“The Prince of Wales wants to meet me.” Her heart broke its tether.
“Yes. In fact, he demands it. You must present yourself—with me, of course—and Lords and Ladies Firthley and Effingale, should they so choose, at a small gathering at Carlton House in a sennight. He has said he will make a point of a private audience.”
Her breathing ceased, full stop, at the unwelcome thought of a small gathering of the aristocracy at the Prince’s residence, followed by a private interview with his Royal Highness. If Char weren’t also invited, she would have fainted, and her consciousness was not yet a sure thing, especially once she reached the Royal Presence.
“I’m not sure I can—”
“You can, my dear,” he said, patting the hand she had twisted in her skirt, “for you have agreed to follow my directives in such matters. I will buy you a new dress for the occasion, but the modiste must sew quickly.”
“But you’ve said—”
“Of course you may expect to own a more fetching gown for evening, if you are to represent the Crown.” He grasped her hand, straightening the fingers and wrapping them around his own. “Though you must understand, a ship, even one designed with a wife in mind, is not the place for fancy fashions. Nor is ostentation particularly seemly, to my mind, for a Christian woman.”
“Yes, Sir, you’ve said. I’ve sent for my simpler clothes, though all I have here is dresses for the Season. Charlotte has seen to that. I daresay we have something that will do for the king.” Biting her lip, she started to speak twice and stopped. Finally, the third time, she said, “I am not certain of my ability to represent the Crown, my lord.”
“I, however, am certain.”
“I haven’t the… the backbone, Sir. The fortitude.”
“I shall provide your backbone until you find it within yourself.” He smiled at her and touched her shoulder, as though he would steady her. “And you will, Miss Smithson. I have faith.”
“Yes, Sir.” She dropped her eyes, not in the least convinced, but well used to doing as she was told.
Her breathing evened a bit, having agreed. In some ways, his gentle demands were a comfort, for she very much doubted she would ever be chastised with fists for any mistake. “You will be my husband, and I will follow your instruction.”
“Good girl. I have one other… it is rather… er…” He stepped across the room and reached out the door; he must have left something on the hall table. “I will drop you at the shops when I leave here, and I beg you take this with you to the modiste and ensure they are well-fitted.”
His face was flushed, and he seemed reluctant to hand her the long, flat box. “I assure you, Miss Smithson, this is in no way…” he was nearly choking. “…prurient. It is not that I wish to discuss your…undergarments… only… When we travel, you will need to wear certain… your… I’ve had stays made… boned with gold coin, and I will require you to wear them while we travel.”
He shoved the box at her, and she took it, sure her face couldn’t be redder than his. She set the box aside, saying, “I am confused, my lord. Gold coin?”
He took a deep breath and collected himself, once again nominally in command. “I do not wish to put you in fear, Miss Smithson, but travel by sea is not always predictable. I should wish any wife of mine to be able to access a few hundred pounds in gold should she find herself in need of it. You must never tell anyone it is there but for the direst circumstance, and you must wear it wherever we go. I’ve had two made, but I know little of women’s fashions. You should have them adjusted in whatever way will make them most comfortable.
“As such, and considering your summons, you must attend the modiste without delay. You may ask Lady Charlotte to accompany you, if it is convenient.” He paused, and when he gathered his voice, he continued, “I prefer Lady Effingale’s taste not be considered in this outing.”
For once, she would not be subject to opinions designed to show her to disadvantage. Or rather, to show Charlotte to advantage right next to her. If nothing else, she might adore a man who insisted upon that.
“Let me ask after Charlotte’s plans for the day and gather my things.”
“Very good.”
Chapter Nine
May 18, 1805
Carlton House
London, England
Bella sank into a curtsey so low she might have fallen over, had His Royal Highness not held out his hand to help her up. The unruly wave in his hair seemed to announce a contrary nature, confirmed by a mischievous twinkle in his royal eye as he appraised her. His cheeks slightly flushed, it seemed more than possible he had already had more than one glass of the claret he was carrying. He drained the glass and handed it to a nearby footman.
