By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Strong-willed Annabelle Stirling is more than capable of running the family draper shop after the untimely death of her parents. Under her father's tutelage, she became a talented cloth merchant, while her brother Wesley, the true heir, was busy philandering about Yorkshire. Knowing she must change with the times to survive, Belle installs new machinery that finishes twice the fabric in half the time it takes by hand. But not everyone is so enthusiastic.

Soon, riled up by Belle's competitors, the outmoded workers seek violent revenge. Her shop destroyed, Belle travels to London to seek redress from Parliament. While there, the Prince Regent, future King George IV, commissions her to provide fabrics for his Royal Pavilion. As Belle's renown spreads, she meets handsome cabinetmaker Putnam Boyce, but worries that marriage will mean sacrificing her now flourishing shop. And after Wesley plots to kidnap the newly-crowned King--whose indiscretions are surfacing--she finds herself entangled in a duplicitous world of shifting allegiances.

Painting a vivid portrait of life in the British Regency, Christine Trent spins a harrowing tale of ambition, vengeance, love, and complex loyalties against the dynamic backdrop of the early Industrial Revolution.

This is a reissued version.

By the King's Design is Book 3 in the Royal Trades series.

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 369

Sample

Annabelle Stirling reached out a hand to reverently stroke her shop’s new gig mill, which would mechanize the raise of a fabric’s nap. She’d scrimped from the shop’s profits for over a year to afford it, and it was finally here. The shop had been chaotic and disorganized during the three days it took for the workmen to set it up, but it was surely worth it.

She frowned. All of the shop’s workers, and half the village, were here to see it in operation for the first time. But where was Wesley?

“May I try it, Miss Stirling?” Henry asked. He was the first cropper they’d hired when deciding to expand from merely being cloth merchants to also taking rough cloth and doing the final finishing work on it. Since bringing on Henry, they—well, Belle—had hired three more croppers.

“Of course, it’s only right that you should try it. You’ll be the one in charge of it,” she said.

Henry looked tentatively at the enormous piece of machinery, which looked like a large drum in the middle of a letter C. Fabric would be fed in at the top of the C, and fed around the spine and over the drum, straightening and stretching through a set of rollers, then would be gathered in soft folds at the bottom of the C. Henry stood facing the inside of the C, which towered at least two feet over his head, his foot poised over a foot pedal.

“When you’re ready,” she said quietly.

Henry began pumping his foot pedal, and a combination of gears and belts attached at various points to the mill screeched and protested loudly. Sweat was already pouring down the man’s face as the drum began rotating slowly. He reached up and pulled the edge of the long length of fabric over the top of the C and into the first roller above the drum, feeding it in and out of the rollers that would automatically smooth the cloth, removing the nap in a consistent and reliable manner.

His audience stood breathlessly, Belle included, to see the finished product. After Henry had fed about ten yards of cloth through the machine, he stopped pedaling to examine the cloth. He furrowed his brow as he pinched a section of fabric and ran his thumb over it. He looked up at Belle.

“Miss Stirling, I don’t know. Not as good as I could do myself.”

Belle lifted a section of cloth that had been cropped and deposited in the bottom of the C. Henry was right. The finishing wasn’t quite as fine as what he did. But she looked at the quantity of fabric that had been finished in record time and announced, “Henry, nothing could possibly replace your hands on a set of shears. But look at how much you’ve accomplished already this morning. I say the gig mill is a success.”

And with that, everyone who had crowded inside the room ran forward to touch the fabric and form their own opinion on its quality.

Late in the day, after nearly everyone in their village near Leeds had come forward to handle the newly processed cloth and then gone off to gossip about it in the coffee shop, Henry came to her, hat in hand.

“I dunno, Miss Stirling, how we can ’spec to compete with merchants selling hand-finished cloth. My own work is much better, and I surely don’t mind goin’ back to it.”

“Yes, your handwork is better, but you saw how much fabric you were able to finish in just a short amount of time.”

He twisted his hat through his fingers. “Yes, ma’am. But it’s your reputation I’m worried about. If you start selling poor-quality cloth and all.”

She smiled. “Henry, your job is secure. I couldn’t possibly do without you. I’m just glad you’ll be able to accomplish so much more each day.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He continued to stand there, looking nervously from side to side.

“Is there more?”

“I was just wondering, er, whether Mr. Stirling was pleased about the new gig mill. I noticed he wasn’t here when we started it up. Just thought he might have his own opinion.”

“I’m not quite sure where Mr. Stirling is today. I know, though, that he will be quite delighted when he sees its remarkable potential for the shop.”

