Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  Robinson degrades the boat people. “Smugglers and pirates, every last one of them,” he said. “They reduce this colony.” I wondered today how much Papa is paying Robinson to accompany me on this trip. If only I was not so encumbered with debt! If I had money of my own, I could pay Robinson off and release him from his duties. It galls me now that I frivoled away so much with Wood and Osborn. It’s a pity I let them steer me so. I’m ashamed I was foolhardy. When I return to England, I’ll learn to manage it all better. No more profligate spending; we will live modestly and quietly on the allowance I’ll receive when I come of age; you’ll have no need to perform anymore, Belle. And, when the time comes, Garbally will be mine—ours—and we’ll go there and I’ll run the place.

  Alas, for now I’m here and I don’t control the purse, Robinson does, and he takes immense pleasure in doing so. How Father must mistrust and dislike me, to let me be humiliated daily by this loquacious dolt. How am I to stand further weeks and months of Robinson’s constant, hoggish chatter? Once I come of age, it will be farewell to Robinson and a welcome clearance of the man from my life.

  You must forgive me, Belle, I have no one to speak with, so you get to hear every vagrant thought that occurs to me. I’m sorry for complaining—your burden is greater than mine. My darling, I will return to you soon. As soon as God allows.

  Your loving Dunlo

  AN EXHIBITION

  Wertheimer took Belle to the French Exhibition at West Brompton.

  “Lord, it’s enormous,” Belle said, holding out her program. “There are twelve separate classifications. A dozen exhibits! I only want to see two: ‘Vegetable Products, Stuffs, Silks, Dress and Fashions.’ And I could quite tolerably do without the vegetables.”

  “And the other?”

  “‘Sculpture, Oil Painting, Watercolors, Architecture.’ Doesn’t that sound wondrous? French art in abundance!”

  They entered the building; the walls were hung with gay banners of primrose and pale blue. From the roof swung row upon row of English and French flags. Wertheimer steered Belle to where she most wished to go and watched with approval as she exclaimed at the embroidered satins, tulles and cotton lace; he loved her appreciation of fine things. Belle pored over Venice point and guipures, table linens and knitted silk purses. She took a handful of jersey and rubbed it against her cheek, urging Wertheimer to do the same.

  “Imagine the comfort of it, Isidor, against the body. By day or by night!”

  After sating herself on fabrics, Belle went willingly to where her friend most wanted to go and they oohed and aahed over painted silk fans, Morocco leatherwork, ivory cigar cases and shell soap dishes. Belle delighted in Wertheimer’s shining eyes and fervor over each new treasure.

  “I shall have to make my father come see this,” he said.

  Belle dawdled ahead of him. “Look, Isidor,” she called, not wanting him to lag behind. She pointed to a flowerpot with the Eiffel Tower sprouting from it.

  “How ludicrous,” he said.

  “I think it’s rather lovely.”

  “The real thing is more than lovely, Belle.” He took her arm and placed it on his. “A veritable Tower of Babel for our times.”

  “I long to see it myself,” she said.

  “Let me take you there, my dear.”

  Belle dropped her arm from his. “Oh no, Isidor. How could I?”

  “But of course you can. I know Paris well and there are charming hotels where we could stay. Separate quarters, naturellement.”

  “But, Isidor, what if William came back unannounced and I was not here?”

  Wertheimer puckered his mouth and shook his head rapidly. For the first time Belle sensed him impatient with her situation.

  “Are you so very sure that Dunlo is coming back?” he said.

  “Why, of course he is!” Belle said, astonished at Wertheimer’s doubt. “Whyever would you imply that he might not return to me?” She felt the joy of their outing drain from her.

  Wertheimer shrugged. “He has been away long enough to procure some wisdom, surely. He tells you he misses you and yet he does not make haste and come back.”

  “He is coming back. He writes to me—you know that, Isidor.” Belle looked away from her friend through gathering tears at the stalls, the bunting, the flags. “It takes a long time to travel from the antipodes, as you’re aware. He is, no doubt, making his plans to return as we speak.” In that moment she questioned what she was saying—her sureness about William—and that seedling of doubt began to nestle in and take root. How dare Isidor cause her such ill ease. “Do you really have serious qualms about William?” she asked.

  “Where is he, Belle? If he truly loved you, would he not be here, escorting you around this fine exhibition, in my place?”

  “We all have different perspectives on other people, Isidor. You do not know William as I do. I trust him.”

  Though she was moved to defend William, Belle’s tears began to fall. She turned her head away so that Wertheimer would not see, dabbed at them with her glove and composed herself quickly. Isidor hovered at her back, radiating disquietude, and she felt a little estranged from him and sad because of it.

  “Don’t cry, Belle. Dunlo is not being a man about all this.”

  She faced him. “William will come back; he promised me. This trip abroad was not made of his own free will—you know that. His father coerced him. But William means to return and he will.”

  Wertheimer exhaled sharply. “Dunlo is a dullard. He wants for brains if he chooses not to honor you. That’s all I am attempting to say.”

  Belle turned from him again; she felt the glances of people who passed while she tried to catch her tears in her handkerchief.

