Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  “For what? I have no desire to travel; I told you this already, sir. I belong here with my wife.”

  “Enough!” The earl thumped the carpet with his walking stick. “You will go and Miss Bilton will be taken care of. If you refuse to go, you will be disinherited forthwith. All of this has been discussed and it is infuriating to me that we are still talking of it, as if there were further decisions to be made.”

  “What about what I want?”

  The earl ignored his son. “Your mother is made so ill by your rebellion that she has not come downstairs all day.” The earl leaned forward. “William, a young man of slender talents such as yourself, and even more slender means, cannot afford to be disinherited. You have copious debts. If you proceed with this attachment, you will find yourself in complete penury. I give you my word on that.”

  “Belle earns enough for both of us.”

  The earl controlled his voice and instead of shouting, he delivered a raspy whisper: “And you would have your wife slavered over by other men in that pit of a theater, in order to support you? You would fare well married to a hoyden, is that it? Have sense, my boy. For pity’s sake, have sense.”

  “I’m married, Papa, that’s all I know and I stand by my wife.”

  “The woman convinced you to marry her. She is clearly skilled at cajoleries; her sort usually is. You have been duped.” The earl coughed again, a deep, phlegmy affair that had him spit into his handkerchief. “You forget, William, that you are twenty years of age. Until you turn twenty-one I am in charge of you. You must do as I say.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “By law, you must obey me. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  William hung his head; he supposed that much was true. And, besides, his father could not be argued with; one always ended up in the same place, for the earl would not move once entrenched. They could back and forth forever and his father would never hear him. And William knew that his position was tricky. What would he live on without Papa’s support? Was it seemly for a viscount’s wife to subsidize her husband? He acknowledged to himself that it was not. But he loved Belle! The smallest thought of her beautiful face and great-hearted nature made his stomach flip over and over; William did not wish to live without her. But neither could he countenance the thought of being laughed at; if Papa cut him off and Belle was forced to keep him, wasn’t that likely to happen? People would titter over him and denounce Belle. He had no desire to put her in that difficult position. Why had they not realized this?

  Perhaps he should leave for a spell. Appease Papa by going away with this Mr. Robinson, until things had settled down a bit, until he came of age. He looked at his father, at the cane he twitched as if he craved to use it once more to beat William’s body until he submitted.

  “All right, Papa,” William said at last. “You get your way. I will travel with Mr. Robinson to Australia. I will return in December when I come of age. Five months I will stay away and no more.” William could feel the wash of tears behind his eyes. “I must go to Belle now and tell her of my plans.”

  “William, you will not leave this room tonight and I intend to stay here to see that you do not. You set sail in the morning. If you know what is wise, you will take your rest now so that you have the energy to begin your voyage.”

  “But, Papa—”

  “Do not argue with me, boy. If you will not steer your own course well, you leave me no choice but to steer it for you. You will go abroad until you attain your majority, thereby securing your inheritance, and then you will be your own master. Sleep now, for tomorrow you will need strength to find your sea legs. And the rest of it.”

  Clancarty settled back into the chair, his cane between his legs, and closed his eyes. William sat on the side of the bed and looked at his father. Did he really have William’s better interests in mind? Was this trip what was needed, to cool heads on all sides? He was addled, his mind a broth of conflicting thoughts. Belle might never forgive him. He needed to get back to the Victoria Hotel, he needed to talk to her. His father’s breathing did not settle and William thought he might be feigning sleep in case he should try to leave. In truth, he did not have the strength to battle with the earl again. William lay down on his bed, still in trousers, shoes and all, and wept. He woke in the small hours to find his father snoring. William slipped his coat over his bruised back and crept from the Burlington Hotel.

  * * *

  —

  Steely light was already invading their Victoria Hotel room when Belle heard the door open and saw William slink in.

  “Is it morning?” she asked, pulling herself up in the bed.

  “It’s early, Belle, half past five or so.”

  She put out her hand, “Come to me.” William came and sat on the bed, his face knotty with distress. He winced and put his hand to his back. “Oh my love, what ails you?” Belle asked.

  “My damn father ails me. The man has upset my logic, my heart. He has upset our honeymoon. Our life!” William lit a cigarette and dragged deeply. “Papa insists that I go away until I attain my majority; he won’t desist from this line. He says it’s the only thing to be done. He says he will have nothing more to do with me if I stay. I must go, it seems. It’s the only way.”

  Had he been to see his father again? Why was he so freshly upset? Belle gripped his hand. “William, what am I to do if you leave? Couldn’t I go with you? Do you really need to go?”

  He dragged hard and blew the smoke sideways, an impatient blast. He took Belle’s hand and tapped it against the eiderdown over and over until she stayed it.

  “Could you keep yourself, Belle? If I had to go, that is, if I were forced?”

  “Yes, I can keep myself, as I have been doing these past few years. I earn enough to live well, you know that.”

  “I would return in December, when I attain my majority. It’d be a matter of months, my love.” He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “Five months,” Belle said, seeing the weeks elongate before her in a cold span. “Where shall I live? We have not found a home yet.”

  “Can’t you stay at Conduit Street?”

