By the King's Design (37 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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At least they were concealed by the enclosure beneath the platform.
Belle only became aware of her own sobbing as she realized that Put was stroking her hair and mumbling words of comfort in her ear. She knew she mustn't let him do this, but it did feel soothing, almost like being a child again and having her father console her over the loss of her little striped kitten that had mindlessly run out in front of a horse one day.
Except that Put wasn't her father. She hadn't permitted him to be anything, for fear that, like Clive, he would turn into something unexpected and take away her livelihood.
Oh, honestly, Belle,
came her brother's voice unbidden in her mind.
Who gives two shakes if Put shares your interest in the shop? He's a decent man, not an ogre. Be done with your precious sense of self-importance.
And she found herself wrapping her arms around Put's neck, clinging tightly to him for strength. No one noticed their embrace in the crush of activity surrounding the executions. Belle listened unwillingly as the crowd first cheered, then sighed disappointedly in the quick dispatch of all five men.
Chattering resumed as the dead men were pulled back up through the trapdoors and their nooses removed. Then a terrible
whump
sounded as an ax presumably cut through Thistlewood's neck and connected with the block. The crowd rejoiced again, most likely in response to the barbaric practice of waving the freshly decapitated head for approval from the bystanders. She was quaking uncontrollably now, despite Put's firm grasp on her. If not for him, she would have already collapsed, unconscious, and been trampled to death by the energized bystanders.
Belle blocked her ears against the remaining beheadings and wavings, burrowing her face in Put's neck. Put kept her tightly turned toward him, never telling her when it was Wesley's turn at the block. A deafening clamor ensued as all of the bodies were tossed into their respective coffins. Belle shook her head.
I can bear no more of this.
Put led her away before the next group of conspirators was brought out to meet their demise. He had to push their way through the roaring crowd, whose appetite had only been whetted by the first executions of the day.
They didn't speak the entire way back to her lodgings, as she fought to maintain control.
I shouldn't be returning home yet. I need to obtain possession of Wesley's coffin. I must bury him myself. I need a priest. I need—
“Here you are. May I send my cousin to stay with you? To at least visit you? She would be very happy to do so.” Put opened the door to let her inside the lodging house, but made no attempt to follow her in.
“No, thank you. I'm tired, and believe I need to sleep for several days. Although that won't be possible, for my customers will wonder where I am. If I'm not ruined by all of this. Actually, I'm not sure I care if I've lost all of my customers. Perhaps I should return to Yorkshire.”
“Surely you don't mean that, Belle. Your presence would be sorely missed. By all of London. Not just your customers, I mean.”
She smiled tiredly at him. “Thank you, Put. I do appreciate what you and Frances have done for me. But I really just need to be alone for a while.”
“As you wish. But Belle”—Put lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her wrist before gently releasing it—“you can rely on me for any assistance whatsoever.”
She nodded her thanks and retreated up to her own room. What assistance could she possibly need now? She required help while Wesley was still alive, while he still had a chance to be free.
The only assistance that would be of any help would be a potent sleeping draught.
 
Drat Wesley for leaving his pipe to his sister. And what had he left Darcey? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Except for unfinished plans and dreams. And what could she possibly do with the tatters of hope she had once held in him?
Darcey had never been so furious at a dead man before. Her last visit with him in his condemned cell was one of heated embraces and rushed pleasure, followed by a most unsatisfactory discussion, since all Wesley wanted to do was talk about Belle and how guilty he felt for bringing such hardship upon her.
Despite it being his last night on earth anyway, Darcey was consumed with the thought of personally choking him to death. It was his dear sister's fault that he was sitting in a condemned cell to begin with. Honestly, how blind was he? If Belle had been any sort of decent, gracious sister, she would have shared the spoils of her shop with her brother.
“Wesley Stirling, every time I think I've educated you about your sister, you revert back to a subservient toad. Belle mangled your life, don't you understand that? If it weren't for her, you'd be your own man, proprietor of a successful shop, with me as your helpmeet. Instead ...” She waved her hand around the cell.
As if to further infuriate her, Wesley just smiled sadly at her and shook his head. “No matter, Darcey. What's done is done. As I told Belle, I need some time alone.”
“You mean you don't want me to stay here with you all night?”
“No, I think it's best if you go back to your parents' house, where you belong. Obey your father, and marry whomever he picks out for you.”
“I can't believe you're saying this. You and I were meant to be together. For eternity. You talk as though you don't care what happens to me now.”
“I nearly destroyed you in this, but in the end, they found nothing significant and I can die knowing you're safe.”
Nearly
destroyed her? She was utterly ruined! Cracked. Damaged. Useless. What did he mean that nothing significant was found? Found where?
But before she could protest further, he stood up, signaling the end of their conversation, and called for the jailer to escort Miss White out.
“Wait!” Darcey clung to Wesley, desperate for more moments with him. “Have you nothing to leave me? A memento of our love?”
He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked around the room. “I own nothing except the bedding.”
“What of your pipe, our pipe?”
“I gave it to Belle as a remembrance. After all, she purchased it in the first place.”
I didn't know that.
Her fury over the pipe having been a gift from Belle replaced every other emotion. It pooled with anger at her father, Wesley's execution, and her failed dreams, surging together in a scarlet, boiling wave that crashed repeatedly inside her skull. She pressed a hand against her forehead to stem the crashing. It was too much to bear.
“Darcey?” Wesley's voice echoed relentlessly against the walls in the room. She clapped her hands over her ears to block it out.
What was happening to her?
Something flashed in her mind at that moment, and the pain brought her gasping to her knees. The agony was replaced by a tranquil, whispering voice, urging her as to what she must do next. Ah, the voice was a calming sensation, replacing her turbulent anger with a serene peace.
All was clear to Darcey now.
She stalked out of Wesley's cell without looking back at his puzzled expression.
No, there would be no more tears for Darcey White. She'd entered the prison nearly blinded by her own crying, but that was over.
It should have been obvious before that Darcey would have to handle matters on her own. Her final tribute to Wesley would be permanently fixing the situation with Belle. He couldn't do so during his own life, but Darcey certainly would now.
And then Belle Stirling would suffer the same fate as Wesley.
14
The heart will break, but broken live on.
 
—Lord George Gordon Byron, British poet, 1788–1824
 
April 1820
 
P
ut 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.”

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