By the King's Design (6 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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Belle spoke up. “Actually, Mr. Wood, I'm afraid my former fiancé does not have things well in hand. In fact, I've just discovered that he, or my brother, or both of them together, are responsible for this mess.”
“Surely you must be joking, my dear. Why, Clive Pryce is an upstanding citizen of this community. His father has been a city alderman for years, and Mr. Pryce is destined to follow in his footsteps. You're talking nonsense.”
“I never talk nonsense. You know that. And my brother and Clive would be well served to hear what I have to say, for I am deadly serious. I despise you both. How dare you consider for one moment doing such a thing to me? If either of you loved me, it would never have crossed your pea brains to do this.”
Wesley interjected, “But Sister, it was only because we loved—”
“Silence!” she thundered so loudly that everyone in the room jumped. “You're my own blood, but you betray me as easily as the turncoat on his own country. And you!” She now addressed Clive. “Mr. Pryce, our wedding is officially called off. I suppose I should thank you for showing me your colors before our marriage. I hope to never lay eyes on you again.”
“Belle, dearest, you don't mean that.”
“And already you've forgotten that I don't talk nonsense, ever. I'm finished with you, and Wesley, and my life here. This, however”—she held up the pistol—“I do believe I'll keep. For good luck.”
She backed out of the shop, pointing the pistol out, daring anyone to molest her further. Once she was through the front door, she stormed into the night air. Mr. Wood ran out after her. She continued walking and he matched her stride. “Belle, my dear, I know that the boys were perhaps a little overbearing in their behavior, but I think you're overreacting. Come back, let's pray and come to a resolution on this. I think they both really had good intentions.”
“You pray, Mr. Wood. Pray for both of their souls, because I'll see them punished.”
“Belle, I'm afraid I must remind you again that Clive is an alderman's son. Alderman Pryce's influence in our town cannot be overstated, and it's best that we consider the impact any reaction against his son would—”
Belle stopped and turned to face the vicar. “Clive Pryce is a criminal. He's been sabotaging mills and stocking frames and who knows what else all over Yorkshire. He should be in prison. And you're about to suggest that we have to be considerate of him, aren't you, since Alderman Pryce might have his afternoon tea disturbed otherwise.”
“Miss Stirling, no good can come of persecuting Clive for his youthful indiscretions. Remember that our good Lord said to ‘bless them that curse you, and pray for those that persecute you.' ”
“So, you're saying you'll defend Clive in his criminal activities?”
“I must be a peacemaker... .”
“A peacemaker doesn't create peace by allowing gangs to maraud about the countryside. If you won't take care of him, I will. I'll have justice for what he's done to me.”
“What will you do? You're being very unwise. You have no plan.”
“That's where you're wrong, Mr. Wood. I know exactly what I'll do.”
Belle picked up her purposeful stride once again, leaving the vicar standing helplessly in the street.
While Mr. Wood returned to the shop to disperse the mob and presumably restore order, Belle marched to the rectory to visit Amelia, who stared wide-eyed at her friend's ferocious appearance and the pistol dangling from her fingers.
With as little explanation as possible, Belle asked to borrow some money and clothing, with a pledge to repay Amelia as soon as possible. Amelia gave her everything she asked for, and helped her to pack it into a traveling bag.
And so, she hurriedly kissed and hugged her friend, whose eyes were full of questions. Belle felt guilty leaving her old friend in this way, but Belle had business to attend to, and didn't want anyone to know about it, lest someone try to stop her.
For Belle knew precisely where she was headed.
She was headed to Parliament.
2
He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper.
 
