By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  What was that moaning? It sounded as if it were coming from beneath her. How irritating. It prevented Darcey from concentrating. So much to concentrate on. Her breathing, for instance. It was so difficult to take in air while lying on the floor like this. She really must sit up. If only everyone would get out of her way.

  And now there was another figure in the room, dressed in a black hood and floating patiently behind the others. Ah, to be able to suspend oneself in the air, as graceful as the autumn leaves as they are carried on cool breezes in pleasing flashes of gold and scarlet. Darcey wished she were floating.

  Suddenly, the black-hooded figure swept over her, and she was, indeed, suspended in the air. The figure whispered where he was taking her, and Darcey suddenly wished very much that she could instead remain on the floor, where it was so much safer than where she was headed.

  Belle dropped to her knees next to Darcey and held the girl’s hand, while Put investigated her bloody chest for signs of life.

  Finally he sat back. “She’s gone, Belle.”

  Belle gazed down sadly at Darcey’s body. “This was my brother’s wife. Or so she claimed. I can’t believe I killed my own sister-in-law.”

  “She was no relation of yours. Wesley never married her. We can be thankful to him for that and more.”

  “I think I owe you a debt of gratitude. How did you manage to show up at the right moment?”

  “That’s why I’m thankful to your brother. In that blasted secretary he left behind notes that condemned Darcey and exonerated you. For whatever he was while alive, Belle, he atoned for it all from the grave. We have much to discuss about it, but first, let me see that nasty wound on your head.” He offered her a hand up, and ran his fingers gingerly over the spot where Belle’s head struck the counter he made. She winced, but didn’t cry out.

  “I’m fine, truly I am,” she said. “I just need sleep.” But she knew she was trembling. “I believe Darcey may have been following me for quite some time. I never saw her, but I knew someone was watching me.”

  “Oh.” Put looked at her sheepishly. “Perhaps I am not a particularly good shadow. After I sent you that note—which I did to protect you from rumors swirling around me—I couldn’t allow you to run around with no one to keep an eye on you, so I attempted to watch over you in the background. Rather unsuccessfully, I guess. It doesn’t matter now, you’re safe.”

  Put pulled her close, planting kisses all over her face, neck, and hands. “Good Lord, what if I’d lost you?” he murmured over and over.

  Belle threw her arms around his neck, clutching him to hear his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his damp skin. Clive, Amelia, Jane, Wesley, and now Darcey White, all gone. She’d had enough of death. She wanted life. Even if she had to find it in this most macabre of moments.

  Put pulled back just enough to look at her. “Would this be an improper moment to tell you I love you and would like to skip all of the courtship fripperies and go straight to marriage?”

  Belle smiled. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You really must let me pick out some fabrics for a new wardrobe for you. You must be the most uncomfortably dressed man in England.”

  “Granted.”

  “And no more fights with tigresses.” She reached up to touch the scratch marks embedded on his cheek.

  “Thy will be done, Annabelle Stirling.”

  “Why then, Put-rhymes-with-shut, I accept your gallant offer.”

  To Lord Harrowby’s credit, he came through for the couple, presenting Wesley’s diary to the authorities and ensuring the investigation of Darcey’s death was wrapped up quietly with haste. Darcey’s father, a member of Parliament, stayed out of the way, issuing a statement that his daughter was disturbed as of recently.

  Lady Greycliffe fluttered around the shop upon her return, all hugs and kisses and the constant “Je suis désolée that I was away during your hour of need.”

  To repent of her own perceived sin, the dollmaker sent some of her own maids to the shop to scrub the wood floors of blood and to remove any evidence of the altercation.

  Belle and Put had banns read as quickly as possible, and were married privately by the same priest who helped them bury Wesley, Frances serving as their only, silent witness. The three supped together quietly afterwards at a nearby inn.

