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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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Clive frowned again. “She isn't pleased to become my wife and keep house for me?”
“What? Of course she is. You're my best chap. She'd be a lunatic of the first order not to be happy about keeping our merry little band together.”
“She said so?”
“Well, I don't quite remember. Something like that. Actually, yes, I'm sure she said so. That her marriage to you seemed the natural progression of things given our friendship. You know how high-handed she talks.”
“Hmm.” Clive changed the subject. “So, what do you think about what happened in Brighouse last month?”
“The Luddite attack? I s'pose they got what they deserved for attacking an innocent shop owner. That's what Belle says.”
“But what do
you
say, Wesley? The workers say Parliament isn't protecting their jobs. Don't you think those bigger mill owners are taking away the livelihoods of good men who have given dedicated service?”
“I don't know. Maybe.”
“And don't you think your own shop runs the risk of being attacked? What if Belle is there alone when it happens?”
“Cartwright's mill was much bigger and well-known. She doesn't think the shop is in any danger from installing one simple gig mill.”
“There are many who wouldn't call it ‘simple.' It would be a shame if something happened to it because of her disregard.”
Wesley shrugged. “She doesn't listen to me, anyway.”
“You seem to forget the shop is yours, Wesley, not Belle's. And once she becomes my wife, she won't have time for it anymore. You're her elder brother. Tell her you're taking command of the shop now that she's to be married.”
Wesley muttered something unintelligible into his tankard before finishing off the contents.
“Well, I love her and I don't want to see a mob carting her off to Sherwood Forest, so something must be done.” And with that, Clive slapped his knees and rose, signaling the end of the discussion. “Let's go get the ring.”
And because the only person in the world Wesley listened to more than Belle was Clive, he obediently rose and followed his friend out.
 
Arthur Thistlewood was a discontented man.
It seemed as though the world worked against people like him. Against visionary men with purpose and great ideas.
Thistlewood removed his muddied boots and laid them outside the door before entering the rented house he shared with his wife, Susan. No need to get her tail feathers ruffled over a bit of mud dragged inside.
She'd been carping incessantly since they left their failed farm in Horncastle last year to come to London. The woman thought a man like Arthur Thistlewood should be content to follow in her father's footsteps and be a butcher. He'd refused that and gone into the army, where he'd been part of many an exploit in France.
Ah, Paris. He reflected wistfully on that exciting, dangerous period of revolution there not so many years ago, when speakers and verse-writers like Maximilien Robespierre and Louis Saint-Just were swaying crowds with their brilliant oratory about royal despotism and the right to freedom for all people. It was all heady and intoxicating.
And it was Truth. Why shouldn't a man be able to enjoy success without a monarch to steal away the fruits of his labors? For that was surely why his farm failed. And why he'd never been properly promoted in the army. Now that he thought about it, it was the root of his bad fortune as a land surveyor prior to his marriage. He suspected that oppression was somehow at the root of his miserable marriage, too, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.
The trouble in France began when the heads of Louis XVI and his wife, Marie Antoinette, tumbled off the guillotine and into the history book of martyrs. Unfortunate, that. But what men like Robespierre and Saint-Just foresaw with clarity was that in order to effect true change to society, one must punish not only the traitors but also those who are indifferent. Those who are passive were the real threat to society.
Arthur Thistlewood couldn't agree more. That's why he'd had such high hopes for Mellor's attack on Cartwright's mill. It would have been a turning point on these Luddite attacks, increasing their violence and bloodthirstiness to effect change more quickly.
Thistlewood went to his washbasin. Susan had already filled it in anticipation of his arrival home from his gathering. He splashed water on his face as he thought about the stroke of great fortune it had been to meet Thomas Spence, a former schoolteacher who had watched the Revolution in France through newspapers. For twenty years, Spence had been in and out of prison for selling radical books, pamphlets, and newspapers. But the man's commitment was such that he never stopped his activities, so great was his belief in his cause. No failure was too great for Spence to brush off as a mere fly on a horse's tail.
Thistlewood was drawn to such a selfless, heroic man who shared his feelings about change.
At tonight's meeting of like-minded men, though, everyone was still dejected about Mellor's unsuccessful foray against an oppressor. Should they have lent him arms, money, and men? Should they have more vocally supported the Luddites' efforts in the streets and in their broadsheets?
Impossible to know. Yet Thistlewood did know that Thomas Spence's mind would continue to whirl and click until he developed an idea to further the work done by Mellor and other Luddites.
He looked forward to seeing it all unfold.
 
