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Authors: Christine Trent

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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.”
5
I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.
 
—Jane Austen, letter to her sister, Cassandra, December 24, 1798
 
May 1815
London
 
E
ven when the prince was not in residence at Carlton House, it was still staffed by a full complement of servants. She was shown into a drawing room, only to realize that the librarian was already there meeting with the author.
Mr. Clarke was short, wiry, balding, and full of a nervous energy that couldn't be contained even behind his thick, wire-rimmed spectacles. He was rather the opposite of his royal employer.
Even more startling to Belle was the fact that the author was actually a woman. One with whom Belle felt an instant connection, for she was also slender, and possessed eyes that bespoke of a life lived well beyond her years.
Mr. Clarke introduced Belle to Miss Jane Austen, whose latest book,
Emma,
would be published soon.
“Miss Stirling, I was just telling Miss Austen what a great admirer the Prince Regent is of her works. He's read everything she's written, and maintains her books quite prominently in the libraries of all his residences. Which is, of course, why you're here.”
“Yes, sir, to pick up a set for the Pavilion.”
From a nearby table, Miss Austen picked up a bundle of nine books tied together with a strap. She handed the bundle to Belle, who turned them to their sides to read the titles.
Sense and Sensibility. Pride and Prejudice. Mansfield Park
. Each in three volumes. She'd never heard of any of these titles, but then, she wasn't exactly a member of London's great literary circles.
And, judging by Miss Austen's wan appearance, a literary career might not be the healthiest of choices.
“Miss Austen's next book will be out imminently, and then we'll have another book to add to the shelves of each of the prince's houses.” Mr. Clarke was practically rocking back and forth on his heels, so excited was he by the very idea of it.
And although the eminent librarian didn't notice it from his vantage point, Belle saw Miss Austen make an exaggerated pained expression and shake her head.
Before she could help herself, Belle giggled, and was rewarded with a smile from the author.
Mr. Clarke blinked gravely from behind his spectacles. “Is something amusing, Miss Stirling?”
Belle bit her lip. “No, sir, I'm sorry.”
“Humph, well then. As I was saying to Miss Austen, the prince is very much looking forward to her next book,
Emma
. He talks of nothing else.”
Certainly Belle didn't know the prince very well, but she would hardly say that Miss Austen's books were his foremost thought.
“Truly?” Miss Austen put her head to one side. “What does he say regarding Mr. Darcy's abominable treatment of the innocent Jane Bennet in
Pride and Prejudice
?”
“Er, I don't quite recall him mentioning that chapter of the book.”
“That
chapter?
Why, it forms Elizabeth Bennet's entire opinion of Mr. Darcy. It is central to the novel.”
“Yes, well, the prince and I have many important books to discuss and don't have the opportunity to discuss them all in as much detail as I'd like.” Mr. Clarke pushed his spectacles against his face. A nervous gesture, since they hadn't slid down his nose.
“It seems to me the prince would be particularly interested in reading about a man who has utter disregard for the state of a woman's marital happiness.”
“Miss Austen, why would a man of the prince's stature be consumed with that?”
“So that he can use it as an example of how his own subjects must not behave toward long-suffering women.”
Mr. Clarke removed his spectacles and tapped them in one hand, his eyes blinking rapidly to focus. “Are you making a particular point?”
“None at all, sir, none at all.”
And with that, Jane turned slightly out of Mr. Clarke's view to wink at Belle.
“Humph. Regardless. Where was I? Oh yes, the prince simply cannot say enough about his admiration for your novels, and speaks of nothing else.”
“Nothing else,” Jane repeated solemnly.
“He doesn't extend this sort of—dare I call it patronage—to just any author, particularly novelists, you understand.”
“No, it would be quite insensible of him to do so.”
“Quite. Imagine how gratifying it would be for you as a writer to have all of Great Britain know the great esteem in which the prince holds you.”
“Highly gratifying indeed, Mr. Clarke. Particularly with his expansive knowledge of my books' lessons in goodness and decency.”
Mr. Clarke put his spectacles back on, this time leaving them on the end of his nose and looking at Miss Austen over the top of them. “And so, because of the prince's very generous support of your works, don't you think there is something you might do in return for him?”
The author put a hand to her breast. “Does the prince suggest that I become the fourth member of his marriage?”
“Miss Austen, you greatly try my patience. No, I refer to your upcoming novel. Isn't there a way to express your gratitude to the prince for his continued championing of your efforts?”
“With
Emma
? Express gratitude? Oh, I see. You want me to dedicate the novel to His Highness.”
“My dear Miss Austen, what a capital idea you've just had! The prince will be simply delighted that you've made this offer. Undoubtedly you will be the toast of London when he spreads word of it.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I have more ideas for you, as well, Miss Austen. For example, when you next appear in print, you might want to dedicate your volume to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfield. In fact, why not write a romantic novel illustrative of the history of the august House of Coburg? It would be most interesting. Perhaps we can continue to correspond and I can provide you with further suggestions.”
“You are very kind in your hints as to the sort of composition which might recommend me. But I could no more write a romance than an epic poem. No, I must keep to my own style and go my own way; although I may never succeed again in my writings, I am convinced I should totally fail in any other way.”
Mr. Clarke accepted her declaration without seeming to understand the sarcasm dripping from it like ink from a bent pen nib.
After more discussion as to when Miss Austen would deliver copies of
Emma
to the librarian for distribution to each of the prince's residences, they engaged in more verbal swordplay as Mr. Clarke coerced the author into donating even more copies for the prince to distribute to his friends. Finally, the visit was mercifully concluded.
Jane and Belle left together, and the older woman invited Belle to sup with her nearby, before they would each need to find coaches to take them to their destinations, Jane to Chawton in Hampshire, and Belle back south to Brighton.
Over veal pasties covered in white wine sauce, the author chatted happily about her writing and her quiet life in the cottage she shared with her mother and sister, Cassandra. She was already working on her next novel,
The Elliots,
and a second edition of
Mansfield Park
was being prepared for publication after
Emma
.
Belle's mind whirled at what must be required to write hundreds and hundreds of pages of interesting stories. Before she realized what she was doing, she blurted out, “I think interior design work is far simpler than what you do, Miss Austen.”
Belle's comment was met by bright, intelligent hazel eyes. “I can't imagine that being so. Tell me about these designs. Do you actually work as an artist-designer?”
“Well, not exactly ...” Belle proceeded to tell Jane about losing her parents, managing the cloth shop with her brother, her subsequent run-in with Luddites, her flight to London, and her resulting work for John Nash. She omitted any mention of Wesley's wrongdoing, her devotion to him overriding any desire to be too garrulous with a newfound friend.
“So you stormed Parliament! How I should have loved to have seen that.”
Belle shook her head. “It wasn't quite that dramatic. It mostly resulted in my looking rather foolish.”
“I somehow doubt that. It must be fascinating to work for such a well-known architect, Miss Stirling, although his association with the prince does not garner him praise in every corner. Be careful that your own reputation does not always stay hitched to his.”
Belle was silent. John Nash was her only hope for success. What did it matter to her what his eventual reputation might be?
“Do you have to be in the prince's company often?” Jane asked.
Jane made it sound as though to know the man, who was effectively the ruling monarch, was a dishonor. The man was a bit forward, but, then again, he was the Prince of Wales.
“I've met him more than once.”
“And what is your impression?”
“He is, well, determined in his nature.”
Jane laughed aloud. “Yes, he is that. But I confess that I despise his shabby treatment of his wife, the poor woman.”
“Is this what you were referring to in your mention of your characters Mr. Darcy and Jane Bennet?”
Jane clapped her hands together. “Did you catch that?”
“I knew that you intended something rather mocking, but I've not read your book and so I'm not sure what you meant.”
“I will rectify that immediately. I'll send a set of books to you.”
“Would you? I'd be glad of it, although I've nothing to give you in return.” Belle's mind flashed to the inlaid comb on her dresser, but she just as quickly decided she wouldn't give that up.
“No, wait, I do have something. I'll send you a few yards of a nice gauze. You can wrap your books in them to protect them from sunlight and insect droppings.”
The two women exchanged addresses before departing from each other with a warm handshake and promises to write letters straightaway.
Belle was elated. She'd made her first real friend since leaving Yorkshire. It made her trip back to Brighton to deliver the books and finish her current work there a much lighter burden. She even considered going out of her way to Hampshire to visit Jane on her next return to London, but knew she'd already been away from her shop too long.
She would save the visit for another time.
 