  Frances put them through a mock bedding ceremony that evening. She dressed Belle privately in the bedroom, slipping a fine lawn nightgown trimmed in dark green ribbon over her head and dabbing lavender-scented water behind Belle’s ears, wrists, and knees. After brushing Belle’s hair out, she helped her into a seated position under the covers of the four-poster bed, which were also fragranced with lavender. Frances arranged Belle’s hair around her shoulders and nodded.

  I must look acceptable.

  Frances slipped out the door, and came back several minutes later, holding Put’s hand. He, too, had been dressed for the occasion, in a nightshirt. Frances was now nodding vigorously and pointing back and forth at them. With two great claps of her hands, she laughed in her barking way, and left.

  Even in the darkness, lit only by a few candles, Belle could see Put reddening in embarrassment, the color completely concealing the fading scratch marks on his face.

  He came around to her side of the bed.

  She wasn’t frightened, only worried that she would disappoint her husband.

  He picked up a lock of hair from her shoulders and kissed it. “I have to tell you, Belle, this is exceedingly distressful for me.”

  “You’ve not been married before, and now you have to share your room with me.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s that I’m not used to these infernal nightshirts. What was my cousin thinking?” He pulled it off as though it were one of the stiff collars or fancy vests that he hated wearing.

  Belle smiled at her new husband’s irritation. Even the nightshirt couldn’t hide the fact that years of working with saws, mallets, and heavy planks of wood had honed Putnam Boyce into a solid, finely crafted piece that would surely endure for decades.

  Put relaxed at seeing Belle’s amusement. He sat down on the bed next to her and kissed her, very gently at first, then with increasing intensity. His urgency transferred itself to her and she found herself gasping with need of him.

  He put his hands to her cheeks and kissed her forehead. “And will you promise to come to bed every night of our lives just as God made you, Wife?”

  “I will, but you may have to help me divest myself of my finery.”

  “Gladly, woman.” And with an exaggerated bear growl, Put picked her up, set her feet on the floor, and proceeded to lovingly remove her simple nightgown.

  No, she wasn’t frightened at all.

  Later, as the newly married couple lay ensconced in bed, Belle’s head on Put’s shoulder, she held out her hand to examine the gold band encircling her finger.

  “You realize I’m now fully obligated to enter into an affair with the king?”

  “Hmm?” Put asked drowsily, pulling her closer against him.

  “Never mind. Just an old memory from an old life. Good night, Husband.”

  November 10, 1820

  Carlton House

  “Ingrates! Fools! Whelps that should have all been drowned at birth!” The king was nearly howling in his rage, but not howling nearly as deafeningly as the public had after Lord Liverpool introduced the Bill of Pains and Penalties.

  Liverpool discreetly added a few drops of laudanum to his glass of brandy. His physician had recommended it for demanding, tiresome occasions. The night might prove to be long and taxing indeed. He glanced over at Lady Conyngham, who was ostensibly tranquil, stretched out on a Grecian sofa the king had moved into his private rooms for her.

  She nodded at Liverpool, a simple gesture full of her shared impatience at the king’s temper tantrum.

  “I blame you, Liverpool. You should have worked harder at convincing the Lords to move forward with it.” T
he king stopped his heavy clumping back and forth long enough to point a chubby, be-ringed finger at him.

  The queen’s trial had been lengthy and appalling, starting in August and limping to finality just today. The salacious details of her affair with Bartolomeo Pergami were read aloud, to the great amusement of all in attendance. A parade of witnesses gave testimony as to Caroline’s unseemly familiarity with Pergami, while the queen sat through it all, unperturbed.

  She remained unmoved by the effort to damage her, because more than eight hundred petitions and nearly a million signatures were sent in favoring her case. Talk of revolution in the queen’s name reached Liverpool’s ears, an unsettling thought after having just ferreted out the Cato Street Conspiracy—an episode that was still ringing in the country’s ears.

