By the King's Design (19 page)
Read By the King's Design Online
Authors: Christine Trent
Amelia's lips trembled in the grief that she had to bear on her own.
“We were told that anyone with any strength left should head to London, that the Prince Regent wouldn't let anyone in his city starve, right, Clive?”
Clive, once a tall, proud man, was not interested in talking. He gave Belle a baleful glare and rolled over, away from them both.
Amelia shrugged. “So far, though, this has been the only place where we've gotten help, and it's not been much. Is that for us?” She was eyeing the loaf of bread still in Belle's hands, and devoured it greedily when Belle gave it to her.
“But why didn't you come to me? I would have given you lodging.”
Amelia pointed at Clive's prone body, still except for his shallow breathing. “I suggested it. He said no. Said it wasn't proper.” Bits of bread flecked out from her mouth onto her chin. “I didn't dare find you on my own. So we've been here about a week now. But we're weak as kittens and can't even venture out to find employment. If there were any jobs to be had. Oh, Belle, what's to become of us?”
Belle hardly knew what to say, and so instead gathered her friend in her arms. Amelia's entire body heaved as she sobbed against Belle's shoulder. Belle sang softly to her friend and stroked her hair, until finally Amelia calmed down.
Belle held Amelia out by the shoulders. “Now listen to me. The first thing we're going to do is make you strong again. I'll return tomorrow with some clothes and hot food and enough money to keep you in your own place for a while. After all, you loaned me money once, remember?”
Amelia's tearstained face was broken by a smile. “Yes.”
But her happiness was short-lived.
“Don't want charity from the likes of you,” Clive said without even turning to face them. “Take your basket and go. We'll be fine.”
“But Clive,” Amelia said. “Belle wants to helpâ”
“Doesn't matter what she wants to do. I'm your husband and I say we don't need her charity. I'll not say it again, woman.” Clive coughed violently, rattling the cheap bed frame.
Amelia was crying silently again.
Belle got up and lifted the basket, which still contained a few blankets and loaves of bread, from the floor, setting it next to Amelia. She mouthed,
I'll be back tomorrow,
but said aloud, “Well, it was good to see you both. I pray for your good health.”
I'll be back tomorrow,
but said aloud, “Well, it was good to see you both. I pray for your good health.”
“Belle, wait.” Amelia reached out her claw-like hands and spoke softly. “Please, I want you to know how sorry I am for ... for ... what happened. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Belle glanced down at Clive, who grunted his irritation.
“There's nothing to forgive, sweetest. Nothing at all.”
True to her word, Belle returned the next day with a packet of coins, more food, and one of her own dresses to give Amelia. Wesley had protested loudly over her taking so much money out of the lockbox, even though it was for his own friend. After a great argument, though, he'd acquiesced and even accompanied Belle back to St. Bart's, thinking he could convince Clive to accept their charity.
It was a wasted trip for Wesley, though, for when they arrived there the cot was empty. Belle inquired with an orderly who was sweeping the hallway outside the room, and learned that their stiff bodies had been discovered early in the morning and taken away to a potter's field.
“Strange it was, too, because he was lying atop her, with a pillow between his face and hers. Fellow was so sick he probably didn't realize what he was doing. More'n likely suffocated his poor wife to death.”
The package of gifts tumbled out of Belle's arms as she grabbed at the wall for support against the swirling images of Clive and Amelia that reverberated in her mind. This wasn't possible. There was still so much to say to Amelia, about Belle's love for her friend, and her understanding about Amelia's marriage with Clive, and her own sorrow over the loss of Amelia's baby. Yet Belle had chosen to wait until the next day, when Clive's mood might be improved.
Now she would never be able to say anything to Amelia ever again.
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A peculiar loneliness descended over Belle after Clive's and Amelia's deaths. Amelia had always been a shy follower. Always satisfied to live in Belle's shadow, and even content to marry a man Belle rejected.
I never took Amelia seriously enough. I was too consumed with Fafa, and the shop, and becoming a respected draper. Did I ever ask her what her own dreams were?
Never.
Belle couldn't muster any regret for Clive's passing, but it was just as well since her remorse over Amelia consumed her for several weeks, nearly rendering her immobile.
Compounding her grief was the realization that she'd made no real friends since arriving in London, other than Miss Austen, who lived in faraway Hampshire. The London elite's interest in her was tepid fascination, sure to disappear when her work at the Pavilion was over. The Prince Regent's attentions lacked propriety. Mr. Crace despised her presence. And Mr. Nash she wasn't quite sure about.
Except for Wesley, she'd lost everyone who'd ever meant anything to her. And Wesley was disturbingly unmoved by their deaths. Within a couple of days, he was no longer mentioning his friend and was once again pre-occupied with campaigning for Belle to make him an owner of the shop.
She evaded his arguments and pleadings, finally fleeing the shop to find peace and solace elsewhere.
She was surprised by where she headed for it.
Belle pushed open the door to Putnam Boyce's shop. There was no one in the outer display room, but she could hear a raucous combination of laughing, sawing, and hammering coming from the workshop. She stepped tentatively toward the back, still unsure as to why she was actually here.
Inside the workshop, Put stood in the middle of the activity in his apron, his right thigh steadying a long plank of wood as he held it with his left arm and sawed it with his right. The work was demanding, evidenced by his straining arm muscles and the beads of sweat on his forehead.
