Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  “My darling wife.”

  Belle wriggled her way out of his arms and walked to the center of the room. She was weary. Halfway to see William at the Burlington the night before she had changed her mind and gone back to Conduit Street instead. She needed time alone to think over the earl’s words. But her sleep had been an undulating mess of wakefulness and drowse, and she dreamed of ships propelled on violent seas and large, stark houses with windows like empty eyes. She felt as if she had not slept for five minutes together the whole night.

  Belle went to the window and looked out at Burlington Street. The brasses on the doors opposite winked in the early sunlight. She imagined the comings and goings that used to take place from Mary Boyle’s house across the way, the legendary soirees, even the nefarious Lord Byron had supped there, it was said. She watched an organ grinder wheel his instrument down the street, his monkey sitting atop it like a little prince. Belle could sense William all afidget behind her, but she let him stew, for she wanted him to explain himself. When it was clear that he was waiting for her to speak, she turned to him.

  “The earl came to call on me at the Corinthian Club last night.” William groaned and sat heavily on the chaise longue. “He tells me you are going away. To Australia, no less.” Belle walked over and stood in front of him. “He tells me that you said you were drunk when you agreed to marry me and that you were ‘off your head’ besides.” William pushed his hands over his eyes and let his head hang. “I see by your demeanor that it’s true. Is this why we did not share our bed at the Victoria Hotel last night? Is this why you requested a night apart from me? You said you needed to see your mama, to smooth things over. I didn’t understand it when you asked for a night away from me, but now I see that you wanted to scheme with your father behind my back.”

  “I did not! No, Belle, it wasn’t like that. Mama asked to see me, just as I told you, but she lured me to Berkeley Square under false pretenses. My father wishes to force me out of the country, but I have no desire to go. None! The only place I want to be is here in London with you, finding our new home, building our life. We are married.”

  “Yes, William, we are married and you have new cares now. New responsibilities. And yet you chose not to share my bed last night, so that you could go and plot with your family against me. Your father said some dreadful things to me last night. I don’t necessarily believe the things he told me that you reportedly said, but it was painful to hear them nonetheless.”

  “I have no doubt. I’m sorry, Belle. Papa can be somewhat fierce and he’s leaning heavily on me. He and Mama, both. I have angered them. They keep chanting, ‘Propriety must be observed,’ as if I care two figs for propriety.”

  “But we must care for what is right and proper, William. And at this moment, what is right is that you begin the work of setting our new lives in motion. We need to find an address. A home. We need to return to the Victoria Hotel tonight, together.”

  William stood and laid his hands on her shoulders. “I defended you stoutly, Belle. You must know that.”

  “Did you, William? Did you stand up to your father?” She could not soften the barb of skepticism that poked through. “I know he blames me entirely for our marriage, and he is mistaken in that, but I don’t wish to hear the details of how I was criticized. Spare me that at least.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you what they said, my darling. I only want you to know that Papa will not break me. You and I are married and that is that.”

  “If only it were so simple, William. Do you wish to go to Australia?”

  “I do not.”

  Belle sat beside him, shifting her bustle so that she was comfortable. What could she do but believe William’s words, even though everything said, or allegedly said, formed a thick briar in her mind? Still, she knew he was hers and that he loved her well and she him. Belle took William’s hand in hers and kissed the fingers, each in turn. She looked up into his face and he leaned in and kissed her. The supple press of his lips always took her by surprise; he had the most sensual mouth of any man she had known. They kissed long and deep, their tongues in a fluid dance. Belle felt the urgent swell between her thighs and she began to unbutton William’s waistcoat, then his shirt. Her hand found the heat of his chest and the curled hair there that she loved so well. She ran her fingers through the luxuriant hair all the while letting his tongue explore her mouth. William made a deft job of the buttons on her bodice and Belle kicked out of her skirt with ease. She went to undo her corset.

  “Keep it on,” William whispered, staying her hand.