June 1812
 
Belle and Wesley dined together at Abbey Inn, a few miles from their shop and far away from the bustle of the growing city center of Leeds. Belle loved this old establishment, in its picturesque setting near the River Aire. It was so named for a supposed tunnel that once linked the building to the Kirkstall Abbey a distance away down the valley.
Belle liked to imagine that Charles II's royalist soldiers sought refuge in the old stone abbey, then escaped occupied Leeds by following the tunnel to the inn in the middle of the night and mounting waiting horses to carry them off to more sympathetic parts of the country where they would survive to fight another day. Of course, the royalists eventually took and held Leeds, so perhaps they were parliamentary soldiers seeking sanctuary. Either way, she admired the daring and courage involved.
Wesley had suggested they dine at her favorite place, so they were enjoying a late-afternoon meal of curried rabbit soup, alongside jugged steak with potatoes. It had been months since she'd had this layered dish of pounded meat and sliced potatoes. She'd never learned how to wield a mallet well enough to beat the steaks thin enough to make it, so it was always a treat to have it here at Abbey Inn.
Wesley, however, wasn't taking pleasure in his meal as much as he was enjoying his port. Was that his third glass? She sighed inwardly. Well, he'd been very helpful last week with getting that load of cloth sent out, and he'd promised to help her tomorrow with rolling some newly finished fabric bolts, so perhaps he deserved a night of revelry.
“So, Sister.” Wesley cut away another section of his casserole with his knife and used his thumb to hold it on the blade as he swept the food into his mouth. “I hear the Americans have declared war on us. Lord, but those people cannot tolerate an ounce of authority. Why the complaint about impressments of their merchant sailors into our own navy? Half of them are British deserters anyway. Serves 'em right to be captured and put back where they belong.”
“Well, I think the Americans are incensed because they believe we're infringing on their national sovereignty. I suspect having British frigates stationed in their harbors to inspect every ship sailing in and out has made them a bit testy.”
“I suppose. Clive says the Royal Navy is superior to the ragtag American fleet and that the Americans should realize their place on the waters.”
“Clive is indeed patriotic,” she said.
“But you agree with him, don't you, Belle? He says a wife should support her husband in all things.” Wesley was eyeing her warily.
Was this some kind of pre-marital test? In her daily busyness, she'd forgotten her recent vow to talk to Clive about her intention to continue with her business. And they were only a couple of weeks from their wedding without him ever having uttered a sound about her
not
doing so, making it easy to assume that all would be well and affable between them.
Perhaps it was time she had that discussion with her betrothed. But she had to address her brother first.
“I certainly agree that our navy boasts faster ships and better sailors. Clive and I share the same opinion on that and many other matters, and I'm sure he'll have no cause to regret marrying me.”
Wesley seemed satisfied enough with her answer, and signaled the innkeeper for another glass of port.
As the liquid was poured from the ewer, Wesley wiped his knife on his napkin. The innkeeper offered to bring out apple puffs and some of his wife's sweet orange wine, which Wesley accepted enthusiastically.
The distraction was enough to move him on to other news.
“So not only are the Americans rebelling to our west, but the French popinjay has invaded Russia to our east. We can but hope that Tsar Alexander squashes that brute Napoleon once and for all.”
“Is that what Clive says?” Belle asked.
“Yes. He said that—” Wesley stopped in midsentence. “Are you mocking me, Sister?”
“Indeed not. I have the greatest respect for my intended's opinion, and so wished to know what he thought on the matter.”
“Right. Well, Clive says that the Russians will finally give Napoleon the drubbing he deserves. And it will serve our esteemed Lord Nelson's memory, too.”
Lord Nelson had been dead seven years now from his wounds suffered at the hands of the French during the Battle of Trafalgar. She and Wesley were young teenagers then, with barely an understanding of events outside Leeds, much less in the world at large.
Clive's influence over her brother was growing.
Well, it was only right that her future husband and her brother be as close as brothers themselves, wasn't it?
A small dessert platter was set before them, and the innkeeper proffered the new variety of wine. Belle waved off the drink and took one of the miniature pastries. The interior filling was piping hot and sweet. Wesley took no notice of the apple puffs, but instead took to his glass with gusto.
I hope he won't be in his cups soon.
Belle overheard a bit of conversation from a table nearby and introduced it into their own. “They say the Prince of Wales has instituted another rule in his war against his wife. While the Princess of Wales is at Windsor for the summer, she can only see their daughter once every two weeks.”
The war between George and his wife, Caroline, was well-known throughout England.
Wesley shook his head. “They're like a pair of battling roosters who—”
They were interrupted by a commotion in the outer taproom. Everyone in the dining room looked up at the sounds of arguing and feet scuffling.
Henry burst into the dining room, wide-eyed and sweating, twisting his hat in his hand in his usual nervous way.
“Miss Stirling! Come quick! There's a gang planning to smash the mill tonight. They know you're out for the evening. I knew this would happen. Yes I did. It's going to be the end of us, yes it is. Oh, Mr. Stirling, good evening to you, sir. I'm sure you'll want to come, too. It's terrible bad, it is.”
Belle put out a hand to calm him. “Henry, are you sure?”
“Yes, I'm quite sure. I went to check it out for myself, and they're gathering at the north end of Briggate. I found a horse and got here quick as I could. Hurry, Miss Stirling.”
She rose and looked at Wesley. His face was ashen. He drew coins from his pocket and threw them on the table as he got up unsteadily from the table.
“Wesley, are you all right?” she asked. Perhaps this wasn't a good night for revelry, after all.
He nodded and followed her and Henry out of Abbey Inn to find fast transport back to the shop.
 
Belle saw about a dozen men, most with neckerchiefs tied around the lower halves of their faces, approaching the shop. They were still at least about a quarter mile away.
Belle leaned over to whisper to Wesley, “Except for the masks, they don't look menacing at all.”
He squeezed her hand. “I'll protect you, Sister.”
Would he?
“Here, here,” Wesley called out as he ran to intercept the men. What did he think he was doing? If they had destruction on their minds, Wesley would fall victim to them.
“Wesley, stop!” she called.

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