By the King's Design Read Online Free PDF Page B

dining room looked up at the sounds of arguing and feet scuffling.
    Henry burst into the dining room, wide-eyed and sweating, twisting his hat in his hand in his usual nervous way.
    â€œMiss Stirling! Come quick! There’s a gang planning to smash the mill tonight. They know you’re out for the evening. I knew this would happen. Yes I did. It’s going to be the end of us, yes it is. Oh, Mr. Stirling, good evening to you, sir. I’m sure you’ll want to come, too. It’s terrible bad, it is.”
    Belle put out a hand to calm him. “Henry, are you sure?”
    â€œYes, I’m quite sure. I went to check it out for myself, and they’re gathering at the north end of Briggate. I found a horse and got here quick as I could. Hurry, Miss Stirling.”
    She rose and looked at Wesley. His face was ashen. He drew coins from his pocket and threw them on the table as he got up unsteadily from the table.
    â€œWesley, are you all right?” she asked. Perhaps this wasn’t a good night for revelry, after all.
    He nodded and followed her and Henry out of Abbey Inn to find fast transport back to the shop.
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    Belle saw about a dozen men, most with neckerchiefs tied around the lower halves of their faces, approaching the shop. They were still at least about a quarter mile away.
    Belle leaned over to whisper to Wesley, “Except for the masks, they don’t look menacing at all.”
    He squeezed her hand. “I’ll protect you, Sister.”
    Would he?
    â€œHere, here,” Wesley called out as he ran to intercept the men. What did he think he was doing? If they had destruction on their minds, Wesley would fall victim to them.
    â€œWesley, stop!” she called.
    â€œIt’s all right, Belle. Go home,” he shouted back.
    Not likely. Belle knew what she had to do to protect themselves and her livelihood.
    She picked up her skirts and ran into the shop, heading as swiftly as she could for her work counter lining the wall, and bending over to find the pistol box among the shelves below the counter. She moved aside ledgers, material scraps, and boxes containing scissors, tapes, and leftover lengths of decorative fringes.
    Ah, there it was. She pulled it out and frantically set it on the counter. Drat. She’d forgotten that the box had a lock on it. Where was the key? She lifted her key ring from a nail on the wall in front of her, and shuffled through the keys, searching for the right one.
    Hurry, Belle, hurry.
    She could hear the din of voices rising angrily nearby, as the men came closer.
    Please, God, help me find that infernal key.
    Ah, this one must be it. She fit it inside the lock and the top sprang open. The guns were old, but the brass appliqué on the handles still gleamed brightly.
    Two pistols. Meaning she could, at most, hope to get off two shots, which would, she hoped, be enough to scare them off. After all, a rough-made club was no match for a gun. Even if the gun was managed by a woman.
    Now to remember how to load the things. It had been too long since she’d last practiced.
    She searched under the counter where the pistol box had been and retrieved the ammunition kit. The gun man in Birmingham from whom she’d purchased the guns had given her written instructions that he’d tucked inside the kit. She unfolded the page of instructions and scattered the other contents across the oak countertop.
    Her hands were beginning to tremble, for fear of not being able to load the guns in time. Or load them at all.
    Belle selected a piece of flint and tucked it into the hammer. Next, she tapped a measure of black powder out of its container and onto a piece of tissue paper. Half-cocking the hammer on one of the pistols, she shakily poured a measure of black powder down the barrel. With one hand still holding the gun, she wrapped a lead ball inside a wad of cloth and rammed it down the barrel on top of the gunpowder, using a metal ramrod. The cloth