  They moved as one to William’s bed and into it. His mouth clamped on her breast threatened to keel her over before she was ready, so she pulled his face to hers and kissed him deeply again. His cock was hard and hot against her thigh and she shifted under his weight to guide him in. A gasp when he entered her and then they rocked together in bliss, Belle stopping and starting their rhythm so that it would not end too soon. William propped himself up and kept his eyes fixed to hers, a glazed but determined look in them. She kneaded his behind with her hands and felt the fever of his breath on her face. How she desired this man; what gusts of passion he roused in her and so easily. How she wanted to devour and swallow him, inch by inch. Each whorl of hair and blemish on his newly discovered body was sacred to her. He was her man. Her man. And nothing would separate them.

  * * *

  —

  Flo arrived ahead of Belle at the Empire and was reading a newspaper in her dressing-room armchair when she came in.

  “You’re here already.” Belle had hoped to shake the city’s grime from her shoes and lungs before having to speak to anyone. She wanted to do her vocal warm-ups alone and think about everything that had happened with the earl and with William. She took off her cape and turned to her sister. “Did you return home to Seymour last night? You didn’t come back to Conduit Street.”

  “Yes, we were close as a clam last night. Rotten with l’amour. Thank the stars!” Flo giggled.

  Belle unpinned her Gainsborough and set it on a form; she gentled her palm across the blue ostrich feather, to settle it.

  “Well, that’s good,” she said, continuing to feel the fronds of the feather with her fingers. She startled when Flo spoke.

  “I see you’ve embraced the plume boom. Don’t you care about the poor bird that was cruelly shot down for that hat?”

  Belle sighed. “I’m really not in the mood for banter, Flo.”

  “Well, pardon me.” Flo looked at her over the top of the newspaper. “But why were you in Conduit Street last night, anyway? Marital bliss is surely not at an end already?”

  “We decided to spend a night apart. William had family business to see to.”

  “Ah, solemn Clancarty business to which wives are not invited.”

  Belle sighed. “I wonder, Flo, if I’ll ever receive an invitation to the Clancarty table.”

  Flo shook the newspaper. “In time you will, Belle. But, listen, you must let me read this to you—this will make you laugh.” She peered closer to the page. “It’s ever so funny. Here it is: ‘This sprig of the Irish aristocracy’—your William!—‘though he will not attain his majority until December, has been for some time past an ardent supporter of the many nightclubs which have sprung up recently. The Gardenia, the Corinthian and Evans’s all know him well, and it is in these festive haunts that he has laid siege to the heart of the happy lady.’” Flo looked up at Belle. “That’s you, my dear. ‘On Wednesday morning a bridal party consisting of the jubilant couple; Miss Flo Bilton, the bride’s sister; and Mr. Marmaduke Wood ascended the hill which leads from Avenue Road to Hampstead and went through the interesting ceremony which has united a beauty of the halls to the future Earl of Clancarty.’ Isn’t that a royal jest?”

  “‘Interesting ceremony,’ indeed. How they smirk at me.”

  “I thought it would amuse you a little, Belle.
It’s only silly newsmen.”

  “I see no fun in it whatsoever, Flo, I’m jolly well tired of prying newsmen.” Belle flumped into her own armchair. “I have my own news. The earl is determined to send William away. Alone. William says he won’t go anywhere, but his father has such a grip on him, I fear he’ll leave.”

  “Leave? For where—Ireland? William won’t leave! Does the earl mean for him to go to Galway, is that what you mean?”

  “No.” She gazed over at her sister. “Clancarty wants him to go to Australia.”

  “Australia! What the deuce, Belle? The earl can’t make him go. William won’t go. He’s devoted to you. And you’re married now. What on God’s earth can his father do? He’s not going to fill him up with laudanum and trick him on board a ship.” Flo laughed, then looked doubtful. “Would he?”

  “I don’t know what the earl is capable of. All I know is that he doesn’t want me anywhere near his son.”

