Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  “Somebody might see us, Alden.” Isabel had meant to sound commanding but the words rasped from her throat; she was stirred and her voice betrayed her.

  “Nobody will come in; I’ve seen to it.” Weston tightened his arms around her and swayed so that they moved together, as mellow as waltzers. He murmured into her ear: “‘What folly will not a pair of bright eyes make pardonable? What dullness may not red lips and sweet accents render pleasant?’”

  “What is that, Alden?”

  “I know you don’t care for books, Isabel, but that’s Thackeray. I’m telling you, with the great man’s words, that you are beautiful, dear one, and that you undo me.”

  Isabel snuggled into his back, watched the flames lap around the coal and placed her hands atop his. When he yielded like this, fought against that stormy part of himself, he was the sweetest man alive. Here in his arms she could stay.

  Weston removed one of Isabel’s earrings and nibbled her earlobe. It struck her as a strange thing to do and yet and yet, the sound of his breath so close, the feel of his teeth and tongue on such a delicate part made her quiver. Her senses fused, dissolved, and she felt pulpy in his arms but oddly alert and taut, too. Her own breath began to come fast from her mouth; he moved his lips to her cheek. Isabel spun in his arms and placed her hands to his chest. Weston leaned in and kissed her; his whiskers didn’t tickle her nose as they often did; tonight she didn’t feel them. She pressed herself against him and Weston kissed deeper, pushing the hard length of his body into hers. His tongue seemed to fatten as his ardor rose and, with her nose crushed against his, Isabel couldn’t breathe. She tried to pull away, but Weston bent her backward with the force of his bulk. Isabel wriggled hard and managed to pull her mouth from his.

  “Alden,” she said, and he pulled her up so that her feet didn’t touch the floor.

  “Oh, Issy, dear Issy.” His eyes were half-closed and he looked bedeviled, as if possessed by something beyond himself. Clasping her to him with one arm, Weston grappled with the skirt of her gown, jerking it upward until his hand was under it. He snaked his fingers inside her corset and touched the small of her back; he plunged his hand into the top of her knickers and caressed her behind. Isabel gasped and blood rushed through her and flamed her skin. Desire convulsed her but she still feared that at any moment Mr. Hollingshead or somebody else might enter the library and witness their embrace. This was not the place. Isabel pushed at Weston with all her force and broke free of his arms. His eyes opened slowly and he panted.

  “Not here,” Isabel whispered.

  “No, not here,” Weston said, “quite right.” But he lunged and kissed her once more, forcing his tongue around her mouth in a way that both astounded and roused her.

  * * *

  —

  Isabel perched on the edge of the bed and waited for Weston. The hotel was seamy, the coverlet the color of ash. She removed her glove and touched the sheets, sure they would feel slimy, but they didn’t. The hag who had let her in insisted on being paid beforehand, so Isabel gave her money. She looked around at the mildew-stippled walls; she sniffed the air and found, she fancied, the faint reek of urine and sweat.

  Alden stepped through the door and grinned at her. “A place worthy of Dickens, Isabel, don’t you agree?” He laid down the bag he was carrying and glanced around. “He would style it ‘insalubrious’ I’m sure.”

  “You make that sound like something fine, Alden.”

  “Mr. Dickens called your Pottery Lane ‘a plague spot,’ did you know that?”

  “I think your Dickens exaggerated.” She looked around again. “But this place would surely have provoked ink from his pen.”

  Weston leaped from the door and knelt before her. “What does it matter, Issy? We’re alone together, at last.” He tossed off his hat and removed his jacket; he pushed her so that she was lying back on the coverlet and pinned her arms above her head. She could taste wine on his lips when he kissed her; her heart began a skirmish behind her ribs. Weston pulled back and grinned at her.

  “You are incomparably lovely, Isabel,” he said and squeezed her wrists tighter.

  Isabel felt the wanton thrill of being in the hotel, where nobody knew she was, with Weston. Here was what she had come to London for: experiences, freedom, a brush with unorthodox living. This was it, yes, but a rapid droop in her gut made her wonder if it was what she wanted at all. She felt dizzy. Was it safe? Weston kissed her deeper and groaned.

