Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  “Belle.” He stopped and tilted her chin up to him. “Belle, what’s the matter? I thought you would enjoy the comedy of it. I brought you out here for fun.”

  “Do you think those babies are having fun, being paraded like Barnum’s freaks?”

  “They seem perfectly fine to me. What do they know or care? And their mothers will surely enjoy the silver cups they will take away with them, not to mention the prize money.”

  “That makes it even worse. Babies and money mixed up together. It’s disgraceful.”

  She stopped, for she could feel tears heating the backs of her eyes and she did not want to cry in the middle of the tavern floor. What was baby Isidor doing at this moment? Would Sara dare to flaunt him in this way? Why did she even care? She had fostered the child with Sara, as many a mother did. Why did these jabs of conscience continue to wound her? Belle tucked her arm through William’s elbow crook once more and turned her back to the chain of babies and bloated mothers.

  “I wish to leave. Take me home, William.”

  * * *

  —

  At Conduit Street William did not immediately descend from the cabriolet to help Belle out. Instead he clutched her hand.

  “May I accompany you to your room?” he said.

  “No, William, don’t be foolish. You know I would be evicted if the landlady saw you. Besides, we must wait.” Belle dipped her head. She would love to lie in William’s arms, to feel the warmth from his body heat her, to have him cajole her with kisses. But she needed, also, to retain her senses. Ducking under covers with Weston had left her with baby Isidor. Her own lack of sense had compounded the problem. She could not lose her wits, but she must make William wait and she must be patient herself.

  William put his finger under her chin to lift it so he could see her eyes; she stared at him. He was a beautiful man.

  “We will marry, Belle, and then we shall never be parted. No room will be barred to us.”

  She loved to hear him say that, but his parents’ undoubted misgivings could not be ignored. “And you think your mama and papa would approve of such a scheme?”

  “I do not need their approval. You’ll see.”

  “William, think of what you would lose if you went against your father.” She said the words, though she hoped his love would expunge her meaning. “Be sensible.”

  “How can I be, when I’m with you? You make the most insensible creature of me, Miss Bilton.”

  Belle looked away. “We must be patient, that’s all. We must keep our heads.”

  “I can hardly wait until the night we lie together. I yearn to hold you to me, as husband holds wife.”

  Belle’s heart jounced and they gripped each other’s hands. William glanced at the cabriolet’s ceiling, hoping the driver would not grow restless and open the trapdoor. The man was tight with his father and Lord knew what news he would store up to take to Berkeley Square. William pulled Belle to his breast and found her mouth with his. His lips were soft on hers and she welcomed the urgent press of his tongue; her body went lax, everything inside her a-glide and a-glow. She opened her mouth wider to let him in and they kissed until they heard the stomp of the driver’s feet which meant he wanted to get on.

  “Let him go, William. I need to speak with you about something. Shall we walk?”

  “Of course, Belle.”

  William helped her down and told the driver to leave. They walked through Mayfair to Hyde Park, Belle trying to muster the words with which to tell William about baby Isidor. She had not known whether she was going to tell him so soon but his talk of marriage necessitated it. If they were to be wed, he must know all. Belle took courage once the Serpentine came into view—the lake’s green waters acted like a salve. She kept her face forward and spoke into the air as they strolled, for it proved easier for the words to emerge that way.

  “There is something you must know, William. I have been living life sub rosa and it has become unbearable to me,” she said. “When it comes to you, I prefer to have no secrets. I mean, I don’t want every tittle snoop knowing my business, but I simply must reveal this fact I’m holding to you, for I shall sicken myself otherwise.” She glanced up at him. “It’s not that I’ve wanted to conceal anything these past weeks that we’ve known each other, but it’s been hard to find the right time to say it out.”

  “What is it, Belle? Please do tell me.” William stopped by the lake the better to look into Belle’s face.

  She met his gaze; he looked grave and her heart plunged and pushed in her rib cage but it was time to say it. “William, what I have to tell you is that I have a child. A son.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  Belle searched his eyes. “You already knew!”