  “No, William, I already told you the landlady has indicated she wants me gone.”

  “Could you stop with Flo?”

  “You’ve seen her and Seymour’s tiny quarters, William.”

  “I’m so sorry, my darling. My papa is adamant. He says he’ll cut me off if I don’t go. He says Garbally Court will never be mine. I can’t lose Garbally, Belle, don’t you see? It’s for us, it will be our home. Eventually.” William put his hand inside his jacket and took out envelopes. “A letter from Papa, outlining his wishes.” He opened the other envelope and Belle saw banknotes inside. “See, he means to help me clear my debts. It’s all for my good. Papa says he’ll give me an allowance if I leave for these few months and return in December.”

  William was wild of eye and he pushed one hand through his hair continuously until it stood in peaks. He winced as if in physical pain.

  “But why must he force us apart, William? We’re married. You love me. It’s done.”

  He rubbed his hand over his brow. “Things are not so simple in our world, Belle. In my father’s world.”

  Belle sensed a fissure opening, with herself on one side, William on the other. He was moving away from her; she must haul him back. She placed her hand on his thigh and stroked gently. “Come now, William, there are other ways out of this. Your mother will soften your father over time—you’ve said she is good at that. And, as the eldest, you’re entitled to Garbally Court by law, are you not, once your papa passes on?” William nodded. “We can wait until that time, however long that may be. I earn enough for both of us; we will find our own place. We can slowly clear your debts and live in a little comfort. All is not lost, darling. We can be strong together.”

  “
We are strong together. You’re right, Belle.” He kissed her face, over and over.

  “You don’t wish to break us apart, do you, darling?” Belle placed her hand between his legs and rubbed gently.

  William gasped and kissed her deeply. “No, I never want to be parted from you, Belle. I won’t go away, I won’t do it. To you. To myself.”

  Belle felt him harden under her palm. “Stay, my love,” she whispered into his mouth between kisses, “stay. We have a life to begin.”

  William pushed up Belle’s nightgown and slid his hand into her cleft. “Papa won’t harass and hound me anymore,” he said while stroking her.

  Belle sighed and squeezed her thighs around his hand. William kissed her neck. “Just a second,” he said.

  He slid away from her and undressed maniacally until he was naked. Belle yanked her nightgown over her head and William got into bed beside her. His hands were cool, but Belle welcomed the shock of them on her breasts. William kissed her with a new ferocity and in a moment he was inside Belle, but she was slick and ready for him. They made love in a fever and Belle relished every stab of William’s cock inside her, she wanted to keep him there forever. She held him tightly and maneuvered him onto his back so that she was astride him. Belle moved over William and watched him watch her, the upturn of her breasts, the rhythm she perfected with her dancer’s skill. His face was a stunned mask; she rocked over him and he thrust ever harder until bliss saturated his features and he cried out. She used her hand to rub herself to ecstasy with his flood while over him still and he groaned with pleasure to observe her. Belle collapsed onto William’s chest and they held each other, breathing fast.

  He whispered, “I love you, I cannot stand to be apart from you. My love, my love,” until they both fell asleep.

  When Belle woke in the morning, William was gone.

  A DISAPPEARANCE

  Belle stood outside the Burlington Hotel and thought of not entering its doorway. Easier by far to stand in the street to watch the early sun sneak up and sparkle off the windows. She looked up at William’s quarters, hoping to see his eyes peer down at her and his hand raised in greeting, to make a lie of the morning’s empty side of his bed in the Victoria Hotel.

  Believing he had only gone to his Burlington room to battle some more in private with his father’s wishes, Belle sat up in the bed that morning in the Victoria and wrote a note to William. She knew he was confused and she knew, also, that confused people find choice making hard. She did not wish to urge him in ways he did not want to go—against his family—but Belle meant to press the note into his hand and watch him read it. Then, she hoped, he might choose her, once and for all. Belle unfolded the page and read it hastily.

  William,

  Perhaps it is better for both of us that you go to Australia. Perhaps you need time to grow up and face your responsibilities. Perhaps I need time to reflect. I don’t understand you, it seems. The most consistent thing about you is that you contradict yourself and yet I know you love me. It’s impossible for you to be false in the feelings you show me, I believe this. Because of you, I know what love is, I know how it flows like water between man and woman, and how easeful love can be when it’s mutually shared. I’ve thought I loved before, but I was mistaken. William, our love can’t be broken apart and put aside like something worthless. I know you cherish your family but we will be a family, too—we are one already. Obey your father if you must, though I sincerely wish you would not. Whatever happens, I’m here and waiting.

  Your B

  Belle folded the note and clutched it in her hand. A flower seller sidled up to her.

  “Roses, ma’am. Fresh red roses. You look like a woman of ’ealthful tastes, ma’am. What nicer than sweet red roses to fragrance your mantelpiece?”

  Belle looked at the roses and thought of her wedding posy, pressed now under her Conduit Street mattress so she might preserve it. The dark heads of the flowers before her, the coy curve of the petals, made her shudder.

  “Leave me be,” she said to the woman, who hoicked her basket and trotted away swinging her hips, mock affronted.