Most everything in England was interrupted when the glorious news arrived that Wellington had once and for all smashed Napoleon in June 1815 at the Battle of Waterloo, in Belgium. The little Corsican abdicated again, surrendered to the British, and was exiled to the remote island of St. Helena. Belle looked at it on a map. It was a tiny speck in the South Atlantic Ocean, far off the coast of Africa. Remote indeed.
This time, the newspapers assured the Britons, there was no escape for Napoleon. He would die on this rocky, forbidding landmass.
For the condemned, exile was always better than an execution, wasn't it?
The long-lasting good news of Napoleon's exile was replaced by the immense news of Mount Tambora, which reached Belle's ears in September 1815. The volcano in the Dutch East Indies blew its top during a series of eruptions in April, killing nearly eighty thousand people. Sailors returning to port spread talk about the devastation that had taken place more than seven thousand miles away across two continents, sending a colossal propulsion of gases high into the atmosphere. Belle could hardly imagine the destruction being wreaked in that part of the world.
She shivered. At least England didn't have volcanoes, and an eruption that far away could have little to do with the subjects of Great Britain, who were already suffering under the new Corn Law, which placed an import tariff on foreign crops to protect the profits of British farmers following the dramatic drop in prices at the end of the Napoleonic Wars. The law prevented any foreign grains from being imported until the domestic price reached a certain level. The effect was disastrous, resulting in grain shortages and, consequently, rioting and strikes in many places, even in London.
The rioting was, thankfully, in other parts of the city and they hadn't experienced it on Oxford Street.
Yet.
22 February 1816
Chawton House Estate
Hampshire
Dear Miss Stirling,
Enclosed please find a copy of
Emma,
which I promised you when we first met. I hope you have found an opportunity to read the other books I sent you. My new publisher, Mr. Murray, will be releasing
Mansfield Park
again this month, and I hope that sales from it will help to improve our situation here. Mother, Cassandra, and I have lived simply but comfortably at the beneficence of my older brother, Henry. Did I tell you he serves as my agent? He is also a banker, although I think his talents are better suited to agenting. Of course, we are hopeful for the best of outcomes with regard to his bank.
I do thank you for the package of gauze you sent, the finest I've ever touched. I've encased a set of my own books with it, and have more left over for the next edition of
Mansfield Park.
You have my greatest thanks.
Please do let me know how you're getting on in Brighton.
Yours affectionately,
J. Austen

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