  “Not exactly. I had heard something. Well, people whispered it to me at the Corinthian.”

  “People always seem to have plenty to say about others’ lives.” Belle felt a pinch in her neck and rubbed her hand over it, an attempt to swab away her anxiety. William was silent; he turned from her and faced the Serpentine. They stood, not talking, and the lap of the water and boisterous birdsong chipped at Belle’s ears like an assault. William’s lack of comment ground into her.

  “I have shocked you, William, despite the work of the gossipers.”

  “I’m not shocked, Belle, no.” He hesitated. “I’m wondering, I suppose, what it means. For you. For us. I’m trying to understand.” William kept his eyes forward while he spoke. “I must tell you that when it was whispered to me at the Corinthian I didn’t believe it. When I heard it twice more I thought maybe you did have a child but, when I thought about that, it made no difference to my ardor for you. And I didn’t feel I could question you about it. When I mused on it some more, I concluded that if it was true, you would tell me in your own time.”

  “And all this was in your mind without my knowing. You came to me every day and we went about together and you never raised the matter. How kind you are, William.” Belle was queasy with relief; she squeezed his arm where her hand lay. He had known but he did not see fit to pry.

  “Nothing matters to me but that I have you, Belle. Nothing at all.”

  She pressed on. “I wish to tell you everything, William, the whole truth of it, though it’s hard for me to talk of it. May I speak more?” He nodded. “The father of my child is a Mr. Weston, an American. He always gave the impression we would marry, or so I thought.” Belle rubbed a finger across her forehead. “But that was not to be. He also led me to believe that he was a baron.” She shook her head. “Weston said and did many things. His relationship with the truth was a perilous one.”

  “I see.” William nodded.

  “By the time I realized I was enceinte it was too late to fix the situation. I was naïve, William.”

  “It must have been a terrible time for you, Belle.”

  “It was but Wertheimer was extraordinarily kind to me, and Flo and Seymour, of course. They all looked after me well.”

  “Wertheimer’s a good chap, to be sure.” William poked at his quiff, his eyes distant, it seemed to Belle. “And where is your boy now?”

  “In Sussex with a wet nurse. A sturdy young mother. I fostered him out because, of course, a child is incompatible with the life of an actress.”

  “And is he content?”

  “Yes. He’s part of a family in Heathfield and they do well by him. He grows stouter by the day.” She gave a wan smile, thinking back to the baby show bouncers.

  “And the child’s father, this Weston, where is he?”

  Belle watched a swan perform a serene glissade across the water. “He’s in Lewes Jail, William. For fraud. He attempted to negotiate forged bonds; I don’t know the exact details except that he was caught. He had already stolen checks from me.”

  “Oh, Belle, I am sorry. The man is a blackguard, clearly.” William shook his head. “Abominable fell
ow.”

  “For a time I wanted to believe there was some decency in the man. But when I told him I was with child, he revealed just how coarse his nature was and I withdrew from him.”

  William was silent again. Was each new revelation pushing him farther from her? He was saying the right things, but Belle could sense a crack in William’s warmth; he appeared to be mired in his own thoughts and this distance—so unlike him—made her nervous.

  “Shall we sit for a moment?” she asked.

  William guided her to one of the benches that overlooked the lake. “You’ve suffered, Belle.”

  “I have, William. I didn’t know if I should tell you or not, but I wanted everything to be straight between us.”

  He turned to her. “It’s better that you told me. You’ve been through an ordeal. Do you wish to move the boy out of Sussex to a baby nursery in town? I believe children are treated ever so well in these places. They’re as happy as nestlings in them, it’s said.”

  “Could that be so? I think of nurseries as farms, the babes no better off than penned-in swine. No, baby Isidor does well where he is. He has good air, a ready-made family.”

  “You named him Isidor? Ah, I see.” William flicked his hand over his hair, then settled it again. “I suppose you’re right, Belle, about the nurseries. They only offer day care. Where would the boy go at night?”

