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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 true change to society, one must punish not only the traitors but also those who are indifferent. Those who are passive were the real threat to society.
    Arthur Thistlewood couldn’t agree more. That’s why he’d had such high hopes for Mellor’s attack on Cartwright’s mill. It would have been a turning point on these Luddite attacks, increasing their violence and bloodthirstiness to effect change more quickly.
    Thistlewood went to his washbasin. Susan had already filled it in anticipation of his arrival home from his gathering. He splashed water on his face as he thought about the stroke of great fortune it had been to meet Thomas Spence, a former schoolteacher who had watched the Revolution in France through newspapers. For twenty years, Spence had been in and out of prison for selling radical books, pamphlets, and newspapers. But the man’s commitment was such that he never stopped his activities, so great was his belief in his cause. No failure was too great for Spence to brush off as a mere fly on a horse’s tail.
    Thistlewood was drawn to such a selfless, heroic man who shared his feelings about change.
    At tonight’s meeting of like-minded men, though, everyone was still dejected about Mellor’s unsuccessful foray against an oppressor. Should they have lent him arms, money, and men? Should they have more vocally supported the Luddites’ efforts in the streets and in their broadsheets?
    Impossible to know. Yet Thistlewood did know that Thomas Spence’s mind would continue to whirl and click until he developed an idea to further the work done by Mellor and other Luddites.
    He looked forward to seeing it all unfold.
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    June 1812
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    Belle and Wesley dined together at Abbey Inn, a few miles from their shop and far away from the bustle of the growing city center of Leeds. Belle loved this old establishment, in its picturesque setting near the River Aire. It was so named for a supposed tunnel that once linked the building to the Kirkstall Abbey a distance away down the valley.
    Belle liked to imagine that Charles II’s royalist soldiers sought refuge in the old stone abbey, then escaped occupied Leeds by following the tunnel to the inn in the middle of the night and mounting waiting horses to carry them off to more sympathetic parts of the country where they would survive to fight another day. Of course, the royalists eventually took and held Leeds, so perhaps they were parliamentary soldiers seeking sanctuary. Either way, she admired the daring and courage involved.
    Wesley had suggested they dine at her favorite place, so they were enjoying a late-afternoon meal of curried rabbit soup, alongside jugged steak with potatoes. It had been months since she’d had this layered dish of pounded meat and sliced potatoes. She’d never learned how to wield a mallet well enough to beat the steaks thin enough to make it, so it was always a treat to have it here at Abbey Inn.
    Wesley, however, wasn’t taking pleasure in his meal as much as he was enjoying his port. Was that his third glass? She sighed inwardly. Well, he’d been very helpful last week with getting that load of cloth sent out, and he’d promised to help her tomorrow with rolling some newly finished fabric bolts, so perhaps he deserved a night of revelry.
    â€œSo, Sister.” Wesley cut away another section of his casserole with his knife and used his thumb to hold it on the blade as he swept the