  “Shall we peruse the pictures?” Wertheimer said at last.

  “If you wish.”

  Belle let him lead her to the far end of the hall. They passed bronzes by the dozen and every size and class of painting. Belle glanced at them but did not see them properly; she couldn’t muster interest. She stopped by Delaunay’s Madame Toulmouche, lured by the sitter’s frank stare and buttermilk complexion. Belle studied the pink roses at the woman’s waist, the shadow of a building behind her. The woman looked content to Belle, a person in charge of herself.

  “What devotion does this woman know?” she murmured, but Wertheimer did not choose to answer. If only Madame Toulmouche—a wife, like Belle—would break free of the frame and stand before her to give her advice. What would she say? Might she urge Belle to go after William, to book a passage and set sail? Or perhaps she would tell her to wait, to be patient and trust in her man. When Belle thought about William, she felt she wanted to crack him open and climb inside him; that way she could be with him always, tucked inside his skin. Whatever his pull on her was, it made Belle want to have and own him in the profoundest way. His absence, and missing him, was now a savage burden.

  * * *

  —

  That night, in her bed, the corner shadows of Belle’s room pulled the chairs and bureau in and seemed to swallow them whole. She had gotten Jacob to open the windows to alleviate hanging smoke from the fire and the curtains soughed against the floorboards, sounding to her ears like discontented sighs. She lay awake hour after hour, listening to the susurrations of the house and mulling over Wertheimer’s words: Are you so very sure that Dunlo is coming back? . . . If he truly loved you, would he not be here, escorting you around this fine exhibition, in my place? . . . Dunlo is a dullard. He wants for brains if he chooses not to honor you. That’s all I am attempting to say.

  Would William return to her? Did he really mean to come back at all? And if he did, would Belle ever possess him as she longed to?

  A COUNSEL

  Sydney, Australia

  December 1889

  My darling Belle,

  I long to be away from the sprawling antipodes. I am sated on the world
now, I’ve seen enough to satisfy me that the planet is large and that it is diverse. I need see no more. Last night I tried to obliterate myself with brandy, to stop the endless rotation of thoughts that make my head circle back and over to the other side of the globe. To you. So now I’m thickheaded and sad. I could wallow in this pit for the entire day, but I know it would be pointless to do so. So instead I write to you, my darling, to let you know I miss you and that I’m more sorry than ever to have bowed to my father’s will. It’s a fault of mine that I’m easily led and sometimes I don’t know how it happens or why I surrender to others’ wishes.

  I’m sick and heartsore. Melancholy, I fear, is making me ill, for I find it hard to rise each morning and my head and stomach fight with each other all day. It’s not only brandy that has me this way, in case you fear I’ve become a habitual inebriate—last night was the first night that I drank too much. Mostly my stomach shuns even the smallest of tots, for it’s so agitated; I may seek out a physician.

  Speaking of agitation, Robinson is the queerest chap. Last night he burned like hellfire to say something to me and I had to poke him to get it out. I will report our conversation here as much as I remember it, for it was curious and upsetting.

  “Do you know the wording on your family’s coat of arms, Dunlo?” was his opener.

  “‘Consilio et prudentia.’ ‘By counsel and prudence.’”

  “And do you ruminate on it much?” Robinson asked.

  “Not really. That is, I used to. I would read it every day as a boy, where it hung in the hall in Garbally, and think what it might mean.”

  “And what does it mean?”

  “I suppose it means that one gains wisdom through listening to others.”

  “Precisely, Dunlo. The Bible tells us: ‘Without counsel purposes are disappointed: but in the multitude of counselors they are established.’ Now, is that not appropriate to our situation here?”

  “It may be,” I said, “except that I haven’t the devil’s notion of what you’re blathering about, Robinson.”

  He went on to say that Papa had appointed him “a counselor of sorts” and asked if I took his meaning. I did not.

  “Your father means to get you to give up your wife. That is why you are here.”

  I was outraged and I told him that Papa said he would look after you until my return, but Robinson continued, mentioning a private inquiry agent who is supposedly following you (??). He began to talk of that scoundrel Weston and then of Wertheimer (referring to him as “that bric-a-brac Jew”) and he called St. John’s Wood “a coven of infidelity” at which I laughed. But, Belle, the more he talked his nonsense the more uneasy I became. I felt a morbid stab of homesickness, a pounding ache for you, but also, I confess, a wreath of worry landed around my neck. My father began to loom large in my mind and, also, his dealings with Robinson, his employing of this particular man as my escort. His ability to wheedle and needle and cause a contretemps within my head.

  I confess, Belle, I also began to obsess about you and Isidor Wertheimer. Now, I know that you and Wertheimer have an unusual friendship—you are close, very warm indeed—and I know, too, that he has been exceedingly kind to you. But I also know that he has asked you to marry him. Whether you felt it was a serious proposal or not is of no consequence. I’ve begun to think Wertheimer may mean to have you. Should I worry, Belle? Have I cause for concern? Isidor has been wonderful to you, of course, and I’m glad he’s able to protect you in my absence, but might you not move in with Flo and Seymour instead? St. John’s Wood has a certain reputation—you know this—for being a place where men keep women. I wouldn’t want the gossips at their miserable work. Will you stay with Flo awhile? It would ease my heart and perhaps stop Papa from alighting on conclusions.