  “We’ll take our time, Issy.” He sat up. “I have a tipple with me. Something to make us loose.”

  He shimmied his shoulders like a third-rate chorus girl and Isabel laughed. There, she need not worry. Alden was in a light mood, he was taking care of her, he meant to make sure she was comfortable and happy. He wanted her to have a pleasant, amusing time. She sat, pulled her legs under her, and covered them with her skirts. Weston retrieved the bag he had left by the door, pulled out two squat cups and handed them to her. He reached again and waved a bottle.

  “Good old Madam Geneva,” he said.

  “Gin?”

  “Exactly, my girl.”

  Weston uncorked the bottle and its sumpy pop sent a shiver through Isabel. He poured. “This is Old Tom, I bought it especially for you; it has cordial through it so will slip down easy.”

  Isabel sipped; the gin tasted of juniper and sweet lemon and it warmed her throat. It had a contradictory flavor, both sharp and nectarous, and she sipped again and let the liquid slide over her tongue.

  “How do you like it?”

  “I like it immensely, Alden.” She gulped another mouthful.

  “Whoa, whoa, Issy, don’t gallop it down! It might knock you out. And we must toast each other.”

  She laughed. “Of course we must.” Her head was woozy of a sudden and her belly warm and she wondered if this was what intoxication felt like. If so, it was a welcome feeling. “Me first. ‘To a lasting peace or an honorable war!’” She giggled. “That’s what my father and his comrades say.”

  “To British belles.” Alden clinked his cup to hers and winked. “That’s what I say.”

  The gin simmered through her and Isabel relaxed. She felt quaggy and keen; how was it possible to be both at once? She giggled and Weston lit a cigarette. He listened to her chatter about Flo and the Empire and the play they were rehearsing, and he looked at her with a languor that she enjoyed. His eyes were appreciative and her blood bloomed, the way it always did in his company, as if he created more of it to wash through her veins. Weston trailed his fingers from the cuff of her boot to her hip and kept his eyes to hers. He stubbed out his cigarette.

  “You are beyond lovely, my beautiful baroness. My baroness Loando.” He slid his hand through the slit at the front of her underwear, teased the hair, then slotted his finger against the slick heat of her and pressed. “Do you like that, Issy?”

  “Yes.” Her whole body throbbed. She licked her lips, his touch was welcome, the sweet-bitter gin delicious and the pulse through her body warmed her. Weston slid his finger over her and Isabel’s breath fell in pants. “I’m stirred, Alden, but limp, too. Slack but brimful of energy.” Her words came out in a staccato whisper to match the swift flick of his fingers. “A strange, stimulating way to be.”

  Alden kissed her and Isabel all but melted away. When she gave a long shiver he pulled his hand from inside her knickers and she tautened her body, then let it slump.

  “Dance for me, Isabel.”

  She grinned at him and sat up. Isabel took a swig from her gin cup, set it down and stood. She wobbled a little, said “woooo” but found her balance quickly; she assumed first position.

  “Take off your skirt, Issy.” Weston lit another cigarette and blew smoke at her.

  Her skirt, the latest London had to offer, fastened with press studs; she pulled at them and they snapped apart with ease. She let the skirt drop to the floor and
kicked it away. The gin buoyed her up, made her fluid and bold. She began a varsoviana, holding her arms up for the invisible partner behind her, even nodding and smiling at him. When it came to the tiny mazurka steps, Weston roared, “Kick higher, Issy,” so she inflated her movements and performed enormous leg swings and dangled her arms for comic effect. She clicked her boot heels to the floorboards in a pleasing ratter-tatter and swayed her whole body, arms aloft. Weston laughed, extinguished his cigarette and held out his hand to her. She dove on top of him, laughing, too. He pulled sharply at her knickers and they were down and gone in an instant; he rolled her under him, slid on top and, with deep grunts, took his cock in hand.

  “Alden!” Isabel’s alarm was belated but real. “Wait!”

  “Don’t fret, Issy,” he whispered. “Nothing untoward will happen. There’ll be no unwanted outcome. I can execute this in a particular way.”