  Belle laid her head on William’s shoulder and watched a second swan skim across the water to its mate. No matter if William was quiet now and thoughtful; she had made a large disclosure and he would need time to think about it. In the meantime she would stay close to him so that he would not forget that she was still herself, despite her history. She leaned into William, glad of his bulk, of the soft core it concealed. It was his way to be pensive; he could not be any other way. She watched the swans dunk their heads and circle each other; the bigger one climbed onto the other bird’s back for a moment, then slid off and they waltzed together, rubbing necks. Belle lifted her head to William, turned and put her arms around him.

  “Thank you, William,” she said, “for listening to me. You have a compassionate heart and I truly thank you.”

  He slid his arms around her and kissed the tip of her nose. “It cannot have been easy for you to tell me about your boy. So it is I who thank you, Belle.”

  They turned back to the Serpentine and sat on in silence. Belle tried to let the green waters soothe her again; but the divulgement to William had disordered her and she guessed that, despite his kindness, William’s mind was alight with concerns, too.

  A PROPOSAL

  Belle sipped a glass of Madeira, savoring its burned sugar and hazelnut heat, and watched the Corinthian’s door. William came through it at last, though she was alarmed to see him stumble as he crossed the floor with Wood and Osborn in tow. Belle did not care much for these two friends of William’s. Like most of the club’s regulars, Wood and Osborn often paid court to Belle and tried to make themselves pets of hers. But Belle chose her companions because they stirred something in her. A certain flip of the heart, coupled with admiration, drew her to the men she called her closest friends: Bassano and his talent as a photographer; dear, benevolent Wertheimer; William and his youthful openness and splendid devotion. Wood and Osborn, though highborn and handsome both, did not disorder Belle’s heart. She watched them now, grabbing and guffawing, as they made a joke of keeping William erect. He was clearly drunk.

  “Isabel, Belle, Isabel, Belle,” William called. He was wedged now between Wood and Osborn and the trio were clearly holding one another up with some difficulty as they stop-started across the floor. All three were squiffed, not just William.

  “Come and sit, William. Don’t call out like a crow.”

  He sat hard, obviously ginned up to the gills; his eyes were bloodshot marbles rolling in their sockets. Wood and Osborn grinned and swayed like two old sots.

  “Dunlo’s been shooting the cat all over the lavatory floor,” Wood said. “Left quite a mayhem on the tiles, didn’t you, Willie?”

  “Did you call Mr. Hollingshead to get it cleaned up?” Belle asked. “Someone might slip.” Wood shrugged. He and Osborn were prankish fellows and William seemed to follow them into scrapes when he would be better off not to. William swiped at his mouth, and Belle looked at his wavering body as he attempted to keep himself upright. “You’re in a sorry state, William, my love.”

  “I’m all right, Belle. Better out than in. But, yes, we have been indulging.” He passed his sleeve over his lips and set his shoulders straighter. “My dear one, you’ll never guess, but we’ve been playing lanterloo and I won. I’m in my cups, to be sure but, still, I emerged triumphant.” William pawed at her skirt and tried to focus on her face. “I’m the winner, Belle, don’t you see?”

  “It was Irish loo, Miss Bilton,” Wood said, “three cards instead of five, can you believe it? It made for the damnedest game.” He paused as if transported. “Truly the damnedest. Oh, but excuse my language.” He looked at Belle, his eyes wayward with drink, and she felt a pluck of irritation.

  “Is it any wonder our Hibernian friend was victorious?” said Osborn. “He’s a crafty Irish bugger.”

  “Manners, Osborn,” said William, belching into his handkerchief.

  “Dunlo pulled the jack of spades,” Wood said, “before we knew what was what.”

  “Yes, we were very swiftly looed,” said Osborn. “You’ve won a husband, Miss Bilton, thanks to a game of lanterloo!” He sniggered and looked between Wood and William.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Osborn?” Belle looked from him to William, whose chin was hovering over his chest. She put her hand under it and raised his eyes to meet hers. “William, what is this? Was I the prize in some silly card game?”

