By the King's Design Page 7

  “I do forgive you, Wesley, as though it had never happened, and we will never speak of it again. However, this is a fresh start for me in London, and the shop I’m forming will be mine alone. You are welcome to work here with me, but you will not own it. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, yes, anything. Just so we can be affectionate siblings again. Oh, and I brought this for you.” He pulled a folded letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

  Her first name was written across the front in a scrawl she recognized.

  It was from Clive.

  The letter was undated, and contained no greeting.

  Although you have turned your back on everyone who loves you, I still consider you affianced to me. I may have made a simple error of judgment, but this in no way excuses your appalling abandonment. Banns are being said in church each week, so you can return right away to resume your promised place as my wife. I will forgive you all if you will only return to me. But you must do so quickly to secure my forgiveness.

  Belle looked up at Wesley, who shifted uncomfortably.

  “Do you know what this says?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  She crumpled it up and tossed it back to her brother. “If you ever see my former fiancé again, you may assure him that my greatest hope is for his perpetual roasting in hell.”

  Which concluded any further discussion about Clive.

  “How is Henry?” she asked.

  “Mostly recovered, although I suspect his back will always give him trouble. He found work in a heckling shop, where the work is easier than cropping.”

  “What of everyone else?”

  “Gone to other cropper shops. A couple of them left town altogether.”

  They arranged additional lodgings for Wesley with Belle’s landlady, then took the goods to Belle’s new shop location, working all through the night to set everything up. Wesley had brought nearly everything, even managing to dismantle and stow the counter on the bottom of the wagon. All that remained back in Yorkshire were about a dozen bolts of fabrics, which he promised would arrive soon.

  Despite the lack of sleep, Belle was happy. She made mental lists of what still remained to be done. First and foremost, she needed to have a sign made to hang outside, one painted to show the ram with the golden fleece, the motif of the Drapers’ Company, underneath the name “Stirling Drapers.”

  She also needed to create a tableau in the shop window to show off her fabrics. Except she would not do what the average draper did, which was to dangle fabric in long, softly folding cascades in the window from the ceiling. Such arrangement was designed to show women what fabric would look like when constructed in a dress, which she found tiresome and boring. Instead, Belle planned to create frequently changing vignettes in different color schemes, to show off the fabrics as potential chair coverings, draperies, and other interior décor.

  She’d done this to a small extent back in Leeds, except there weren’t many of her neighbors seeking to redecorate their homes. Most of the women just wanted to see the latest fabrics being used for the current season’s fashion. Humdrum.

  As for the rest of the shop behind the windows, she made use of the existing shelving lining the walls. Rows of deep, round openings lined the back wall, in which they stored the cloth bolts, letting about three feet of fabric dangle down from each bolt so that customers could browse the cloth, rubbing it between their fingers. Along one of the long sides of the shop, shelves stored and displayed laces, ribbons, threads, and buttons. The other wall presented tassels, buttons, and upholstery padding.

  She stowed her pistols, now reunited with one another, back under the counter, which Wesley had rebuilt at the front of the shop, hiding them behind her usual collection of cutting and measuring supplies. Unfortunately, the shop was entirely too small for her to consider bringing in another gig mill to finish fabric, so from now on she would only sell ready cloth to the public.

  So on a bright, sunny morning, she and Wesley threw open the front doors, inviting in their very first patrons. Belle prayed for success and Wesley’s continued dedication to the new shop.

  She had no notion of how remarkable the success might be. Just days after opening the shop, she received a request to call on Mr. Nash at his home on Dover Street, to discuss an important commission he might have for her.

  She was shocked by what she found there. In front of his spacious home were several wagons being loaded up with household goods. A dozen workers were carrying out tables, mirrors, paintings, chairs, and other furnishings for loading onto the wagons, under the severe supervision of a beautiful, if exasperated, woman standing in front of the four-story home. Wearing a gown of radiant yellow, she was issuing orders from beneath the shade of a columned portico shading the front entrance.

  Belle approached the woman. “Excuse me, madam? I am looking for Mr. Nash. Is he here?”

  The woman passed an irritated glance over her. “We’ve no more charity to give today, and we’re very busy. Try elsewhere.”

  Belle’s cheeks flamed. Couldn’t the woman see that her clothing might be simple, but she wore a fine cut of cloth? Was her wardrobe really that awful? “No, madam, I don’t seek charity. I have an appointment with Mr. Nash.”

  “Regarding?”

  “I don’t actually know. A possible commission for my shop. I’m a draper over on Oxford Street.”

  The woman shrugged, unimpressed, but opened the door behind her, calling for a servant. When a sweaty and out-of-breath maid in uniform appeared, the woman gave her instructions.

  “Margaret, take this young lady—what is your name again?”

  “Annabelle Stirling, madam.”

  “Take Miss Stirling to the drawing room, go find Mr. Nash, and tell him he has a visitor.”

  The maid nodded in obedience. “Yes, madam, but the drawing room has been nearly emptied of furniture.”

  The woman sighed. “Yes, Margaret, half the rooms of the house are nearly empty, but this girl insists she has a meeting with him.”