  A particular way? What way? Isabel knew not, but she nodded into his shoulder to give him permission to go on and let out a cry when he entered her. Weston wheezed into her ear while he thrusted, pinching her behind with both hands as he did. It was plunge, plunge, plunge, plunge, plunge, then he bore down heavily for a moment, puffed through his nose, bucked once more and fell on top of her. His sweat drenched her corset and she felt pummeled and, oddly, guilty. Isabel lay under him, her hands hovering above his back. Was it over? Was Alden sated? He was crushing her and her breath came with difficulty. Was it over? He had not taken time to kiss or fondle her. And, now, was he snoring? Could he be?

  “Alden,” she whispered. He groaned and she pushed him, he flopped away from her, covering his eyes with his arm; one guttural snort from his throat and then his breathing settled into measured snores.

  Isabel lay for a while, studying the mold blossoms on the ceiling. She rose, mopped between her legs with her knickers and crawled back beside him. Her mouth was sour, behind her eyes stung with pain, and she could feel that her hair was a matted nest. Well, it was done. Was it as it should have been? Some of the Empire girls spoke with ecstasy about their encounters; others were more coy and giggled much while explaining nothing. Isabel had hoped to feel blissful and buoyant, but there was nothing of that to be found, not in the final act anyway. Perhaps the first time was always so.

  She stared at Weston, the solid hump of him stretched out, oblivious to her. Isabel thought of Flo, alone in their warm Pottery Lane bed. She would wonder where Isabel was at such a late hour; she might worry. Isabel got up and fixed her hair as well as she could and put her knickers and skirt back on. She looked at Alden, comfortable, it appeared, in sleep. She looked at her feet and felt forlorn and sad to realize that her boots were on, secure and laced up. That, somehow, felt like the worst thing.

  A DISCOVERY

  Three days in a row Flo watched Isabel push away the saloop she normally devoured. Her Bath bun was picked clean of caraway seeds and they sat in a heap on the plate. Flo had noticed, too, that apart from being off her food, her sister’s skin had taken on an opaline pallor of late.

  The pair were ensconced in Twining’s tearoom on the Strand, a favorite afternoon stop-off, and Isabel sat listless, poking at the saloop with a spoon.

  “You’re neither eating nor drinking,” Flo said.

  “Too much sugar in the saloop perhaps,” Isabel said. “Or too much milk.”

  “Too much Weston, I’d wager.”

  “I beg your pardon, Flo?”

  Her sister leaned in. “Isabel, are you altogether well these past months?”

  “I know I’ve been out of temper, Flo. I have those headaches and my stomach churns.” She leaned in. “And it’s been the oddest thing, but when I sit beside a man on the omnibus, I can tell the grease of his head from the grease of his hat. Is that not peculiar?”

  “It is and it isn’t, Issy.” Flo sighed. “Things may be as I’ve feared.”

  Isabel didn’t seem to hear her and went on. “Somehow London’s smells invade me as never before—the reek of horse droppings almost made me faint yesterday.” She lifted her cup and took a small sip. “Even chimney smoke stinks, Flo. I’d never noticed the way coal smoke hangs in smelly wreaths; it clings all over.” Isabel wiped at her coiffure as if the dark snow of soot spores was on her now. “Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time indoors.”

  “Oh, Isabel.” Flo lowered her voice to a savage whisper. “Do you really not know what ails you?”

  “What ails me? What do you mean?”

  Flo leaned across the tiny table so that her forehead almost touched her sister’s. “You are enceinte, Issy. I’m almost sure of it.”

  Isabel stared at Flo. She let out a tiny wail. “But I’m not married! How can I be?”

  “Oh, for the love of the Lord, Isabel.” Flo waved her hand. “Get up. Come on.”

  She thrust her arm through Isabel’s and half dragged her out of the tearoom and along the Strand, past the Royal Courts of Justice and down toward the river. Isabel, her thoughts an insensible blare, allowed herself to be led. Could it be true? Is this why she had been gluey with fatigue? Is this why food settled poorly in her gut? Is this why her courses had dried up? She had not bled for months, when she thought about it. But how many months? Three perhaps? Four? It was never something she took much notice of. Isabel gasped. Was Weston’s child growing under her skirt? She looked down, expecting to see a shadow over her shoes, some evidence that her stomach housed a growing babe. She felt heavier, yes, but hadn’t she been eating a plethora of late suppers and dining on cake once too often since moving to London?