Which wasn’t entirely true, but enough to satisfy Henry and send him on his way back to his family for the night.

Where was Wesley today? He knew the gig mill was being installed and would be in operation for the first time this morning. Belle sighed. Although her brother, Wesley Stirling, had inherited the shop after both their parents had been swept away in a fever epidemic that had run through the area nearly five years ago, it was Belle who had taken responsibility for the small shop and its workers. Her parents ran it as merely a cloth merchant’s shop, but Belle saw the benefit in bringing in pre-finished cloth and having it finished herself before sending it on its way downriver via the River Aire to land transport for eventual arrival and sale in London and beyond.

By establishing her own dressing shop and having fabric finished on the premises, she could control the final quality of what was sold and thereby manage the shop’s growing reputation. The new gig mill didn’t produce as fine a finish, but, oh, the output.

Not that Wesley had much interest. Much to their father’s despair, her brother, older by two years, had run off to India with a local village girl, Alice Treadle, in some kind of business prospect that he never quite explained. When he was called back after their parents took ill, he never explained why Alice didn’t accompany him on his return.

Wesley’s presence was largely unnecessary, since he merely signed or approved whatever Belle wanted, leaving management of the shop to her and spending days—and sometimes nights—at undisclosed locations.

It had been this way for as long as she could remember. Her father—Fafa, as she always called him—had tried to encourage Wesley’s interest in the business, but he was always more concerned with playing in the woods, or chasing birds, or, later, pursuing comely girls he fancied.

So when Belle first reached out a hand to stroke a piece of fabric and cooed about its softness, Fafa turned his attentions to his younger child. He and Belle would ride over to farms so she could stroke the backs of sheep, cattle, and goats, and Fafa would explain to her how wool, leather, and cashmere came from each animal, respectively, and why the animals must be husbanded properly for not only meat but skin and hair.

They visited fields together, where he would pick stalks of flax and place them in her hands. “This will become a linen fabric one day, Belle,” he said, much to her amazement. How could a plant with sweet, pale blue flowers turn into lengths of linen, damask, and cambric?

“It can become fabric and more. Cabinetmakers turn its seed into an oil to finish wood. It’s also used for medicine. But I’ll show you how it becomes cloth.”

They went to a heckling shop, where Fafa lifted her onto his shoulders to watch workers preparing dried flax fibers that had already had their seeds threshed and straw scutched, or separated, from the fibers. Belle was entranced as she watched workers drawing the flax stalks through what Fafa called heckling combs, each a bed of long iron pins driven into a wooden block. The shop contained various sizes of these combs.

“Why are they different?” she asked.

“Depends on what they’re making,” Fafa said. “The finer the combs, the finer the yarn spun from the flax will be.”

The workers carefully drew the processed fibers through the nails, leaving behind more straw and even some of the fiber. The dust produced was stifling and the smell odious, but Belle was too spellbound in the rhythmic pulling and gathering to care.

Fafa pointed. “See the fiber left behind? It will be used to make rope. Practically every bit of the flax plant can be consumed for various purposes. The better fibers will be spun into yarns, and from there woven into different linen fabrics. The croppers will perform the final finishing on the fabric.”

“But how does the yellow fiber become different colors?”

Fafa laughed at her enthusiasm. “Ah, Daughter, that’s the dyeing and printing process. You have much to learn.”

Belle was never sure what she loved more: learning about the cloth trade or spending so much time with her father. Eventually the two became one in her mind.

Fafa gave her simple tasks in the shop, such as sweeping scraps from the floor, and later taught her how to measure and cut. But she was also spending more and more time at his knee, learning.

As she grew older and could recognize various fabrics on sight, Fafa tested her in many ways. He would have her close her eyes, then place pieces of cloth in her hands, asking her to identify them by touch.

Sometimes he would randomly ask her questions. “I am a customer who needs to have a shirt made. What fabrics would you recommend for me?”

“For everyday wear or a dress occasion?”

“Everyday wear.”

“For warm days or cool?” she asked.

“Warm.”

“Are you working class or an aristocrat?”

“Let’s say I am an architect with aristocratic clients. More highly esteemed than, say, a butcher, but no hope of a title.”

Ah, Fafa was trying to confuse her. “Then I would suggest our gray broadcloth for you, sir. Although it’s a wool, it hangs lightly and will be comfortable on summer days. You will look elegant enough before your clients, but the pale color will prevent you overstepping your bounds as a tradesman and offending them.”

Her father clasped her in his arms. “Ah, Belle, you are my clever girl. Your mother and I will be proud to watch you grow into a respected draper one day.”

She basked in this kind of praise.

