “I suppose I was a chattering magpie that day.”
“Without the thieving habits. Actually, you were quite charming.”
Belle was saved from responding to his comment by the arrival of a passerby, who stopped in to ask when the wallpaper merchant next door would be opening for the day.
After the shopper left, an uncomfortable silence ensued. Put obviously had more on his mind, but Belle didn't want to think about what that might be.
He cleared his throat again. “I've been working on some interesting pieces lately. Right now I'm finishing up an ebonized mantel clock for a Mr. Ashby. He said your brother referred him to me.”
Mr. Ashby? She'd never heard Wesley mention the name.
“Young Merrick, my apprentice, is advancing in his skills. I believe he'll make journeyman before his seventeenth birthday. You remember Merrick?”
Of course. The boy who escorted her to Lady Derby's when it should have been Put himself. “Yes, I remember. I'm glad for him. And you.”
“How does your own business fare?”
“Very nicely. Because of my work at the Pavilion, some of London's aristocrats are using me as their exclusive draper, and, as with Lady Derby, some are even consulting me over interior design. I've had some valuable commissions.”

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