By the King's Design

Read By the King's Design Online

Authors: Christine Trent

Books by Christine Trent
 
 
By the King's Design
 
A Royal Likeness
 
The Queen's Dollmaker
BY THE K
ING'S
D
ESIGN
CHRISTINE TRENT
KENSINGTON BOOKS
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For my husband, Jon,
my very own master cabinetmaker
and
For Georgia Carpenter—
mother, editor, friend
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No novel can come into existence without plenty of research, and it's especially true for historical fiction. My sincere thanks go to the craftsmen at the Colonial Williamsburg cabinetmaker's shop, who spent a few hours on a warm spring day entertaining all of my pesky questions about the similarities between cabinetmaking in early nineteenth-century England versus colonial America. Cabinetmakers Bill Pavlak, Kaare Loftheim, and Edward Wright all had a vast knowledge of the tools, techniques, and living conditions of their counterparts from two centuries ago.
Thanks are also due to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, who is a simply wonderful combination of coach and teammate over my career, as well as to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, who gives me freedom to write stories the way I want.
I am perpetually indebted to my mother, Georgia, and friend Diane Townsend, who continue to diligently read my manuscripts and pluck out all of my errors, as well as listen to a writer's self-doubt. My brother, Tony, ripped my characters to shreds and helped me put them back together again.
Dude
.
This writer's days are perked up by Leslie Carroll, fellow novelist and friend, with whom I spent entirely too many hours e-mailing about the minutiae of life instead of working on my manuscript.
Jackie and Hayley at The Hair Company make my three hours each month pure bliss with their pampering while I occupy a chair, scribbling away. Jackie, I may still one day take you up on that offer for a permanent writing chair!
I cannot overstate my gratitude to the online historical fiction blogging world for their enthusiasm for the genre and their warm welcome of new novelists into their world. Any readers seeking good recommendations for books can do no better than to visit blogs such as All Things Historical Fiction, Tea at Trianon, Confessions and Ramblings of a Muse in the Fog, Enchanted by Josephine, Historical Tapestry, Obsessed With Books, Passages to the Past, and Tanzanite's Shelf and Stuff. There are many more bloggers out there, as well, who devote many hours to reading and reporting on books.
In particular, my thanks for their fabulously coordinated blog tours go to Liz at Historically Obsessed, Heather at The Maiden's Court, Allie at Hist-Fic Chick, and Arleigh at
Historical-Fiction.com
. You're a warm, wonderfully supportive group of bloggers!
Finally, and most important, my love and high regard go to my husband, Jon, who brainstorms plots with me, champions me to the finish line and, in the case of this book, advised me step-by-step on woodworking tools and techniques. I would be utterly unable to complete a book without this extraordinary man.
Laus Deo.
PROLOGUE
I do of my own free will and accord to hereby promise and swear that I will never reveal any of the names of any one of this secret committee under the penalty of being sent out of this world by the first brother that may meet me.
 
—From the 1812 Luddite Oath, “Twisting In”
 