“This is the young lady, then, Holsworthy? What is your name? My apologies for having forgotten.”
“Miss Isabella Smithson, Your Royal Highness, of Somerset,” she squeaked. “I am called Bella.”
“Cousin to Firthley, is that not correct?” Alexander stepped forward to confirm the relationship, Charlotte curtseying for the second time in as many minutes, as low as Bella, nearly as dumbstruck. Myron and Alexander’s attempts to shield Bella from the prince collided, both nattering about her, but not allowing her to speak.
“Stop, gentlemen. Stop.” The prince held out his hand. “I shall speak to the young lady alone, for I will ascertain her mind in this.” He held out his elbow to Bella and said, “I trust my sister’s presence will be considered protection enough for your virtue? It is she who brought you to my attention.” Alexander and Myron both reached out, as though they would escort her, then their arms fell as Bella tentatively took the prince’s arm and half-whispered, half choked to Myron over her shoulder, “Princes do not make requests.”
The prince in question leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Quite right, Miss Smithson.”
Once in an audience room, they found Princess Amelia waiting. Only a few years older than Bella, the lovely blonde woman had a friendly face and sweet smile, no hint of the conceit and self-importance that rose off the much-older Prince of Wales like expensive eau de Cologne. Her welcoming presence made Bella slightly more comfortable, though the respite was, of course, relative.
Bella repeated the ritual curtsey while a footman poured sherry. The prince sat, spreading his arm across the top of a long sofa, leaning comfortably into the upholstery. He did not invite her to take her ease, and when the princess did, Bella was at a loss. Such informality was unheard of, but she had no knowledge of anyone who had been called to a private audience. Perhaps the rules were more relaxed in such a setting. Finally, he nodded his assent, so she gratefully settled, very slowly, into a fauteuil, keeping her back straight and legs crossed at the ankle.
“You are white as a snow-covered specter, Miss Smithson.”
“She’s been called before the Crown, George,” the princess remonstrated. “Give her a moment to catch her breath.”
Bella gratefully took the moment and a large sip of sherry, looking around at a room designed to intimidate everyone but the royals who owned it. It might as well be a peasant cottage for all the attention they paid to the masterful artworks, gilded trim, walls lined with what appeared to be peach silk; she would have to move closer to be sure and she was not certain her legs could support her if she tried to stand.
Seemingly tired of waiting for her disquiet to abate, the prince finally said, tapping two fingers on a console table, "No need to tell me why you’ve made no appearance at Court. I’ve heard it from the Duke of Lanceley three times now at dinner parties."
Bella stared at her lap.
“I can well see boarding a ship for the hinterlands might be preferable to listening to him continue to tell the tale, but I cannot think he will stop, even then, I fear. He makes much of it in his pretentiously self-deprecating way.” When Bella glanced up, he was smiling, as though lemonade in the face of a duke was a silly joke. She dropped her eyes, stricken.
He laughed aloud, drawing her gaze
back up. “I wish I had seen it. I’d have paid a monkey to see Lanceley dripping lemonade! You mustn’t make as much of it as he does, Miss Smithson. He is a fool, and once you sail away, it will be forgotten. You will marry Holsworthy in a sennight?”
She gulped the remainder of the smoothest sherry she had ever tasted.
“Nine days, Sir. At his parents’ home in Saltash.” Realizing she was whispering, possibly even mumbling, she consciously collected her voice and spoke more clearly. “We will set sail as soon thereafter as is practical. I know he is hoping to be at sea before the sun sets.”
“I have misgivings,” the princess said. “Please do not take me amiss, but from all I have heard, Miss Smithson, you are… rather an unlikely adventurer.” She nodded to her brother in acknowledgement of his rank, “Though of course, I will defer to the prince, as he is your future husband’s backer. I merely wish to ensure your interests are considered.”
