By the King's Design Read online

  “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.

  “It’s all right, Belle. Go home,” he shouted back.

  Not likely. Belle knew what she had to do to protect themselves and her livelihood.

  She picked up her skirts and ran into the shop, heading as swiftly as she could for her work counter lining the wall, and bending over to find the pistol box among the shelves below the counter. She moved aside ledgers, material scraps, and boxes containing scissors, tapes, and leftover lengths of decorative fringes.

  Ah, there it was. She pulled it out and frantically set it on the counter. Drat. She’d forgotten that the box had a lock on it. Where was the key? She lifted her key ring from a nail on the wall in front of her, and shuffled through the keys, searching for the right one.

  Hurry, Belle, hurry.

  She could hear the din of voices rising angrily nearby, as the men came closer.

  Please, God, help me find that infernal key.

  Ah, this one must be it. She fit it inside the lock and the top sprang open. The guns were old, but the brass appliqué on the handles still gleamed brightly.

  Two pistols. Meaning she could, at most, hope to get off two shots, which would, she hoped, be enough to scare them off. After all, a rough-made club was no match for a gun. Even if the gun was managed by a woman.

  Now to remember how to load the things. It had been too long since she’d last practiced.

  She searched under the counter where the pistol box had been and retrieved the ammunition kit. The gun man in Birmingham from whom she’d purchased the guns had given her written instructions that he’d tucked inside the kit. She unfolded the page of instructions and scattered the other contents across the oak countertop.

  Her hands were beginning to tremble, for fear of not being able to load the guns in time. Or load them at all.

  Belle selected a piece of flint and tucked it into the hammer. Next, she tapped a measure of black powder out of its container and onto a piece of tissue paper. Half-cocking the hammer on one of the pistols, she shakily poured a measure of black powder down the barrel. With one hand still holding the gun, she wrapped a lead ball inside a wad of cloth and rammed it down the barrel on top of the gunpowder, using a metal ramrod. The cloth would prevent the ball from rolling back out of the barrel.

  Almost done.

  She picked up the container of black powder again and sprinkled a tiny amount in the flash pan underneath before fully cocking the piece. Ah, right. When she pulled the trigger, the flint in the hammer would crash down on the pan, creating an ignition to send the bullet hurtling off to its target.

  She hoped.

  More noise and arguing from outside distracted her. Was that the sound of Wesley apologizing?

  Shaking her head in anger and frustration, she gently set the pistol upright against a jar on the counter and set to work on the second pistol, relieved that she loaded it far more quickly than the first one.

  Before she could move to pick up the first gun, a hand came from nowhere and grabbed her wrist, shaking it and forcing it to release the second pistol. It fell to the counter, and Belle was momentarily blinded by a flash as the hammer came down on what black powder remained in the flash pan. It wasn’t enough to fire the pistol.

  She turned toward her attacker, struggling against him. The man wore a brown wool hood over his eyes. The jagged eyeholes of his mask had tilted and she couldn’t even see his pupils. The cloth was oddly familiar.

  “Leave me be!” she said. “What is your business here?”

  “We mean you no trouble, Annabelle. We just need to see that mill dismantled.”

  So you’re not a stranger to me.

  “How dare you address me so familiarly.
Who are you?”

  “Never mind that.”

  He yanked her away from the counter, but she was able to grab the first pistol as he did so, hiding it in the folds of her skirt.

  Careful, she thought. You’ll only get one chance.

  She tried to squirm out of his grasp, but he held her arm tightly. As the man prodded her toward the door of the shop, the other men came tumbling in, Wesley and Henry on their heels.

  Most of them were carrying weapons of some sort, from clubs to knives to sacks full of something—probably stones.

  Wesley was in the middle of the group, fully surrounded by the men. Catching Belle’s eye, he shrugged, his eyes sending her a plea she couldn’t understand. Henry looked as though he might faint dead away at any moment.

  She lashed out at the man who was handling her so roughly. “I’ll say it again; leave me be, you oafish dolt. You’ve no right to be here and I’ll see every one of you hanged.”

  He let go in surprise at her outburst.

  One of the gang laughed. “Hey, you said she was a lively thing. Truer words never spoken. But let’s get to business.”

  Before she could react with the weapon clutched in her hand, three of the club-wielding men went to the gig mill and began beating against it. It wasn’t long before the mill was cracking and splintering before her eyes, collapsing in a heap of rubble.

  No, it couldn’t be. She’d worked so long and hard to save the money to buy the mill. It was the future of cloth finishing and focus of her dreams. It would take years before she could replace it.

  You’ll never be able to replace it, a tiny voice whispered.

  She felt dizzy.

  Belle gripped the pistol tighter, although it was sliding in her grasp as her nerves caused her to sweat. She had one shot, and she wasn’t sure where to place it. At the man holding her? The range was too close. At the men who had just hammered away at her precious new mill? What if one of them was her own employee who thought he would lose his job because of it? Besides, it was too late to stop their work.