  He held up a finger. “It doesn’t sound proper when you say it like that, Belle—it sounds a little harum-scarum, I suppose.” He closed his eyes as if to think but blinked them open quickly and went on. “But, yes, yes, I won you! I won your hand. I wish to be steadfast and true, just as you want. Oh, you are a honeyed creature.” He moved forward to kiss her, but Belle stood and William slithered to the floor. Wood and Osborn left him there and stared instead at Belle.

  “Good night, gentlemen,” she said, turned her back to them and walked away.

  Belle’s skin tingled with exasperation as she crossed the floor. Really, William needed to act like a man if he wished to be considered one. Why was he turning up royally drunk to meet her? How were they to talk about anything when he was potted on gin? Wood and Osborn provoked such foolery in him—they had William soused up and gambling like some gutter groveler. Did they forget who he was? Who they were? Why did he have to partake in their capers? And had he really bet for her hand? Belle shook her head in annoyance. She saw Wertheimer entering the club.

  “Isidor,” she called, “can you take me to some other place? Do you mind awfully?”

  He held out his arm and she took it in relief. “Of course, Belle. I should be delighted. Where will we go?”

  Osborn’s voice blasted across the club, “I’d bet my buttons young Wertheimer is a back scuttler.”

  Belle did not turn to see if Osborn had directed the comment at her; she did not want to think he could be so unconscionably rude. And she did not want to look at William again when he insisted on acting like such a damned child.

  A REALIZATION

  The Café Royal grill room kept late hours. Its gilt-and-mirrors excess comforted Belle, for she could see that, although she was upset, she still looked well. She smoothed her hair, adjusting the beaded headband that sat behind her fringe. She looked at the garlanded ladies who held up the ceiling, at their luminous bare torsos and bowed heads. How acquiescent they seemed, how still and stoic in the labor of holding up the burden of all that gold. She wished Flo were around, to thrash out William’s silliness with her, but her sister was dedicated to irritating Sey
mour these days by spending her nights flitting from club to club in a giddy posse of girls. And he, poor man, either followed her or sulked at home.

  Wertheimer pulled out a chair for Belle and she sat. “Thank you, Isidor,” she said.

  “You so rarely call me by my first name anymore.” Wertheimer sat down opposite her.

  “I know it, my dear.” She thought of telling him that she had been to Sara’s to see her son. But baby Isidor provoked an unwelcome guilt in her and that made it burdensome to talk about him. She toyed with the menu and wondered if she might manage a morsel.

  “How has it been, Belle, sharing such close-quarter lodgings with your sister again?”

  “The sooner Flo goes back to her husband, the better for everyone. She went to the Pelican tonight with the chorus girls. She and I are beginning to grind each other to dust.”

  “Will she go back to Seymour?”

  “Of course. He’s as dull as she’s sharp—they’re the perfect pair. They love to squabble but their read and writes last a few weeks then they coo like doves once more.”

  “And you’re left in peace.”

  “Well, something like that. I do miss her when she’s not around though.”

  “And I miss you. How long has it been since we suppered à deux?”

  “I’m an inattentive friend, Isidor, I’m so sorry.” Belle pouted. “William occupies my time rather.”

  Wertheimer studied the menu. “I fancy deviled kidneys.”

  “Breakfast at midnight.” Belle smiled. “Is it any wonder you are so dear to me, Isidor?”

  “Spicy kidneys for two, then?”

  “Yes, and a drop of port.”

  Wertheimer called the waiter and placed their order.

  “Have you been reading ‘Tempted London,’ Belle?”

  “No.”

  “You would positively roar with laughter. Some rigid toff was sent to a music hall to report on proceedings; he was shocked by the gallery folk as much as the acts. He said of the songs: ‘When not absolutely indelicate, they are inane. When not vulgar, they are without feature of any kind.’ Or words to that effect. Isn’t that an uproar?” Wertheimer laughed but Belle only smiled.