“‘Tis true,” the prince said, looking her up and down, appraising her with a practiced, but not licentious, eye. “You are not the model of a seafaring merchant’s wife, nor of an ambassador. You are young yet, and unaccustomed to Court life. Can you make yourself an asset to him?”
She looked to the side of the room, but her voice steadied further, far smoother and more even than she felt. “I hope my husband will find me young and strong, willing to work to advance him… and advance you… your father… England, I mean.” She blushed, and neither made any effort to address her confusion. She knew better than to ask impertinent questions, however, so ended with, “With respect to your misgivings, Your Royal Highnesses, you may be assured I have lost mine.” This was as long as she could keep up a pretense, and her voice began to shake again. “If I can speak to the royal family of England, I suppose I can learn to speak to anyone.”
“Brava, Miss Smithson!” The prince clapped his hands. “I think you are an excellent choice!”
Princess Amelia rolled her eyes, but did not otherwise reply to her eldest brother’s self-serving assertion.
“Holsworthy assured me he would be entirely forthright about the privations you can expect on your journey,” he said, “But have you any questions for me, Miss Smithson?”
Very tentatively, slowly, with the hope she was not pushing too far, Bella queried, “Might… may I ask, Sir…”
“Yes?”
“Why do you take such an interest in the marriage of a merchant and minor gentry?”
The princess explained, “It was I, Miss Smithson. I heard of your situation during the… normal course of things. There are relatively few women who might undertake such a journey, and surely none from the nobility. When I enquired further, I was given cause for concern. Are you certain you wish to take this course?”
“I do, Ma’am. I admit I did not dare dream of travel, nor conceive of such a breadth of destinations. But Lord Holsworthy has explained everything, and you may be certain this is, in the main, my choice,” she whispered. Gaining volume and vigor, she continued, “I was raised among the nobility, Sir, and I can pretend to aspire to be a courtier, should it be required.”
The prince looked over at his sister triumphantly, “Very prettily said, my sweet. You are a brave girl.”
So as not to forget, she brought up the only point Lord Holsworthy had specifically requested. “I do hope you accept my thanks—our thanks—on the gift you have made Lord Holsworthy of the land in India. I am quite looking forward to being of use to you on the subcontinent. And the ship… it is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, even half-finished, and Lord Holsworthy says you ordered it designed with my needs in mind.”
The prince nodded, saying, “With the participation of my brother, William, who is much more a sea-going fellow than I.” Bella hoped the Duke of Clarence had been sober when he contributed to the plans, but even sotted, an admiral was more qualified than she to offer up suggestions.
“In that case, please do pass on my—our—thanks to His Highness as well.” She turned to the princess, at last beginning to warm to the conversation. “I wish you to know, Ma’am, my uncle has been quite thorough in representing my interests. Of course, there will be dangers, but I will never be stranded, and will always be under guard. Lord Holsworthy has been quite clear. Should he have his way, I will never be left alone.”
The princess nodded, her furrowed brow and the tense lines at the corners of her mouth beginning to relax.
“Your uncle?” Prinny asked. “I know you are Effingale’s niece, but I admit to some confusion. Do you not have a father to advise you? I thought I had heard…”
Bella’s breathing sped up.
“Yes, I recall now. Sir Jasper Smithson, 2nd Baronet. Does he not have a tin mine? I had thought to invest on the advice of several gentlemen.”
“No!” she yelped. At the shock on their faces, she stopped and cleared her throat, modulating her tone. “I mean, Your Royal Highness, Sir, with all due respect to your own acumen, my father and brothers are… not very… propitious… at business. I do not wish to defame my family, but I should not like to see you drawn into their… ill luck.”
Her face heated, but she charged forward, unwilling to continue any further conversation about her father and brothers if it could possibly be avoided, but equally unwilling to see the consequence to the Smithson men if they were caught trying to fleece the prince.