  The maid bobbed toward the woman and turned back into the house, leaving Belle to follow. Belle wondered if the woman was Mr. Nash’s wife, but the maid gave her no opportunity to ask a question, instead hurrying through the circular, domed staircase hall into a dining room filled with sketches of homes, and to the drawing room beyond that.

  Belle nearly ran to keep up, but it didn’t prevent her from noticing that Mr. Nash lived almost as regally as the prince himself.

  They entered a room that was, indeed, nearly empty. “Wait here, please,” the maid said as she closed the door behind her.

  A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Mr. Nash entered. Like everyone else Belle had seen so far, he looked overexerted, and beads of perspiration covered his forehead. But his smile upon seeing her was genuine.

  “Ah, Miss Stirling! What a delight to see you again.”

  She held out her hand to his. “And you as well, sir. I would like to apologize for my unforgivable behavior at—”

  Nash waved away her concern. “Think no more on it. Actually, as I told the prince later, it was all quite amusing. You are an unusually outspoken young woman. Perhaps it is no wonder you aren’t married yet.”

  Belle drew herself up to retort, then realized he was gently teasing her. “Well, my brother has more than once accused me of lacking an appropriate amount of humility.”

  “And yet somehow you do not lack for charm. No, the apologies due are my own. I regret our rather sparse circumstances here. My household is headed down to Brighton for a time, and there’s quite a bit of confusion as we decide what will go with us and what will stay here.”

  “Brighton?”

  “Yes, it’s in Sussex, directly on the Channel. A marvelous place for the health, really. People have been bathing in the seawater there for more than sixty years. The prince’s interest in that town is making property values rise there. He has a residence there, called the Marine Pavilion, and I am making grand modifications to
it. Would you like to see my drawings?” He searched through an open crate of long scrolls standing on their ends until he found what he wanted, and unrolled it on top of a stack of crates marked “Books—Architectural.”

  It was a sketch of the front exterior of an immense home, the centerpiece of which was a round, domed entry surrounded by columns, and this center section flanked by two wings echoing the curves of that center focal point. It expanded out farther on either side in a jumbled, uncoordinated way. It was impressive from a size standpoint, but utterly lacking in ornamentation and style.

  “So what do you think of it, Miss Stirling?” Nash asked.

  “I believe that I have no opinion whatsoever, sir.”

  He chuckled, his eyes crinkling in their amusement. “Fear not, Miss Stirling, your opinion is clearly expressed on your face, and I am of the same view. It looks like an undecorated cake, does it not? It is missing the rosettes and edging that would make it a confection suitable for a prince.”

  “I must agree with you.”

  “This is how Henry Holland redesigned the farmhouse that sat there. I cannot blame him, for it was conceived as a seaside retreat, never as a royal palace. But the prince is now enamored of the Oriental style, and I intend to use his preference to create the most audacious and improbable home ever designed for a sovereign, which he will in due course become. So now I will show you my own plans to improve the home, which I am determined to call the Royal Pavilion.”

  He went back to the crate and selected another rolled-up drawing, unrolling it on top of the first.

  Belle drew in a breath. The architect was right. It was bold and extraordinary. The classically styled columns in the center of the house were to be replaced with tall Indian pillars, and a mild, rounded top was built up further by an onion-shaped dome. The flanking wings remained the same except for some minor architectural detailing, but the expanding pieces of the house to either side were brought to heel through a restructuring of their fronts, which incorporated even more onion domes. At corners on each side of the plan’s domes were tall columns topped with what looked to be miniature onion domes.

  “What are these?” she asked, pointing to the rooftop columns.

  “My interpretation of minarets. They go well with the domes, don’t they?”

  She had no idea what he was talking about. But the effect was otherworldly.

  Belle knew she looked like a wide-eyed calf, but there was no help for it. “Mr. Nash, I know that I am no jaded London sophisticate, but this is the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “And what do you suppose the interior of such a residence should look like?”

  “Why, I don’t know. Something Hindu? Moorish? Chinese?”

  “In fact, it will be all of these. Don’t you think it would be quite a feat to make the interior complement the exterior?”

  Belle’s mind raced over her cloth inventory. She had nothing suitable on hand. She would probably seek out some of the new copper-roller printed fabrics. She imagined something in Turkey red, or perhaps chrome yellow, colors dramatic enough to do justice to such a palace.

  The wallpaper finisher next door to her could probably create an appropriate design, given the right instruction. How she envied Mr. Nash’s good fortune to not only work for the man who would eventually be king but work on such a project!

  “That is an understatement, sir. You are fortunate indeed to have such an opportunity.”

  “But it is an opportunity I am willing to share.” Nash rolled this second drawing back up and inserted it back into the crate. “How would you like to work under the Pavilion’s artist-designer, Mr. Crace, as an assistant, if you will, to provide all of the drapery and upholstery fabrics for the project?”

  Had she just heard aright? Was she, an unrefined girl from Yorkshire, being offered a prospect that the most respected members of the Company of Drapers could only dream of? Why was Nash presenting it to her on a silver salver?

  “I don’t understand, sir. I’m just a draper recently arrived from the north. You hardly know me. And surely the prince wouldn’t risk money and time on someone as untried and inexperienced as I am?”