  Flo steered her sister toward Waterloo Bridge and they stopped by the wall on the riverbank; she rummaged in her pocket, produced a flask and swigged from it.

  “What’s that?” Isabel asked.

  “Gin.”

  Of course it was gin. Isabel held out her hand and took the flask, warm from her sister’s body. She took a nip and then another. She looked into the dun stew of the Thames, mesmerized by its meander toward the sea; her mind slowed to match its slack progress. Isabel went to have another gulp, but Flo took the flask and pocketed it.

  “Listen to me, Issy.” Flo turned and took both Isabel’s hands in her own. “You have lain with Weston how often?”

  Isabel wasn’t sure she wanted to speak of it, but this was Flo. “It was only once. Alden has not seemed to want to be much alone with me since then.” She bunched her arms across her stomach. “We went to a hotel, Flo, that time and he said it would be all right. He said that if he executed himself a certain way, there could be no unwanted outcome.”

  “Is that what he said, indeed?”

  Isabel nodded. In truth, she hadn’t been altogether sure of his meaning. She had met him at the hotel expecting romance but, in the end, Alden proved not to be a tender lover. She never told him that she was a bit upset on leaving that night for fear he would not want to see her anymore. And Isabel had been a little glad that he had not asked her to lie with him since, for if she refused him, he might go sour. In fact, she had seen less and less of him since their encounter in the insalubrious hotel.

  “The night wasn’t as I’d hoped it would be, I suppose,” Isabel said.

  “Listen to me now.” Flo softened her voice. “There are things we can do, if you’re not too far along.” She stepped back and looked at her sister, reached forward and smoothed her gown across her belly; it formed a small hillock. “Oh God,” she said, “you’re already full. I have been distracted.” Flo frowned, doubtful. “Still, we may be able to put it right. There are people who can take care of these things. There are drafts you can purchase and swallow. Or there’s a medical procedure. This can be made away with. Maybe.” She eyed Isabel uncertainly. “No one need know if there is time to, well, to get rid of it. Alas, I fear there isn’t.” She pushed her two hands against Isabel’s stomach again and they could both see the alarming protuberance.

  “
But, Flo, what of Weston? Perhaps he’ll wish to marry now.”

  Flo groaned. “Isabel, do you truly wish to marry such a man?” She put her arm around her sister. “Issy, there are certain truths about Weston that you don’t know. Firstly, he’s not, nor has he ever been, the Baron Loando.”

  “What are you talking about?” Isabel pulled away.

  “Isabel, I know he styles you his baroness, but it’s all lies. I’m sorry to have to relate this to you.”

  “No. Weston is titled and he has large properties in America, he told me so.”

  “What evidence is there of this, Issy? Why does he constantly borrow money from you? And not only from you, but from everyone?”

  “I don’t mind paying my way.”

  “But you’re paying his way, Issy, don’t you see? Weston avails himself of everything that is good about you and hides his true self.” Flo tutted. “And he oozes authority and power, to be sure. But wouldn’t you own that everything he says has a touch of fancy about it, with only a thin seam of the bona fide sewn through?”

  Isabel hung her head. The small portion of saloop she had swallowed now swirled in a sour mess inside her. She swallowed and swallowed, trying to create saliva that would not form. She whispered: “Is he really so bad, Flo?”

  “Seymour has been investigating him, Isabel. He became suspicious.”

  Isabel’s head shot up. “Well, perhaps it’s Seymour who is not to be trusted.”

  “Why would you say that? You know Seymour is the steadiest of chaps.” Flo shook her head. “Anyway, he has uncovered things about Weston. Debts. Forgeries. Your ‘baron’ is in England to escape several frauds perpetrated in Chicago.”

  “I don’t believe it. Forgeries? I cannot believe it.” Even while she denied it, Isabel prickled with doubt but she chose to shove it aside. “Monetary frauds, Flo?” Her sister nodded. “Weston wouldn’t be that dishonest; he wouldn’t hide such deceits from me, surely.” Isabel blanched, felt a falter in her certainty. “Alden loves me, I’m sure of it. He wouldn’t be able to conceal frauds from me or anyone. And why would he? He loves me.”