“I am hopeful my situation will soon require a return to England for the purpose of providing an heir for Myr—for Lord Holsworthy. I know I shall never again be welcomed in the ton, once joined in wedlock with a merchant, but Myr—Lord Holsworthy’s barony and his parents’ home are open to me should I be… should I find myself…”
“Yes, dear, we understand,” Princess Amelia said, turning her face away.
Prinny, on the other hand, inclined his head and smiled in a way Bella found almost friendly, saying, “Should you show the type of courage such an endeavor will require, you shall be welcome in my drawing room to the end of your life, my dear, and I will make certain Holsworthy’s manor house is entirely up to the mark, should you require respite from your travels.”
Bella’s eyes widened, and her ability to speak fell away at the thought the Prince of Wales would see to her new household in her absence. “But—Sir—you needn’t—”
He held up one finger. “You must never naysay royalty, my dear, though in years to come, I expect you will wish to many, many times.”
She swallowed her intended objections and took only a moment to consider before she said, “I am sure Lord Holsworthy will be as grateful as I for your attention to our concerns.”
“Well done. You will make an excellent diplomat’s wife. Now, I must return to my party, and I daresay Holsworthy is close to apoplexy wondering if I have made off with his bride.” He winked at Bella as they all rose, and he offered an arm to each girl. “There is only one other thing I believe you should know.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Holsworthy himself tells me you have grit you’ve yet to use, and he never buys bad merchandise.”
Chapter Ten
May 26, 1805
The Egret Feather Inn
Saltash, England
The night before her wedding, Bella paced before the fire in her room at the Saltash village inn. Charlotte slept soundly, snoring in the big bed, but there had been no gentle slumber for Bella.
This had been the fastest six weeks of her life and, by any measure, a success. Betrothed to a peer not a few days after her first assembly, she would be married before the last party of the Season. In the meantime, she had traveled from Bath to London, back to Brittlestep Manor for her belongings, and was now in Saltash, about to leave for parts unknown; Bella hardly knew where she had packed her head. She was not a person accustomed to restless energy, and pacing back and forth across the carpet was not making it any easier to compose herself. There was nothing for it. There was no chance she could clear her mind sitting here in the midst of the same wretched thoughts.
She pulled a front-lacing house dress over her nightrail, tugged on a pair of walking shoes and her traveling cloak, which always, now, seemed close at hand, wrapped her bedtime braid into a coil and pinned it at the nape of her neck. She locked the door on the way out and pocketed the key.
Stepping into the stable yard, Bella saw no one about, though it wasn’t nearly late enough to be so quiet, even in the country. She took the walking track behind the row of shops toward the wood that bordered the town limit. She breathed deep of the cool, night air and felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.
Bella’s relations filled the inn she had just left: Lord and Lady Effingale, Hugh and Guy Amberly, Charlotte and Lord Firthley. Her father and brothers had not been invited, and were not at all welcome, but no one expected they would stay away. Charlotte had been rehearsing her set-down of Jeremy Smithson in her looking glass for days, and the gentlemen roaming about the inn were rather better-armed than one might expect for a happy occasion. Only by sheer force of will had Bella secured general agreement that no Smithsons would be killed on her wedding day, provided they kept to themselves.
Bella hoped they would keep to themselves. She didn’t fool herself that her father would attend out of sentiment, but he surely would to ensure his promised payment was made before the Holsworthys left England. If he could find a way to torture and threaten Bella one last time, too, she expected he would find that a worthy endeavor, though Uncle Howard promised she would never again have to be alone with Jasper.
Lord Holsworthy was spending this night in his childhood home, which was so like Bella’s father’s cottage as to be a mirror image—three rooms above, three below, and twenty acres to farm—in the Clewes’ case, a vineyard. His aging parents could not have been kinder to her, and assured an open-hearted welcome to their family, whether on land or at sea. His mother, particularly, took a liking to Bella, and her teasing tales of his boyhood went a long way in making the somewhat stiff Lord Holsworthy seem like someone with whom Bella could be friends. He laughed more, here in Saltash, than he ever had in her presence before.
Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella Page 6