—Edmund Burke, Irish statesman, 1729–1797
 
June 1812
London
 
B
elle almost lost her nerve. The grandiose, imposing Gothic exterior of St. Stephen's Chapel inside the grounds of Westminster Palace was breathtaking. And a bit daunting.
Mustering her courage by reminding herself of what had happened to her shop, she climbed the long flight of outside steps to the entrance.
Inside the entry room, a uniformed man stopped her almost at once.
“How can I help you, miss?”
“I want to speak to Lord Perceval. I want to report a violation against the Frame Breaking Act, and I expect him to give me recompense against a mob of Luddites.”
The man shook his head. “Miss, have you been on a long ocean voyage? Lord Perceval was assassinated last week. Right here in this very room, in fact. Lord Liverpool's the prime minister now. And he doesn't preside over the House of Commons, anyway, the Speaker of the House does.”
The prime minister had been killed? How was that possible?
“Assassinated? By whom?”
“A cracked-brain named John Bellingham. Had some idea that the British government owed him compensation for a time he spent as a guest in one of the tsar's prisons. Like I said, a complete nutter. He was hanged just yesterday. Miss, how could you have not heard about it?”
Because I've been spending the last week riding and walking to London, that's why.
“I suppose I've been otherwise occupied,” she said.
The man's eyes narrowed. “And you say you're here now for compensation, is that right?”
“Yes. I mean, no. What I'm trying to say is, I'm not off my head like Mr. Bellingham. I just need to speak to whoever is the—Speaker of the House, did you say?”
“It's the Right Honorable Charles Abbot. But you don't just walk in and interrupt proceedings, miss. They're having a debate in there.”
“I've come a long distance, sir, and will not leave until I've had my say with Mr. Abbot.”
“No.”
No? He said no?
Belle hadn't eaten or slept well in more than a week while making her journey into the city. She'd finally reached her destination, and this muttonhead thought he was going to prevent her from seeing the Speaker?
“Well, sir, I say
yes
.” And with that, she moved to open one of the two arched doors leading into the chamber.
“You can't do that!” The guard pushed the door closed. “Really, miss, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I won't leave without seeing Mr. Abbot.”
The man sighed. “Well, aren't you just the fair lady of the joust. I'll let you go up into the gallery to watch the debate. It's highly improper to let a woman up there, but I suspect you'll worry me into the grave otherwise.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But remember: You can only observe. No one interrupts the proceedings. Do you understand me?”
“I understand.”
Belle followed him up a flight of stairs to a viewing gallery on one side of the chapel. The guard let her step in and shut the door behind her as he returned to duty.
Another gallery faced her. Beneath each gallery were four rows of pews facing each other, across a center aisle. Hundreds of men filled the pews. The aisle was dominated by a desk and very tall altar chair behind it, both of these at the opposite end of the chapel from where she'd entered.
Presiding over the session from the chair was a man with sharp, regal features. He projected strength and confidence. This must be Mr. Abbot.
The Speaker addressed someone on one side of the pews.
“The Honorable Member for Chichester may speak,” he said.
A middle-aged man, dressed like most of the others in a finely tied, snowy white cravat and dark jacket and pants, stood. “Thank you. Mr. Speaker, today I raise the issue of the New Street and its unconscionable impact on Cavendish Square. The architect Mr. Nash has presented a very grand rerouting from Marylebone Park to the prince's Carlton House residence, and certainly there is no objection to a naming of this route after the Prince Regent, but the plan is too extreme, too extreme.”
Belle heard mutterings of “Honorable Member Huskisson speaks true” on one side of the aisle and “No, no, too many men out of work from the war and we need building projects” from the other.
What in heaven's name were they talking about?
Huskisson continued. “We are in great financial straits because of our lengthy wars with the little Corsican, and this further folly will only serve to empty the treasury even more. Moreover, the plan calls for the homes on the east side of Cavendish Square to be torn down, a most unhappy prospect for the men of rank who live there.”
Well, if the members of Parliament could argue over the wisdom of destroying homes, surely it would be willing to debate the ruin of her gig mill.
“And so I ...” Unfortunately, the man spoke so tediously and unremarkably that when his speech was combined with her travel exhaustion, Belle found herself nodding off. She sternly shook herself awake. She hadn't come all this way to sleep through her opportunity.
And so the day went on. Various members were recognized from either the Tory or Whig side of the aisle to discuss a variety of bills, measures, and reforms. Some were debated wildly, some politely ignored.
A gentleman from the Whig side of the House, named Sheridan, petitioned for funds to support the Royal Navy's effort against the Americans. Mr. Abbot verbally pushed him aside, saying that since the Member for Ilchester's loyalties had not always been with Great Britain but had in earlier years been with the Americans he now proclaimed to be against, Sheridan could cool his heels a little longer on the subject.
On and on it went.
Finally, the Speaker moved to close debate for the day after allowing a moment of silence in memory of Lord Perceval. This was her chance. Belle jumped up and went to the rail of the gallery.
“Mr. Abbot! Mr. Speaker! My lord Speaker!” she called out.
Drat, what is the correct form of address?
Her voice reverberated high and clear against the chapel's high ceilings.
All eyes were on her.
Abbot's eyes narrowed. “And just who might you be, madam, disrupting the rules of this House?”