  “Red roses, two a penny!” she called, accosting another lady farther along.

  Belle looked up again at William’s quarters and entered the hotel. She glided across the foyer, as if she were a resident, and walked up the staircase. She did not want to have to converse with anyone, least of all the lift boy. Gaining William’s door, she knocked and the door opened at the touch of her knuckles. Belle stepped in and looked around. The bed was bare of sheets; William’s grooming case no longer sat on the tallboy, and the wardrobe door hung open revealing unclothed hangers. So William was gone. He had chosen other than her.

  Belle sat in a chair by the window and looked to the street below. She wanted to weep, but her tears were solid as stones behind her eyes, though her chest hurt and her breath came short. So this was it. The one person she was sure would not leave her had left. Had he not vowed constancy? Had he not sworn he wouldn’t go? Belle crumpled the note in her fist and tossed it to the floor; she tried to force a teary flood, thinking a hefty bawl would relieve some of her pain, but she could not cry.

  Her mother’s voice wavered in her ear, There’s something hard inside you, Isabel Maude Penrice Bilton. Obstinate, unruly girl. Wicked girl.

  This had been repeated often in her youth, for no punishment Mrs. Bilton could dream up ever drew forth tears from her daughter. Not beatings, not segregation, not name-calling. The little Isabel stood up to her mother in a way that enraged the older woman. It became a game for the girl who made sure never to cry, no matter what was done to her. If she was to be called hard and stubborn, then she would be those things. Was it true that she was so hard that this catastrophe with her brand-new husband would not bring tears? She cried over smaller things all the time but now, when she most needed release, her tears would not come.

  A noise by the door alerted Belle to the fact she was not alone. She rose. It was Wertheimer, whose rooms at the Burlington were a few doors along from William’s. Belle flumped back into the chair.

  “He’s gone. Not so much as a farewell note,” she said.

  “I am sorry, Belle.”

  “And I find I can’t cry, Isidor. My tears are frozen. Does that make me wicked? Deserving of this turn of events?”

  Wertheimer advanced into the room. “I daresay you’re in shock, Belle.”

  “The earl won out in the end. I can scarce believe it.”

  Wertheimer was silent for a moment. “William will write to you from his travels. He will return. And be a better husband for his spell abroad.”

  “You sound so sure, Isidor.” She fingered the gold heart on its chain around her neck. “I am not.”

  Wertheimer crossed the room and stood by her chair. “This is the window Dunlo climbed through from the roof of a cab one night.” Belle looked up at him in wonder. “He was drunk and he refused to pay the cabman, until forced to at the police court the next day. Did he tell you about that?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me and it sounds so unlike the William I know. And yet, I wonder, do I even know him? If he is capable of abandoning me like this, perhaps I don’t know him at all.”

  Wertheimer knelt beside her. “Dunlo loves you, Belle. You have not seen or heard the last of him.”

  She took her friend’s warm hand in hers and stroked her own cheek with his fingers. “Why can no man, Isidor, be as constant as you?”

  “Don’t give in to melancholia, my dear. This is a hiatus, nothing more. His father is behind the whole caper.”

  “Of course he is. William is afraid of the man; he’s made cowardly by him. What must his childhood have been like?” Belle stared into the street below, listened to the rhythmic clop of horses and the roll of carriage wheels. She looked across at the bed and the ticking stripes of the naked mattress. “We lay there together so recently and
now . . .”

  “We must get you away from that boardinghouse in Conduit Street. That should be the first thing.”

  “It’s not some Spitalfields pit, Isidor. It’s clean at least. And furnished. Though the landlady has begun to object to Pritchard—she doesn’t care for his singing, apparently.” She tutted and shook her head. “If she knew how much worse it could be—a bawling babe!”

  “Enough now. It’s clear you need a proper place to dwell. Somewhere fitting.”

  Belle went to rise and flopped back into the chair. “If only you’d seen the hovel I fetched up in when I first came to London. Flo called it the Stinkpot. All our neighbors were cat flayers—they made their pennies selling the skins.” Belle sat up. “The best thing was we lived above a cabinetmaker who kept a blazing fire day and night, to keep his glue pliable. Our little room, in turn, was always warm as an oven. It was threadbare and the street smelled bad, but we liked it.” She knew she was babbling, but it was easier to conjure old scenes than wallow in the pain of William’s abandonment.

  Wertheimer knelt before her. “How you have lived, Belle; I always feel green in comparison. But we must get you away from the cat flayers, glue boilers and so forth for good. You should not be exposed to such things.”

  Belle looked at him, at his slim face and high, innocent forehead. “You are nothing but good to me, my friend.”

  “And, as you know, it’s entirely my pleasure. I’ll set you up somewhere. I’ll see that you are safe until William returns.”

  “But what will people say, Isidor? I should really try to stay with Flo and Seymour instead. Their place is tiny but they may squeeze me into a corner.”

  “Don’t be daft, Belle. Imagine the discomfort of it. Imagine listening to Flo and Seymour bicker morning, noon and night.”

  Belle nodded; it was not a pleasing prospect, she had worries enough of her own. “But what will the Le Poer Trenches think if they hear you have housed me?”