One day, Fafa presented her with a badge that he told her came from the Worshipful Company of Drapers in London. It signified that she was an honorary member of this guild. Her heart nearly swelled to bursting over the badge, which she wore pinned to every dress she had until the badge was nearly in tatters. Later she realized that her father had made the badge himself, but she loved him the more for it. She still kept the badge’s remnant as a reminder of Fafa’s faith in her talent.

Belle knew she was becoming the son and heir Fafa wanted. Papa’s loving but resigned eyes acknowledged it. And Wesley’s resentment reflected it.

The day Fafa said cryptically, “The future of the family is solely in your hands, Belle,” she knew he intended the shop for her, not Wesley, even though her brother would be the official heir.

And so it happened. Belle learned more, Wesley cared less, and Fafa gradually turned responsibilities over to his teenage daughter. By the time Wesley returned from India following their parents’ deaths, Belle was the de facto owner of the Stirling Draper Shop.

Belle shook her head. Well, it was better this way, for there was nothing more satisfying than being in the shop, her shop, rolling the long bolts of fabric after the croppers—now the gig mill—had done their work for the day. Even more, she enjoyed using cloth samples to show how they might cover plump pillows, or turn a drab settee into a striking centerpiece for a parlor. She perpetually kept an ever-changing tableau or two at the front of the shop to show local customers the latest fabric styles and how they could improve even the simplest home into one that was warm and inviting.

Many cloth merchants, Fafa included, were concerned about selling fabrics to dressmakers. Belle cared about getting her cloth turned into draperies, chair cushions, and sometimes even wall coverings. She wondered what Fafa would think now of the new mechanization taking place, and her interest in interiors.

The jangling of the doorbell broke her reverie. Hurrying out to the front of the shop, she greeted her customer warmly.

“Amelia! Have you come to see our new mill? I noticed you weren’t here this morning.”

“And from what I hear, I was the only person in Leeds who wasn’t here. How fares the beast?”

“Come see.” Belle led her friend to the room containing the gig mill, now stilled in the waning hours of daylight. She and Amelia Wood had been friends for as long as Belle could remember, although her own boisterous personality had overshadowed Amelia’s shy, thoughtful nature. Belle remembered running into the rectory like a hoyden when she was around ten years old, a bundle of stinking, freshly shorn sheep’s wool in her arms, picked up during a visit to a new weaver from whom Fafa was considering a purchase.

The vicar had shooed the two girls into the yard behind the rectory, and Belle spent the afternoon draping and rearranging the wool over Amelia’s shoulders, finally convincing her friend that she’d made her a royal mantle. Amelia’s patience for Belle’s frolics was never ending, and Belle always tried to drag her friend out of her timidity. She was usually unsuccessful.

Amelia kept her hands behind her back while owlishly inspecting the machinery from behind her wire-rimmed glasses, as though afraid it might reach out and grab her. “It’s quite ... immense,” she finally proclaimed.

Belle laughed. “It is! And it will help me keep up with the other cloth manufacturers who can now supply far greater quantities to their London distributors. But enough about the shop; how’s the vicar?”

“Papa’s fine. He says it’s high time we took you away from your servitude in the shop and had you up for tea. Come tomorrow?”

“Gladly.”

The following day, Belle was admitted to the rectory. Mr. Wood and Amelia greeted her and ushered her into their small parlor to wait for a tea tray. Mrs. Wood had died the year before Belle’s parents, ensuring the two girls became close, different as they were. And despite Belle having her brother to look after her, Mr. Wood had stepped in as a sort of peevish uncle, determined to watch over her even if he didn’t wholly approve of her taking over her parents’ trade.

The tea was served scalding hot, exactly how Belle liked it. She blew gently on her cup while looking around the room.

“Belle, I see you’re noticing our new portrait. A woman gave it to Papa as payment for officiating at her brother’s funeral over in Huddersfield a few weeks ago.”

The small painting was a religious allegory and appeared to be quite old.

“It’s beautiful, but may I make a recommendation?” Belle said over the rim of her teacup.

Amelia leaned forward. “Of course,” she said, pushing her glasses back against her face. Her glasses had been loose for some time, but despite Belle’s urging, Amelia refused to see the optics man to have them fixed.

Belle put her cup down. “It’s just that the portrait hangs too high upon the wall. It should come further down, like this.” She stood next to the portrait and gestured to show that the subject’s eyes should be nearly level with the viewer’s.

Mr. Wood nodded his head seriously. “I see. And what of the rest of the room? Have we put everything in good order?”

The draperies are too heavy and dark. “Everything looks charming,” she said, sitting down again. “This pound cake is delicious, Amelia. Do I taste Madeira in it? You’ve outdone yourself.”