  “Ah, but you’re not just a draper. You’re a woman of mettle and spirit. You’ve got innate talent that could be easily developed. More importantly, the prince is impressed with you.”

  Impressed with her? How could this be? He’d stopped short of mocking her out loud, and then dismissed her without any assurance that he would give her petition any consideration.

  But so what? Would the opportunity of working at the Pavilion not only be a great coup for her, would it also give her a chance to urge the prince once again to take action against the wild Luddites?

  She had to admit, though, that the idea of working on a royal residence was the most tantalizing consideration. Her mind turned to more practical considerations.

  “How often would you—or Mr. Crace—expect me at the Pavilion? I have a new shop and I’m trying to build up business there. What will I do with it?”

  “Surely you have a trusted servant. Did you close your shop to come here today? Can he not manage your shop when you need to be in Brighton?”

  Hmm. Could he? She’d forgiven Wesley, but did she trust him yet?

  If I want to take advantage of this project, there’s no help for it. I have to leave the shop in his hands.

  “Yes, I suppose he can. How long do you estimate the project to last, Mr. Nash?”

  He spread his hands and shrugged. “The prince is a man of many, er, changing opinions. My design could expand, contract, and change many times before the project is complete. Assume a few years, although your visits would be infrequent. Mr. Crace handles much of the design, but he’ll confer with you over complementary fabrics to his designs. You’ll still have a firm hand in your shop.”

  The project could last for years. What a reputation she could establish if she didn’t fail at the work. Although failure was a distinct possibility, if the prince was as finicky as Nash implied him to be.

  “Sir, you yourself say I only have an unrefined talent. I’m not sure I’m ready to be an advisor to the prince’s artist-designer.”

  “I think that will be easily enough done, Miss Stirling. I’ll engage you as sort of an associate, giving you a wage for working with me on the project, although in many ways you’ll be more of an apprentice to Mr. Crace. I’ll give you colored plates to study, texts to read, and will tour you past some of my own completed projects, so that you can understand things beyond the perspective of a mere draper. I’m sure Mr. Crace will also want to tutor you, much as I did with my current associate, James Morgan, who is staying behind to manage the Regent Street project, but whom I expect you will meet in due course. And so, what say you to my offer?”

  She was light-headed by what the man was suggesting. And was there really any doubt she’d do it?

  “Mr. Nash, I would be honored to be your draper.”

  “Splendid. I’ll give you some materials to examine and expect you to join Mrs. Nash and me in Brighton in a month.”

  Belle left Dover Street with her arms piled high with leather-bound books and sheaves of watercolor plates tied together with twine.

  She could hardly believe her own good fortune.

  Business in the shop picked up almost instantly, once she had Wesley letting out word that the proprietress was to be providing fabrics for the redesign of the Royal Pavilion. They adjusted their hours to stay open longer, and were even visited by the master of the Drapers’ Company, who was curious to meet the city’s newcomer who had already garnered royal recognition.

  More interesting to Belle than honorific visits, though, was the increased contact with society women. She and Wesley quickly adapted their manners and speech to that of their clients. In Leeds, much of her custom was done through letters and via agents. Her personal contact with customers was generally limited to the ordinary residents of Leeds. Now, she never knew when a lady of rank migh
t wish to see her goods. It was a heady experience.

  And these more important customers required far better service, which frequently meant visiting them at their homes with samples. Belle was glad that Wesley was throwing himself into their new circumstances with enthusiasm, always happy to stay behind, tending to walk-in patrons while Belle was out meeting customers of distinction.

  When Belle wasn’t working with customers, her nose was buried inside the materials Nash had provided her. She’d no idea there was so much to learn. Most interesting to her was the extent to which the reigning monarch impacted home fashions. What a king found fashionable, so did everyone in the country, from fabric color to the primary woods used for every stick of furniture in the house.

  Her initial reading was of the classical architectural orders: Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. The differences among the styles bored her, and she knew that Nash wasn’t one to slavishly adhere to any particular architectural style, anyway, hence his popularity with an extravagant, unrestrained patron.

  She learned that interiors of the Tudor period reflected the heavy ornate dress of its courtiers: heavy fringes and braids against green, red, and yellow fabrics. The wood of choice was oak, plentiful in England’s forests. Fabrics were frequently shot through with gold or silver thread, a sewing effort Belle could not fathom.

  Green was the most popular interior color during the Stuart reign of the seventeenth century, and it was accompanied by the heaviest furniture designs she’d ever laid eyes on, carved mostly in walnut, a dark wood. The Stuarts also popularized single color schemes in each room. The great tester beds and Jacobean sideboards were downright colossal.

  Furniture design lightened up considerably in the early eighteenth century with the ascent of Queen Anne and the King Georges I, II, and III, although the penchant for single-color rooms remained. The beauty of mahogany was appreciated, and furniture in this sturdy wood began filling the best homes. Belle recognized some of the famous, more modern names associated with the period: Adam, Hepplewhite, Sheraton, and even Thomas Chippendale, who practiced his trade in the then-colonies, were all well-known even to a neophyte such as her.