  A knock to the door and a bawl of, “You’ve got an ’alf ’our, ladies.”

  Flo helped Belle out of her dress and into her costume. They were doing a sketch from Babes in the Wood which Mr. Hitchins had mishmashed with a Grimm Brothers’ tale. Flo was Hansel; she stuffed her hair into a cap and pulled on taffeta lederhosen. Belle battled with a dirndl and an apron and Flo helped her straighten it and tie the strings.

  “Come on, Gretel,” she said, “have a stout heart. William is not about to desert you, that’s just ridiculous. The earl is meddlesome, to be sure, but he’s only trying to intimidate you. Keep your chins up.”

  Belle laughed for she and Flo always worried their chins would end up like Mother’s, tremulous as turkey wattle. Her mirth wavered when she thought again of the earl and his cold condescension.

  “Tell me again that William won’t leave, Flo. He’d never do such a thing, surely?” She paused, riddled with anxiety about the whole mess. “His father can’t exert so much influence on him, can he?”

  “William is, no doubt, out the front as we speak, basking in the Empire’s Persian glow, waiting impatiently for his beloved wife to make her entrance.” She shoved Belle toward the mirror. “Come now, do your rouge. Everything will be fine and dandy, warm as brandy, you wait and see.”

  Belle smiled at her sister, but could not quite believe her words. She sat, opened her pots and began to powder and pink. William’s malleable quality worried her; he could be pliant in the hands of others—look at how Wood and Osborn led him astray—and Belle had experienced how ferociously the earl could exert pressure. What if he bent to his father’s will? What if telling him about baby Isidor really had altered everything? She knew William had been gracious and accepting about it. But what if his niggles had resurfaced? What if, when he truly had time to appraise everything, he had decided he couldn’t stomach a marriage with her after all? She stared at her reflection. It was too ghastly to think that she might lose him along with her future. William was love, yes, but he was also safety and redemption, an unspoiled life, a proper position in society. She could not lose him.

  Flo finished her face, tidied wisps of hair into her cap, and rose. She began her physical warm-up, dipping into a low plié with her back straight and her arms held aloft. Belle fell in beside her in the same position, pliéed deeply, took a deep breath and began to hum.

  “Mmmmmmmm,” she intoned, letting the sound rise to a great height, then fall.

  “Mmmmmmmm,” echoed Flo. “Meeee, maaaay, moooo.”

  “Meeee, maaaay, moooo.” Belle glanced at her sister and started on a tongue twister, though Flo struggled with them:

  “To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark dock,

  In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock,

  Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock,

  From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block!”

  But Flo kept her end up and repeated the verse at an even faster pace. They then recited it together while maneuvering their limbs in strong balletic motions. Once feeling limber in voice and body, the two women sat again and closed their eyes to make peace with their minds before the performance.

  A TURBULENCE

  Belle unlaced her boots, removed her skirt and bustle and collapsed onto the blue chaise longue.

  “I’m so very glad to be seated at last.” Her toes were bruised from the stage and she peeled off her stockings to knead her feet. “Fetch me the clove oil, darling, from my dressing case.”

  William, who paced their Victoria Hotel room, his chin worrying his collar, didn’t hear her, but after a moment he felt Belle’s eyes on him. “What was that, dearest? Did I enjoy the Café Royal? Yes, the Polish stew was splendid.”

  “I’m very glad you liked your meal, William, but that wasn’t what I said at all.”

  “Oh, really? I do apologize.” He stopped to study himself in the mirror over the fireplace and said no more.

  Belle rose and got the oil herself; she sat again and massaged it into her feet, enjoying, as ever, its hot-spice scent and the relief it brought. She looked over to where William leaned on the mantelpiece, lighting a new cigarette off the end of the last one.

  “You’re truly elsewhere tonight, William.”

  “Am I?” He forced a laugh but his thumb agitated the silver of his vesta case and his brow was pleated. “Belle, it’s been a long night; you’ve danced, you’ve eaten, you’ve socialized. You’re weary and should go to bed. I, however, am horribly awake.” He drew deeply on his cigarette. “I think I’ll go for a walk to tire myself.”