Her friend demurred graciously, willing to allow the subject change, but the vicar wasn’t so pliable.

Shaking his head, Mr. Wood said, “Miss Stirling, you remind me more and more of your father each day. How proud—and yet exceedingly exasperated—he would be to see you now.”

“I think he would be proud of the new gig mill. Did Amelia tell you about it?”

He turned to his daughter with a look that sent Amelia to fiddling with a basket of sewing next to her chair. “Indeed she did not,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to take a walk down and admire it myself. Tell me, what has been the local reaction?”

“Approving, I think. Henry was an expert on it in no time, although he thinks it produces a poorer-quality product than what he can do with his hands. He’s right, but it’s foolish for me to have small batches of cloth finished by hand when I can have twice as much done in half the time.”

“Then I suppose you heard about what just happened over in Brighouse?” Mr. Wood’s voice was even, but Belle sensed an underlying tension now between herself and the vicar. Amelia looked worriedly between her father and friend.

“Brighouse? No, why?”

“A horde of Luddites descended on the cloth mill of a man named William Cartwright. Cartwright had also installed some of that new cloth-finishing machinery. Some croppers, led by a devil named George Mellor, set out to destroy the mill and kill Cartwright.” Mr. Wood let his words hang in the air.

“Were they successful?” Belle asked.

“No. But only because Cartwright was ready for them. He garrisoned his mill with local militia and some of his own trusted workers, and had everything from pistols to acid ready to unleash on the gang. It was the first time the Luddites got a taste of their own medicine. Two of them were killed, Cartwright was unharmed.”

“Do you mean to say that they escaped from their crime?”

“Hardly. They attacked another large mill, and this time a hundred of them were rounded up. They sit awaiting trial now, but there can be no doubt of the outcome. As there can be no doubt of what will happen to you, Belle, if you insist on keeping that newfangled machinery in your shop.”

“But you said yourself that they’re jailed. They can’t do anything to me. To us.”

“Annabelle Stirling, that’s just George Mellor and his mob that were caught. Think you that they are the only Luddites on the prowl right now?”

“Father, I’m sure Wesley will protect the shop,” Amelia ventured carefully.

“Wesley!” her father exploded. “You couldn’t rely on Wesley to protect a hare from a three-legged fox. No, better to get rid of that machinery, young lady. You’ll come to no good end with it.”

Belle choked down more tea to refrain from telling the vicar her opinion of his advice. How dare he instruct her in her shop’s workings? Or suggest that her management of it was deficient in some way? Besides, Belle kept a pair of flintlock pistols hidden behind the counter, although she’d only practiced loading them on one occasion. Nevertheless, no ruffians would have an easy time of it if they broke into her shop. She’d see to it personally.

Taking Belle’s silence for agreement, Mr. Wood pushed further. “And anyway, once you and Mr. Pryce are married, you’ll have no need for the shop’s income. He’ll take care of you. An honest, respectable man Mr. Pryce is. You could not do better.”

Belle continued to bristle silently. The thought came unbidden to her mind that should she need protection, she was probably a better shot than Clive Pryce was, but she instantly chastised herself for such a thought about her betrothed. Certainly Clive was a good man. More important, he was her brother’s most cherished friend, making him a welcome, if unexciting, addition to her life.

As welcome as he was, she had no intention of giving up the shop. It was the pride of Fafa’s existence, and her own joy now. With her parents gone, she’d filled in whatever gaps in her knowledge she’d needed, and today there was almost nothing she didn’t know about cloth. Consequently, Wesley was content to let her continue as she had, confident in her abilities to keep the shop profitable. And she’d done so, even coming up with her own plans for expansion and growth. Like with the new gig mill.

So now, five years later, what else was there to Annabelle Stirling’s life but linen, wool, silk, and cotton?

She didn’t mind that Wesley wasn’t as interested in the shop as she was, for it allowed her an independence that she wouldn’t otherwise have if he truly wanted to run things. But to what good purpose would she argue with a man who was not only the vicar but her best friend’s father?

“Yes, Mr. Wood, I’m sure you’re right about everything,” she said, putting down her cup to end this line of conversation.

He beamed broadly at Belle. “Of course I am, my dear. I am. I’m always telling Amelia that I know what’s best for my womenfolk. And I do consider you under my care, Belle.”

Belle muttered her thanks and moved on to more innocuous topics to pass the time until she felt she’d stayed an acceptable amount of time.

Amelia followed her to the front door of the rectory to escort her out while Mr. Wood retreated to his study to work on that week’s sermon.