April 1812
In a field near Rawfold's Mill, Brighouse, Yorkshire
 
“
R
emember what I told you, brothers. Leave the machines, but shoot the masters.” George Mellor pulled his mask back over his face, leaving only his blue eyes blazing out from atop the soiled kerchief. His large, brawny presence belied his age of two and twenty.
Dozens of men imitated him in silence, the rustling of their masks the only sound in the growing twilight. The remainder of Mellor's straggling army had foregone masks and blackened their faces. The malodor of his mask made Mellor wish he'd done the same.
He shook his head in wonder at the few who had adopted a strange uniform, an ill-fitting woman's dress over homespun trousers. He, like most of the men, wore his cropping apron, used to protect his clothing from loose fibers as he used huge, weighty shears with curved blades to cut away the nap of recently woven and pounded fabric. This slow and laborious work resulted in cloth with a smooth and even surface. The croppers' work was the final stage of manufacture before fabric was sent to market.
The average cropper had bulging arms, carved and toned from years of handling his forty-pound cropping blades. But these talented craftsmen, whose work was so highly prized that they typically earned three times the pay of mere wool spinners, were this night planning to use their strength for more nefarious purposes.
“I'll personally smash in Cartwright's head!” bellowed a man in the crowd, holding up a smithy hammer with a nasty iron head.
“Quiet, fool!” Mellor hissed. “Can't have anyone noticing us before we even get started.”
The men jostled restlessly, and an “Ow!” from the direction of the shouter told Mellor that someone had swiftly applied an elbow to his side to shut him up.
Mellor crouched down to wait until it was dark enough to complete the march to Rawfold's Mill. Tonight they were going to teach William Cartwright a lesson. The man had brazenly used new cloth-finishing machinery for the past year, putting many honest, competent men out of work and ruining the trade by producing inferior fabrics, stockings, and lace. Nothing exceeded what a Yorkshire man could do with a pair of cropping shears.
It could be tolerated no longer.
Known affectionately as “King Ludd” by the other croppers, in honor of Ned Ludd, who had initially started the rebellion against machinery in Nottinghamshire, Mellor had steadfastly tried to be precise in his attacks, directing men to smash only the offending pieces of equipment and not to molest buildings or mill families. After all, he wasn't a murderer, he was only trying to protect a generations-old way of life for thousands of people.
But Cartwright's arrogance had driven Mellor insane with fury.
First, the mill owner had sent derisive responses to Mellor's letters instructing him to remove the new mechanized cropping frames and gig mills. Then, to make matters worse, rumors reached Mellor's ears that Cartwright was reinforcing his mill, trying to turn it into a fortress against him. Even the smaller outbuildings of the mill complex had supposedly been fortified. Doors strengthened, spikes set on stairwells, and men poised on the roof with acid carboys ready to be poured on any attackers.
It was insufferable. Not that Mellor believed the bit about the acid.
And so Mellor changed his policy of protecting the mill owners. Tonight, Cartwright would pay the ultimate price.
Mellor gave a hand gesture, which was repeated throughout the crowd, signaling that it was time to begin their three-mile walk to the mill. Along the way, they converged with a Luddite group from Leeds, and now marched as a strong, three-hundred-man army to Rawfold's. Each man armed himself in his own way, with either hammer, sword, or pistol. Mellor smiled grimly at the terrifying sight they must be.
It was completely dark as they approached the five-story mill and its thatched outbuildings. Mellor spread word that all but a few torches were to be extinguished.
All was quiet and still at Cartwright's place, with just a lone lamp burning in an upper-story window. Probably left behind by one of those witless new machine operators.
Mellor signaled again, and his men silently began fanning themselves around the main building. This was the moment that always thrilled Mellor the most. Those last ninety seconds before he and his fellow Luddites rampaged into a mill. The smell of fear and excitement blended into an energizing intoxicant, and he could feel his own power oozing from his pores, knowing that no one would raise a pike, stick, or hammer without his say-so.
He paused to let a light breeze pass over him. He closed his eyes, and breathed deep of the crisp night air. Their cause was just and they were fearless to a man.
It was time.
“Now, boys, now!” he shouted. Who cared if any of Cartwright's people heard him at this point? Mellor's men were too numerous and too keyed up to be stopped.
The men began whooping and brandishing their weapons as they ran closer, intending to both smash windows and batter down doors in their effort to get to Cartwright.
From his peripheral vision, Mellor saw the upstairs lamp go out. Just as suddenly, lamps were lit along the roofs of all the mill buildings, illuminating their defenses.
Mellor gasped. It was true. Cartwright really did have acid vessels. The Luddite leader shouted for everyone to hold, to pull back, but it was too late. The men were in a frenzy and could neither hear him nor pay attention to the cauldrons being tipped over.
And then windows began creaking open all over, and the sound of pistols being loaded, fired, and reloaded soon overcame the deafening screams of his men being drenched in skin-flaying acid.
George Mellor froze in his vantage point. His raids had always been successful before, with little or no resistance by mill owners.
But this night he had miscalculated badly.

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