  You’re a dazzling woman, Belle. You hold yourself as if you were the moon and the rest of mankind were the earth below you. You’re as lustrous as that orb, as waxing and waning in your light and dark. As irresistible. How I love you. How I need to return to you as soon as possible. Damn Robinson and his insinuations. Damn my father, damn the man to Hades and back. And damn Wertheimer, for being where I cannot be. (I do not truly mean that—I am grateful to him, but I am agitated beyond reason, my love. Forgive me.)

  I’m weak now, Belle, from the outpour above. Please excuse me. I wish only to write pleasant things to you, but, somehow, my worries accumulate like a rain cloud and burst onto the pages I write to you. Know that I think of you always with a brimming heart,

  Your loving William

  Sydney, Australia

  December 31, 1889

  My darling,

  Have you ever in your life done something that seemed so right in the moment but that later—or, perhaps, almost instantly—you realized was the wrong thing? I hope that you have, for then you may understand me and my actions, though I feel I beg too much of you with that because, truly, I fail to understand myself.

  I am not attempting to spin you a riddle, Belle, I am merely full of remorse at my latest folly; I have been an utter fool yet again. Please absolve me, though I know your patience may, by now, be worn as thin as gossamer. I would not blame you, Belle, if your faith in me yet evaporates entirely.

  Soon you will know all. But know this the most: I do love you, body and soul, and God will see that we are united in the end. Let us hope that this new year that is upon us brings better things to us both.

  William

  A WRIT

  Belle was between theater engagements. For a chance to leave London briefly and breathe different air, she had accepted a pantomime run in Manchester over Christmas. But it had felt long and, now, with too much leisure time, and February stretching endlessly on, she was listless. William’s letters were infrequent and she had not had one in weeks; the last one was cryptic in the extreme and she knew not what to make of it. Belle yearned to hear from him, to know how he fared and when he would return. Her mind was a constant fret over William’s absence and, more recently, his health. Had his small stomach complaint escalated into something worse? Was his mind made wretched by misery? Was he, perhaps, bedbound and unable to write?

  She sat in a chair by the window and watched Jacob arrange the table for her breakfast—it was midday—and she longed for company, someone with whom to cogitate over her worries. Why did Seymour and Flo have to be so united, just when Belle needed her sister the most? It was inconvenient, though she could never truly begrudge them their happiness. It was good that one Bilton sister, at least, did not make a continual turmoil of life.

  Flo and Seymour insisted, when Belle did see them, that William would return.

  “Do not wither yourself to a crone over William’s long absence,” Flo had said the previous day on a visit to number sixty-three. “She shouldn’t be so dejected, should she, Seymour?”

  “You know Dunlo will be back, Belle,” Seymour offered. “Take courage, old stick.”

  “But December has been and gone, Seymour. William is twenty-one now. What holds him in the antipodes?” Belle had watched the months tick by in dismay: now December, now January, now February. “He’s almost eight months away and I haven’t had a letter in weeks.”

  Flo squeezed her hand. “But don’t you see?” she said. “Dunlo can’t send a letter from a sailing ship. Can he, Seymour?” Flo’s husband gave a vigorous head shake. “William is between ports and, no doubt, almost home.”

  Belle was grateful to Flo and Seymour for trying to keep her vivified, but once she was alone again, her doubts attacked and sorrow took over. She leaned farther into the window and looked along Avenue Road to see if the burgundy-suited man was prowling, but it occurred to her that she had not seen him for a fortnight or more. She turned back into the room.

  “Jacob, bring my canary to me.”

  “As you wish.”

  Belle went to the table and chewed on a piece of bacon and buttered a small breakfast
roll while she waited for Jacob to return with the blue cage. He carried it in, and Pritchard agitated from perch to perch inside, discombobulated, as always, by the movement of his home from its sheltered corner in the parlor.

  “Hello, dear one,” Belle called, to settle her pet. “Coo, coo. Hello, Pritchy, my love. Bring him right here to me,” she said, pointing to the floor beside her chair.

  “Why don’t you release it?” Jacob said, setting down the cage. “Let it fly around a bit?”

  She looked at him. “Pritchard does not wish to take off about the room like some wild thing.”

  “He was wild once, I’ll wager. And what bird does not wish for freedom? For space to stretch its wingspan?”

  “You are loose with your opinions, Jacob Baltimore. Canaries are sedate birds; you know nothing of them.”

  “I know they like to fly.” Jacob shrugged and kept his eyes fixed on Belle’s.

  She stared back and found a thought forming, What is beneath his clothes? And the reply, More coffee-dark flesh. Yes, but what more? What more, Baltimore? Belle blushed and turned back to Pritchard so Jacob would not see the rise of color to her cheeks. The sooner William returned to her to resume their connubial rites, the better. She feared she was becoming lewd and libidinous without him.

  A key in the front door meant Wertheimer had come and Belle leaped from her chair to greet him. He took off his hat and she hugged him hard and kissed his cheek.