Around him, three other workers were in the process of finishing various pieces. The boy who had escorted Belle to Lady Derby's was pulling a scraper across a table to smooth it out. Another man was partially curtained off from the others. He used a rag to apply a noxious oil to a frame that looked as though it might eventually hold a mirror. The third man was organizing planks of wood by size and color inside a large, shelved cupboard.
Belle stood in the doorway, taking in the noise, the smells, and the obvious camaraderie of the men. She was about to interrupt when Put looked up and saw her standing there. He put down his saw and casually passed a hand through his hair. Wood shavings sprinkled down from his forearms, littering his shoulders and the floor around him.
Everyone else stopped what they were doing, as well.
He smiled. “Miss Stirling, welcome. I didn't hear you in the outer room or I would have come to greet you. How can I help you? Was Lady Derby pleased with her desk?”
Belle suddenly felt very foolish coming here. She was sure to make a spectacle in front of these men.
“Ah, yes, the desk was fine. Just fine. I only wanted to, er, come here, to, um ...”
Belle, you idiot, how could you possibly be faltering in such an innocuous setting?
She had to give it to Mr. Boyce, though. He had instinct. “I need to get something else from the woodpile. Perhaps you can accompany me outside and tell me about the order you need to place? The rest of you, no need to gawp.” He crossed the maze of worktables, tool chests, and half-finished projects in just a few steps, and guided Belle through the back door into his lumberyard.
Here she saw immense stacks of wood planks, one end facing her, piled up between trees used as bookends to contain them. Canvas tarps were hung from tree to tree, presumably to protect the woodpiles from rain and snow. Each treed-off section held planks of varying thickness, but all looked to be at least eight feet long.
Belle pointed to one of the stacks' ends. “That looks like an entire tree trunk was sliced up and layered back in its original formation. How did you manage that?”
“That's Caribbean mahogany. I pay extra for it from the sawyer. He has it cut just as you say, in planks as even as possible, then reassembled with spacers in between the planks so air can circulate around them while they season.”
“Why would you pay extra for that? What difference does it make?”
“It makes it easier to book-match the pieces. In other words, if I want the wood grain on one cabinet door to match that of a door next to it, it's much easier if I'm working with wood that has literally grown up together.”
“I see.” She ran her fingers across the ends of the planks, recalling what she'd read about various woods in her studies with Mr. Nash. She became distracted by her own thoughts again. Was Mr. Nash to be her only friend in the world now? If so, what did that say about her ability to manage relationships? What if she'd never decided to purchase that bedeviled gig mill in the first place? Maybe Clive would have never lost his reason. Her marriage to him wouldn't have been perfect, but then he wouldn't have dragged Amelia to Wales, and then ...
Put cleared his throat. “Miss Stirling, your face is troubled and you're as jumpy as a cat tied to a mule's leg. What worries you?”
And without warning, tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned to wipe them away, completely irritated by her own weakness. She never cried, not even in front of Wesley. Now she was a blathering little ninny. What in the world had possessed her to come here?
“Come now, Miss Stirling, what's on your mind? My shoulder is strong.” He patted his right shoulder for effect.
Although she knew he didn't seriously mean for her to cry on his shoulder, the temptation was too great, and to her own mortification, she flung herself at him, crying as heartily as Amelia had just days ago.
Put allowed it, wrapping his right arm around her waist and stroking her hair with his left hand. “Hush now, what could be the matter that a little spitfire like you becomes so distressed?”
How she hoped no one could see them, standing together amid the trees in what looked like an embrace. This was all terribly inappropriate. Yet she liked his comfort. His leather apron, blended with the odor of wood, was soft and reassuring.
Finally, she sighed and broke free of his embrace, still unsure why she was here with this man she hardly knew. He led her to a half-sawn log on the ground and sat down on it with her.
He put a calloused finger under her chin to make her look at him. One green eye looked at her, looking for unspoken answers. “If you stay here much longer without stating your purpose, I'll have to assume you are seeking employment, and I'll set you to hauling planks into the workshop.” He tried to look very stern, but his exaggerated frown made her laugh despite her misery.
Swallowing, she told him everything that had happened to her over the past few years, from the deaths of her parents to Clive's and Amelia's miserable endings. She left out nothing, uttering for the first time her disappointment in Wesley's betrayal. Put listened patiently without interruption.
She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her face when she was finished, embarrassed by her most unladylike act. He pulled a cloth from the front pocket of his apron, shook the wood chips from it, and gave it to her.
It reminded her of a wood fire burning on a chilly autumn evening.
Comforting. Calming.
“Well, Miss Stirling, you've certainly done well for yourself, given your circumstances. But, may I ask, did you actually say you handled a pistol?”
“I had to. They were threatening my livelihood.”
Put laughed and cupped a hand around her cheek. “Delightful. Miss Stirling, I know my question is rather untimely, but may I have permission to pay you court? Or should I ask your brother? Perhaps we can stroll through Vauxhall Gardens, and take some refreshment there together.”
She hadn't expected this. Or had she? What was she thinking, prostrating herself before a fellow merchant whom she hardly knew?
Mr. Boyce probably thinks I came here with a tale of woe just to ensnare him.
Although the idea of being courted by him was not entirely unwelcome.
Yes, it is. Remember what happened before.
She gently removed his hand from her face. “I cannot, Mr. Boyce. I told you about Clive Pryce. He pretended to love me for who I am, and in reality planned to take away everything in my life that was significant to me. I won't let that happen again. My shop is my own and I won't share it with a manâa husbandâwho will take it from me.”
Put frowned. “And you would toss me into the same stockpot of chicken as the inestimable Mr. Pryce?”
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