  The queen claimed to have committed adultery only once, and that with the husband of Mrs. Fitzherbert, the king. Londoners loved the joke and it endeared their queen to them more than ever.

  Highly troubled by the entire proceedings even after the Lords passed the bill, Liverpool addressed the House and declared that since public tensions were so high, the government would withdraw the bill.

  “Your Majesty, the people’s outcry scared Parliament more than anything I could have done. There was little chance that the Commons would have passed it.”

  “The people! As though they have any sympathy for me and my sorrows. Have I not been the most patriotic of men? The most solicitous of rulers? I am wounded—humiliated—at such disregard by my subjects. And plain incensed by Parliament’s weak-kneed response. Very well, that voracious monster called my wife will herself be humiliated for all of England to witness. Get that rat cartoonist, Cruikshank, to do some satire on her.”

  “Your Majesty, we just gave the cartoonist a handsome financial settlement in return for his pledge not to print any further caricatures of you.”

  “I don’t want him to satirize me, but to skewer my wife. See to it!”

  Liverpool drained his glass. The king was working himself into a state of apoplexy, for certain.

  Mercifully, Lady Conyngham interjected an opinion, deflecting the king’s poisonous attentions away from the prime minister.

  “Dearest Majesty, you are rightfully angry about the wrong done to you, but I wonder if you might benefit, both in your person and in public opinion, by incorporating a spiritual aspect to your daily life. Might I suggest that we invite a priest to attend to your royal needs? He might be able to offer comfort in these trying times, and the people would view such an act as one of great devotion to the good of the nation.”

  “Are you mad, dear lady? I am the king, not a penitent. It is Parliament that requires forgiveness and solace, not I.”

  Lady Congynham’s face was a bland mask, but Liverpool noted hints of wearied irritation around her eyes. The look was gone in an instant as she replaced the mask with a cheerful, toothy smile. “No, of course you aren’t, Your Majesty. You must forgive the dithering of someone who merely adores you above all others and is stretching her simple, yet devoted, mind to its limits to find ways to comfort you.”

  The king’s disposition altered as swiftly as his mistress changed facial expressions. “And this you do quite admirably. I need no man of the cloth to attend to me, I just need my dear Lady Conyngham.”

  Lady Conyngham artfully simpered and bent her head in modesty.

  Lord Liverpool had to give the woman credit. She was a master politician, and better able to placate the king’s irrational moods than any of his advisors. Himself included.

  If only the whole nasty business could be concluded. But there was one more issue to be addressed.

  “Ahem, Your Majesty, I took the queen aside and informed her that under no circumstances should she attend your coronation services, that she would be neither welcome nor permitted inside Westminster Abbey.”

  “Quite right she won’t be allowed in. In fact, I want pugilists to stand guard outside and forcibly remove her if she dares present herself. If that woman defies me over my coronation, I’ll ... I’ll ... I’ll see that she pays for it in the most hideous way possible, Parliament be damned.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “On the other hand, there are certain people I must have in my presence during my coronation. I believe I’ve already mentioned to you that Lady Conyngham must have a place of honor.”

  “Yes, but, Your Majesty, the people might—”

  “If they think I’ll give up my sweet and precious heart at my coronation, well, they have something to learn about their sovereign. I must have her nearby, else I can’t possibly be happy for this most momentous course of events. You’ll see to it, won’t you, Liverpool?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Liverpool simply wanted this tiresome meeting done. But Lady Conyngham had one more card to play.

  “I can hardly think how grand Your Majesty’s ceremony will be, and how gracious he is to include me. And although my family is the unworthy recipient of so many of your favors, may I recommend that my son, Francis, already a groom of the bedchamber, be permitted some role in Your Majesty’s august day?”

  The favor was bestowed without a second thought. “Of course, my lady. Hmm, how about if I make him master of the robes for the day? He can oversee the pages who carry my robe, and I’ll see to it that he has specially marked vestments to set him apart.”