“I’m sorry, Belle. Papa does mean well.” Amelia pushed her glasses back along the ridge of her nose again.

“I suppose he does.” She kissed her friend’s cheek. “As enamored as he is of Clive, I think your father would rather have him as your husband than mine.”

Amelia flushed. “Oh no, I’m sure he thinks no such thing.”

“Amelia! I’m just teasing you.” She tweaked the other girl’s nose, resulting in her wire frames slipping again. “Oh, sorry.”

“I don’t mind.” Up they went again. “I should probably have them seen to, shouldn’t I? Oh, I forgot to show you the dress I’m making to attend you at the church. Papa even said he would buy me a bonnet to go with it. Would you like to see it?”

“My apologies, but I need to get back to the shop. Maybe another time.” Belle hugged her friend warmly and said good-bye, pretending not to notice her friend’s questioning look.

She decided to check the afternoon‘s progress on the new mill. While walking back to the shop through Upperhead Row, a formerly decrepit section of the town now being replaced with handsome new buildings and a wider street, all welcome improvements in Belle’s mind, she thought that it was probably time she talked to Clive, to be sure he understood what she intended. A wife she would be. A cloth merchant she must be.

May 1812

Wesley Stirling was satisfied with his day.

First was his great success at ninepins in the alley behind the Pack Horse Inn. A group of about twenty spectators had gathered in the cobbled courtyard between the inn and its outbuildings: the kitchen, stable, laundry house, and necessary. This last building was particularly odiferous on such a warm day, but it was of no moment, for he’d collected a nice pouch of coins from those who foolishly bet he couldn’t strike all the pins from forty feet away. Even Clive had bet against him.

Well, Clive was lighter by a penny or two now, wasn’t he?

The two men had gone back to the cloth shop afterwards, because Wesley had promised Belle he’d take a load of cloth to Leeds Bridge for loading on a ship bound for London. Or was it Norwich? No matter. After Clive had finished flirting with Belle—who, Wesley had to say, was in an ill temper on such a beautiful day—the men had scurried back to the Pack Horse for a darts competition.

Their game resulted in more success when Wesley was able to hit the center of the painted barrel bottom hung on the wall with his back turned, throwing the dart over his shoulder. Even Phyllis Roland, who’d been little impressed with Wesley’s recent attempts to astonish her with his feats of strength and cleverness, had finally taken notice of him when he’d carelessly tossed the dart behind him and struck the center of the red circle painted on the barrel. And who knew where her interest might lead?

He pushed away his empty plate, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his ankles in contentment, sipping from his tankard. Yes, today had been profitable in more ways than one.

His winnings from the day were mostly spent buying rounds of ale for his friends. But he still had a crown left. He contemplated what to do with it. Belle had been grousing lately about the shop needing a bigger window cut into the front, to make her silly little arrangements more visible. Perhaps he should turn everything over to her.

Or not.

He was distracted from his thoughts by Clive’s good-natured kick on his shin.

“Blast you, Pryce. What are you about?” Wesley said.

“Time to wake up. There’s still more to be done today.”

“What do you mean? My belly’s full”—Wesley patted it for emphasis—“and so are my pockets. Well, they’re not quite as full, but I’m in good comfort and cheer. I’ve no intention of doing anything else today.”

“We need to do something for Belle.”

“I already carted off a load of cloth for her today. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. I had a ring made for her and I need to pick it up.”

“What kind of ring?”

“It’s silver, with a locket on top to hold a clipping of my hair. My mother is braiding it for me. What?”

Wesley grinned. “Nothing, nothing. I do believe you’ve gone completely soft over my sister. I don’t think you’ve figured out yet what a harridan you’re getting.”

“If she’s a harridan, it’s only because you’ve never used a firm hand with her since your parents died. She’ll be different once we’re married.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You won’t tell her about the ring? It’s a surprise.”

“I’ll be silent as the grave.”

Clive scowled at him, but wasn’t so irritated as to give up the topic.

“My mother has written to all of her cousins to invite them to the wedding breakfast. It will be a locust plague to put Pharaoh’s to shame.”

“I guess I’ll have to provide extra barrels of buttered ale to wash everything down, then, won’t I? When will banns be read?”

“Starting the first Sunday in June for three weeks. Hasn’t Belle told you this? Has she even been talking about our wedding?”

“My sister? You must be joking. She’s far more concerned with the cut of the latest printed damask for a sofa than a silk for her dress. Don’t know that she’s even started making it.”

Clive frowned again. “She isn’t pleased to become my wife and keep house for me?”

“What? Of course she is. You’re my best chap. She’d be a lunatic of the first order not to be happy about keeping our merry little band together.”

“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 tru