By the King's Design Read online

  As their exertion against the machinery caused them to breathe more heavily, the men tore their masks away to allow for more air passage. None of them were her workers. Their forearms were rippled with muscles, so they were obviously croppers from elsewhere.

  Part of George Mellor’s gang, perhaps? Maybe Mellor himself had escaped prison and was now underneath the wool mask?

  Wesley seemed paralyzed, staring in fascination at what was going on and doing nothing to stop it, not that there was anything to be done to save the machinery.

  But Belle could and would get these men out of her shop.

  In one fluid motion, she brought her pistol out into plain view and pointed it at her attacker while reaching up with her free hand and yanking on her captor’s wool covering. It easily came away in her hand.

  Clive Pryce.

  What?

  She stared back and forth between the wool and his face. And realized that the cloth looked familiar because it came from her shop. It was part of an older batch of drab that Henry had hand-finished.

  She shook her head in disbelief. They were affianced, due to be married in a couple of weeks. And Wesley’s best friend. He was—

  She looked over at Wesley again. “It can’t be,” she breathed.

  But Clive stepped toward her again. She whirled on him with her pistol and raised it at him.

  He lifted his hands in supplication. “Belle, darling, this was all only for your own good. You know deep inside that this mill is immoral. In two ways. Not only because it produces inferior cloth that will drive expert craftsmen like Henry into starvation, but because you know that managing this shop is your elder brother’s job, not yours. You’ve stepped outside your role as his younger sister to assert yourself in a distasteful, mannish way. Assuredly, I won’t tolerate it when you become my wife.”

  “You won’t tolerate ... I’ve stepped outside ... my own good ...” Belle was nearly speechless in shock.

  “Besides, even if I permitted you to continue with this draper shop, it wouldn’t do for the wife of a respectable Luddite to introduce an evil piece of machinery into it.”

  Once again, Belle was grasping for an understanding. “What are you saying? Have you done this before?”

  “Done it before? Why, I’m a King Ludd, just like George Mellor. My men are expert in smashing gig mills, stocking frames, and the like. Notice how we didn’t touch anything else, just the mill. It’s a lesson to arrogant shop owners without destroying their entire livelihood.”

  “Therefore I should be grateful to you for doing this?”

  Clive laughed. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Despite his shaking nervousness, Henry spoke up. “Now, Mr. Pryce, I don’t much like this new machinery, either, but I’d never destroy it.”

  “Your opinion concerns me little. Belle, you hire insolent men, and Henry will be the first to go when we’re married.”

  Belle readily found her astonishment overtaken by pure, white-hot fury. How dare he presume to know what was good for her? For that matter, how dare he think to know anything about her at all? For if he believed that for one second Belle could be happy outside of the cloth shop, then he should be taken straight to York Asylum for confinement. In fact, she’d escort him there personally.

  “You’ll not tell me—” But before she could finish her thought, Henry stepped forward toward Clive, his hands raised. She didn’t know whether he meant to attack or supplicate, but it didn’t matter. Clive took it as a threatening gesture, grabbed Henry, and threw him bodily onto the demolished remains of the gig mill. Henry landed violently on his back with a clatter that sounded almost as terrible as the smashing of the mill. He groaned and fell eerily silent.

  “Henry!” Belle cried, running forward to help him, but Clive seized her and shoved her to one side.

  “He’s not important, Belle. You first need to apologize to me and your brother for the vain way you’ve been handling things in this shop. It’s not befitting a woman.”

  “I need to apologize? To you? ”

  Henry moaned again. Thank God, he’s still alive.

  Wait. Did Clive say she also needed to apologize to Wesley? Her brother shared the profits from this shop with her and had every interest in the gig mill being a success. Unless—

  She wheeled around on her sibling, still pointing the pistol forward in her wrath. “So, tell me, Wesley, my dearest brother. Is this little celebration of any surprise to you whatsoever?”

  “Of course! I knew nothing about it!” Wesley straightened his back in indignation.

  “And so how did Clive manage to obtain this piece of cloth from our shop to wear to this little gathering that you knew nothing about?”

  “He must have stolen it.”

  “Indeed. Your closest companion made it his business to break into our shop when no one was here to steal a piece of cloth to wear in his plan—that you knew nothing about—to obliterate the item in the shop that holds our livelihood. Is this what I’m supposed to believe, Brother?”

  Beads of sweat broke out on Wesley’s forehead. “Sister, surely you wouldn’t consider using that weapon on me.”

  “I’m really not sure what I would consider doing. Right now I’m waiting to hear what your part in this was.”

  “I, well, I, er, you see ...” Wesley looked helplessly at Clive, who stepped back into the conversation.

  “Sweetheart, you must realize that although I certainly supported this instructive lesson for you, it was actually Wesley who instigated it. He has long desired to gain control of the shop back from you, and this was an ideal way to scare you into handing it over to him.”

  Belle could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Her own brother really was the source of this destruction?

  “How could you do this?” she asked him.

  “I didn’t! Clive is lying. It was his idea to do it. He wanted to scare you into giving up the shop so that you would be a proper wife. He told me you’d be the better for it. Besides, he’s the one who has been an active leader with the Luddites.”

  Belle was confused. Was this Wesley’s scheme, or Clive’s? Either way, they were in collusion against her.

  But her attention was diverted once again by Mr. Wood stumbling noisily into the shop. “What ho!” he said. “I heard there was some trouble here. Who are you men, wearing disguises like that? Show us your faces as God made them.”

  The remaining miscreants with kerchiefs still around their faces pulled them down. No one dared disobey a man of the cloth.

  The vicar noticed Clive. “Ah, Mr. Pryce, I see you got here ahead of me. Took me some time to run over here after I got word at the rectory that there was a disturbance. I suppose you have things well in hand.” He looked at the destroyed mill. “Or perhaps you got here too late.”

  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 do
n’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

  Belle 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 unrema
rkably 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?”