  Lady Conyngham’s face changed again, into a melting gleam of self-satisfaction.

  Because society loves a scandal, Belle was once again the focus of attention following Darcey’s death. Belle and Put were completely exonerated, not only officially but in the court of public opinion. In fact, the public was once again fascinated with the draper turned conspirator turned draper once again. Even Lady Derby sent a servant to express great desire to have the first look at next season’s newest fabrics.

  Belle’s infamy as the sister of a Cato Street conspirator was now tempered by her newfound fame as the survivor of an attempted murder—by a parliamentarian’s daughter, no less.

  The newspapers reported accounts from Lord Harrowby, reprinted articles from the Cato Street Conspiracy, and wrote their own dramatic versions of what happened that day inside the Stirling Drapers shop. They also lurked around Mr. White’s home for several weeks, hoping for more gossip, but the grieving family shut itself completely away, and eventually the reporters grew bored with them.

  Belle was inundated with a constant stream of visitors, who were only too disappointed to learn that the floors had been scrubbed clean by Lady Greycliffe’s staff, then revarnished by Putnam Boyce. Nevertheless, it became fashionable to order fabrics from the lady shopkeeper who actually dispatched a crazed female assassin.

  As the orders continued to pour in, Belle realized she needed to hire someone to help her. She asked Lady Greycliffe for advice, and the dollmaker recommended one of her own household staff’s daughter, who didn’t want to follow her mother into service but wanted to learn a trade. Molly proved to be capable and enthusiastic, and once more Belle was grateful for Lady Greycliffe’s friendship.

  Even more gratifying was the letter Belle received from John Nash, congratulating her on her marriage and achieving such great fame. The letter went on to tell her that the king once again viewed her favorably, and asked that she consider returning to work on the Pavilion.

  She discussed it with Put and together they decided that however badly the king had treated her, it was, after all, his prerogative as king and there was great benefit to be had in working on a royal palace.

  Besides, the official plans for the king’s coronation were announced for July, improving Belle’s fortunes as never before, so in an odd way she had King George IV to thank for her revival. A steady stream of customers and seamstresses trailed in and out of her shop each day, with extensive lists of velvets, furs, silks, tassels, and gold trims that they needed for robes and other vestments worthy of attendance at the king’s coronation.

  July 19,
1821

  London

  The king’s coronation was rumored to be costing more than a hundred thousand pounds from the treasury. If the canopied walking platforms stretching from Carlton House to Westminster Abbey, specially erected just for the coronation procession, were any indication of the great lengths the Crown was going to for its new king, Belle figured the estimates were probably true.

  Brimming with curiosity over what a coronation ceremony was like, she insisted that Put and Frances join her in attendance. Although regular citizens wouldn’t be permitted inside Westminster Abbey for the actual crowning, they could line up anywhere along the route to watch the new monarch pass by.

  It was a blistering hot day. Belle wore her best gown of creamy white Indian sari silk, shot through with a gold-thread pattern, thankful that she’d chosen something light and weightless for the day. How the king and his attendants would manage in their robes was beyond imagination.

  Rather than trying to join the crowds along the long parade route, Belle determined that they should purchase seats on a platform next to the west door of Westminster Abbey, thinking they’d be among the first of London’s citizens to see the king emerge in his crown. Rumor had it that the king had acquired a large blue diamond looted from the French crown jewels during the Revolution and had it set in the crown. Would she be able to see it twinkling in the sun, even at this distance?

  The press of people on the tiered seating platform, as well as on the ground as far as the eye could see, made the day even more oppressive. At least everyone was good-natured about it. Thus far.

  The roars and cheers of spectators far off announced the king’s impending arrival, and from her place Belle caught a glimpse of his procession as it arrived, led by the king’s herb woman and six young attendants dressed in white strewing the way with herbs and flowers. The entourage entered the abbey, finely dressed in Tudor-inspired breeches, neck ruffs, and crimson robes.