Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  “What a vast welcome!” he said.

  “Isidor, you should allow the page boy to admit you—he has little enough to keep him occupied.” She kissed him again and dragged him through to the dining room. “Rosina has made Devonshire junket, I know you enjoy that. Lay another place, Jacob.”

  “No need.” Wertheimer nodded and the page boy left. “I shan’t eat, Belle. My appetite won’t catch up with me until late this afternoon.” He yawned.

  “Were you late at the Pelican? Or the Corinthian? You’re tired.”

  “Sleep is for simpletons. Blue o’clock in the morning is my favorite hour—I hardly see my bed in the Burlington.”

  “Well, sit now and keep me company. You will drink some tea, no doubt.”

  “I’ve come to take you out, Belle; I know you’ve been feeling gloomy without Dunlo. About the lack of letters lately.”

  “Of course I have,” she murmured. “But, how lovely. Yes, let’s go somewhere. Shall we walk in Regent’s Park? I would like a chance to flaunt my new parasol. Madame Gilbert called it a ‘husband beater’ when she sold it to me. I felt tickled when she said it, but now it makes me lachrymose—if only I had a husband to beat.” Her tone was rueful; she glanced at Isidor, unsure now of his feelings about William, unsure if she should mention him so breezily.

  “We won’t be melancholy today, my dear. Wear your sky-blue dress and flowered bonnet and you’ll feel gay. Come, take your sup and then we shall go.”

  “You are a dear, Isidor.” She looked at him and felt moved once more by his constancy, his kindness. He was the best of friends. “Whatever would my life be without you?”

  “Come now, Belle. Don’t embarrass a fellow.”

  * * *

  —

  The cab traveled at a fair clip and Belle felt her spirits rise. It was good to be out; and today was one of those days when London enchanted her anew, as if she were visiting for the first time. Everything seemed wondrous: the dove-gray buildings, the trees in bud, the mélange of queer smells it offered—manure, riverweed, soot, sewage and the Lord knows what else. All she needed was a bit of variety in her day, some dear company, a bit of air—tainted air, maybe, but welcome nonetheless. Her father always said that if one leaves the house, good things happen. She was too much alone, too much in the dolorous stew that William’s absence caused. This was what she needed: diversions, pleasant things to elevate her mood. The cab stopped and both Belle and Wertheimer startled when the door opened.

  “Occupied!” Wertheimer roared and went to pull the door to.

  The door opened wider and a man stuck his head through.

  “Mr. Isidor Wertheimer?”

  “I am he. Who asks?”

  The man placed an envelope in Wertheimer’s lap. “A writ, sir,” he said. “The notice of action in the case of Dunlo versus Dunlo and Wertheimer. Served by Misters Lewis and Lewis.”

  “Now look here,” Wertheimer said. He lunged toward the door, knocking the envelope onto the cab floor. The horses trotted forward and the door snapped shut. Belle stared at the envelope and stooped to retrieve it, but Wertheimer opened the cab door and kicked it out onto the street.

  “Isidor! What did you do that for? Shouldn’t you have opened it?” Belle’s voice rose. “I don’t understand what just occurred. Who was that man?”

  Wertheimer grimaced. “He’s a process server, Belle.”

  “And what did he want with you?”

  “Didn’t you hear him, woman? That was a summons. A divorce petition. William means to dissolve your marriage. And I am to be the reason for it.”

  A DEN

  Belle’s agitation was physical; it did not abate, rather it stormed her in ever increasing floods until she felt she would be carried off by it. She stayed in bed, aggravating the covers into humps with her toss and turn; she wailed and cried and could not get a fix on one hopeful thought. Wertheimer summoned Flo, who could not come as she was visiting Seymour’s family in Devon. He had Rosina brew tisanes of lavender and mint that Jacob brought on a tray and Belle could not stomach. Wertheimer sat on her bed and held the steaming cups to her nose so she could at least breathe the vapors. Her eyes were two aching slits, her nose was rimmed with scarlet and sodden handkerchiefs lay about the eiderdown and on the carpet.

  Theories rode pell-mell through her mind. William had had an accident—an injury to the head, perhaps, that upset his thinking. Someone had, in fact, forged his signature; that man his father had sent to accompany William—Robinson. William had said he was an odd, pressing fellow; yes, he—Robinson—had signed the petition. And the earl was behind everything, of that she was certain.

  “I will write to Lord Clancarty. Plead my case.” Belle sat up in bed, her hair in scraggly tails from lack of care.

  “I wonder if it would help,” Wertheimer said. “I’m not sure.”

  “He knows something. He’s the cause of it, no doubt.”

  “Or perhaps your Dunlo changed his mind: has decided he does not wish to be married to you after all.” Wertheimer glanced at her.

  Belle glared back. “How can you say that, Isidor? William loves me and I him. Ours is not a love that can be dissolved.”

  “I’m sorry, Belle, but Dunlo has been gone a long time. Eight months. And now this!”

  “Is our friendship a masquerade, Isidor? Do you pretend to love me and want what is good for me when really you wish to undermine me?”

  Wertheimer reached out his hand to her. “No, Belle. Ease yourself. Let me go to Ely Place, to the offices of Lewis and Lewis, and see what they have to say about the writ. Perhaps there has been some blunder or mistake.”