  “You’re exhausted, too, William, I know you are. Won’t you come to bed?”

  “Truth is, Belle, I need a scrap of time alone to think. My mind is churning.”

  “Your family has unsettled you, of course. Your father.”

  “I daresay.”

  “I understand that you need quiet to think over what your papa said.” William’s agitation troubled Belle; she would rather he didn’t take a solitary walk for comfort. She set down her clove oil and stretched her hands out to him. “But come to bed, darling. I know the best way to ease your turmoil.”

  William came to her but didn’t sit. He pulled her face to his stomach and caressed her neck. “I won’t be long, Belle. Get undressed and nip between the covers; I’ll return before the sandman can sprinkle sleep over your eyes.”

  She pulled her head back to look into his face; there was something concealed about her husband tonight; she divined there were things he did not wish to say to her. The mantel clock chimed midnight and William leaped as if electrified.

  “If you must walk, William, then go, but please don’t be long.”

  He leaned down and kissed her; Belle tried to prolong the kiss, to woo him into staying, but he seemed already gone. He broke away from her, took his top hat from the occasional table and left. Uncertainty twined around Belle’s reason: Did William mean to return? Why this sudden need to walk alone? It wasn’t altogether like him. Belle finished undressing and put on her nightgown. She lay down and tried to unpick all the earl had said, to make sense of it, but her head wasn’t long on the pillow before she slept.

  * * *

  —

  Lord Clancarty stood across from William in his Burlington Hotel room. William pulled himself up straighter and winced when the bruises across his back stretched taut. He still couldn’t believe that his father had taken his cane to him. The fact that the old man delivered several blows before William had had the presence of mind to dodge away hurt him more than his injuries. He stood in disbelief and his father leaned on his stick, panting. William put his hand to his back, still shocked by the pain of the attack; the bones throbbed and the skin was tender. He took his hand away and looked at his father; he wanted to roar and scream at the man, but he knew that might provoke the earl to fresh violence. It was not the first time William had been thrashed.

  “Bel
le Bilton is not the type one marries,” the earl snarled. “A woman whose picture comes in every chap’s Guinea Golds, so he can ogle her while he smokes? An actress and dancer? No, no. Badly done, boy.”

  William bristled to hear Belle once more reduced by his father. “I love my wife.” He said it quietly.

  “What did you say?”

  “I love Belle.” William said it boldly.

  “Love!” The earl snorted. “Love is ‘the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise.’”

  “Papa, it’s unfair and inappropriate that you talk of Belle this way.”

  “Inappropriate?”

  “I am married. What’s done is done.”

  The earl shook his stick. “You stain our name and how dare you do it, sir?”

  “We are wed. I’m tired of repeating it. I’m married. That’s all there is.”

  “And you want a music hall schemer for a wife, do you? A harlot? Is that how you wish to uphold the Le Poer Trench honor?”

  “Don’t call her those names, Papa. I love Belle and she’s married to me now; nothing can alter that fact.”

  “We shall see about that,” the earl said. He sat hard into the chair by the window and indicated to his son to lift a chair and sit opposite him. “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘infatuation,’ boy?”

  “Of course.”

  “That is what this is. You are fascinated by this woman, not least because of her lowly birth. Her openness.” The earl coughed hard into his handkerchief. “I own the woman has a pretty face. You may be a little obsessed with her. But this was a dalliance, William, and we do not yoke ourselves to our infatuations. The Le Poer Trench family has position and this so-called marriage is not going to undo centuries of high standing. Thankfully, unwise unions can be dissolved; you may yet escape this with your good name intact.”

  “I do not wish for my marriage to be dissolved.”

  The earl held up his hand in case his son meant to speak further. “You will go to Australia tomorrow, as arranged, and Mr. Godley Robinson will accompany you.”