By the King's Design (14 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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“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.

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