Stand firm, Belle.
“I am Annabelle Stirling, my lord, from Leeds in Yorkshire. My family have been respected drapers there for many years. We were set upon by a gang of Luddites last week, who smashed our new gig mill. It seems to me, sir, that the House of Commons is not properly addressing the violence and destruction of these marauders. I demand compensation for our destroyed mill.”
“You do, do you?” he asked.
Belle stood as straight as she could, grasping the rail with both hands to keep from trembling.
“Yes, my lord, I do.”
“And where is your husband to make this case for you?”
“I have no husband.”
“Well then, what of your parents?”
“My parents are dead, sir.”
“No husband? No parents? Who, then, owns this family shop?”
“My brother, sir, Wesley Stirling.”
“And why is he not here to plead your case?”
“He was one of the Luddite attackers.”
The House of Commons erupted in laughter. Belle felt her neck and cheeks turn scarlet. She clenched the rail in front of her more tightly, frustrated but determined.
“So, to be clear, Miss Stirling, your brother owns this cloth shop and decided to destroy his own gig mill in an apparent act of self-destruction, and now his sister has descended upon Parliament to demand restitution for it? Is this what we are to understand?” Abbot was barely maintaining a somber expression, while the other members were pointing up at her and screeching like a tribe of monkeys who have just discovered a new insect that might be interesting to devour.
Belle could have happily torn Abbot's unsympathetic look right from his face.
She waited for the laughter to subside.
“No, sir. What I am saying is that my foolish brother was deceived by my fi—by some Luddites into what he thought was a harmless prank against me. He didn't know what he was doing. Nevertheless, the mob destroyed the mill, which cost me dearly. I demand that Parliament make restitution, for its inability to keep these packs of wild dogs from vandalizing the countryside at will. Shops like mine are vital to England's trade and cannot be permitted to fall prey to these creatures. So I ask you, sirs, which of you will stand up for me?”
The chamber's laughter gave way to a few appreciative murmurs, in addition to several scandalized gasps. Then the monkeys began chattering among themselves again, Tory and Whig alike, their differences forgotten in light of this interesting new development.
The Speaker spoke up. “Ahem, we would do well to be quiet. Members, I ask for your attention. Gentlemen,
SILENCE!
”
The chamber stilled.
“Miss Stirling, I believe your complaint is with your brother, not us. I suggest that you return to Yorkshire to resume your family squabble, and not waste the House's valuable time. You may not realize that we've been a bit busy, between the loss of Lord Perceval, the Americans' declaration of war, and now Napoleon's rampage through Russia. We are also facing another election in September. A woman's troubles with her jackanapes brother are hardly of concern to us.”
Belle was losing control of the situation, but she wouldn't give up now.
“Pardon me, sir, but I will not leave London until I've been reassured that Parliament will take care of the damages.”
“You may be waiting in London an excruciatingly long time, Miss Stirling.” A slow smile spread across his face. He was toying with her now.
“Possibly you are right, sir, but assuredly if you will not hear me I'll find others who will.”
“Is that so? And to whom will you plead your case if I refuse to listen? Where else could you possibly go? The prime minister and I are of one mind, so you'll get no assistance there.”
She swallowed. Indeed, where would she go if the Speaker were to ignore her? Who was more influential than he? But she wouldn't be cowed by this man, nor any of the others watching their exchange with amusement.
“I'll tell you where I'll go. I'll go to the Prince Regent. He'll listen to one of his subjects if you won't.”
This elicited a barking laugh from Abbot. “Ah, madam, I see you don't know the prince well at all. By all means, you should seek him out for reparations. In fact, we would be glad of a return visit from you to let us know of your grand success with him.”
And with that, she was summarily dismissed. Furious, she whirled around to fling herself back down the stairs, and stopped short, nearly toppling over a man who had slipped into the gallery at some point and was now blocking the door. He sat in a chair with a writing box straddling his lap, and was scratching his quill pen furiously across a piece of parchment, presumably to record the proceedings. He looked up to dip his quill in a pot of ink, and realized Belle was gaping at him. He moved his legs to one side to allow her to sweep past, making a single, curt observation: “Interesting.”
Interesting, indeed. Belle returned to her temporary lodgings in the city to lick her raw wounds and plan her next steps.
Perhaps she really
would
try to obtain an audience with George Hanover.
 
Lord Liverpool waited patiently from an armchair while the prince's valet crammed his master into a corset and struggled to tie the laces tightly enough so that the prince's figure might be made somewhat fashionably slim. A pair of pantaloons in the style Beau Brummell had made famous lay across a chair next to him.
The Prince Regent was slavish to Brummell's style even though the two were no longer acquaintances. In Liverpool's opinion, Brummell had tried to best the Prince Regent at being a complete horse's rear. Not caring for the competition, George had discarded him. Yet George could not ever discard his desire for fashion, and so Brummell's influence lived on in starched neatness against the prince's body.
The prince rubbed rouge on his cheeks while the valet worked on his clothes. Peering closely into the mirror to examine his own facial artistry, George Hanover said into his reflection, “So you say this little chit actually interrupted the proceedings over some foolish grievance against the government?”

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