  Belle rubbed her hands over her face and through her hair. “You know that’s not true—there has been no blunder. No mistake. But thank you for trying to animate my spirits. Yes, go and see what the Lewises have to say. I’ll try to sleep.” She curled into the mound of sheets and put her head to the pillow. Her whole body ached with terror about what might be about to unfold. She knew that Wertheimer was merely a friend, but she also knew how people’s minds worked: they would gladly misconstrue things since she lived at a house he had taken.

  “Jacob is on hand should you need him and Rosina is below stairs.”

  Belle nodded and did not watch Wertheimer leave her room; she heard him murmur for a spell with Jacob, who was acting as sentinel on the top landing. She wished the boy would go away—how could she weep in peace with him listening? Now that her tears came more than freely, she wished to indulge them. Her fingers found the gold heart around her neck and she held it and sobbed as noiselessly as she could, forming William’s name on her lips over and over until she fell asleep.

  * * *

  —

  She woke to a gentle knocking and called “Come in” before she knew who wished to enter her bedroom. Jacob came through the doorway with a tray.

  “Rosina commanded me to bring you this.” He set it on a side table.

  Belle pulled the eiderdown up to her throat. “She might have brought it herself.”

  “She was afraid to disturb you, ma’am, but I know you haven’t eaten in a whole day.”

  Belle eyed the boy and he stared back. “That is kind of you, Jacob. Is it morning? Has Mr. Wertheimer returned?”

  Jacob folded back the shutters. “It is morning, ma’am, and my master is not here.” The boy stood and Belle was piqued once more by his tendency to linger.

  “That will be all, Jacob. Tell Mr. Wertheimer I’m awake when he comes.”

  “If it pleases you, ma’am, there are common remedies for agitation. I suggested one for you to Mr. Wertheimer that might help.”

  Belle looked at the boy. “I thank you,” she said, continuing to hold his gaze until he bowed and left.

  She got up and poked at the scrambled egg Rosina had sent up and poured some tea. This loss of appetite was not
customary—Belle loved to eat—but the toast she bit into tasted of nothing. She sipped the tea and was disappointed to find it lukewarm; she had hoped it would scald her mouth so that she could feel an alternate pain, one that did not center on William’s betrayal.

  “Oh, William,” she said, churning up once again the agony of the previous day’s news.

  * * *

  —

  Rosina helped her to dress: petticoat over corset, skirt over underskirt. She was efficient with the bodice buttons—much faster than Belle herself. Her skin, she knew, had the curdled grease-and-dust aroma of one who has spent too many hours in bed. She should have washed—it would make her feel better—but she had not even the will to dab water under her arms or between her legs. Belle did not want to put on clothes or leave the house; there was comfort in lying under the covers to sob.

  Wertheimer waited for her in the smoking room. He rose when she entered.

  “I want to take you to a place that will ease your nerves.” He wanted to aid Belle to rise out of herself, so she could feel less troubled. “This trip will help you forget your cares.”

  “But I don’t want to forget! There are things I must do.”

  “There is nothing to be done today, my dear. Mr. Lewis says the date for the trial is not yet set. Nothing can happen anyway until Dunlo returns from the antipodes.”

  “I suppose that is so.” William would be back! The court case would go ahead, that was certain, for once in train it could not be reversed, but at least she might talk to William face-to-face and see what exactly had pushed him into this chaos. Had pushed both of them.

  Wertheimer pressed Belle’s arm. “We must get you feeling settled, a little more like your gay self. We will bring you succor and then you can work on regaining your strength. Trust me.”

  Belle did trust Wertheimer—was he not her closest ally and dearest friend? She linked his arm and let him lead her to the waiting cab. Jacob came to open the door for them and Belle noticed that his customary impudent smile was replaced by a softer look.

  “Have Rosina ready the goods for mustard poultices, Jacob, in case Lady Dunlo needs them on our return.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  They sat into the cab and Wertheimer called out “Pennyfields” to the cabman.

  “Limehouse?” Belle said, settling her skirts. “You are being mysterious, Isidor. Whatever might we do there?”

  Wertheimer lowered his voice, though the cabman would need a bat’s ears to hear anything. “I have arranged, with an acquaintance of mine, that we should visit a den. We will be the only people present, so you must not be alarmed.”

  “A den? Couldn’t I just drink some poppy tea or down a swig of Sydenham’s laudanum? What if someone should see me enter a den and carry news back to Clancarty?”

  Wertheimer leaned into her side and took one of her hands in his. “Our spy has flown, Belle. You need not worry about the earl. And this place will delight you.”

  “Are ladies even permitted in such establishments?”

  “Certain women frequent them, to be sure, but my friend Chi Ki—a Chinaman—is affording us privacy today. Don’t fret, all will be well.”

  Belle looked out at Regent’s Park, at the trees that were stripping off their winter dark for March clothing. The horse’s hooves drummed in her belly, causing a soporific lull through her that was assisted, no doubt, by lack of food. It seemed no time at all until she could divine the reek of the Thames in her nostrils.

  The den was accommodated above a shop and was not the low haunt of Belle’s imagination. It was a large, bright room with couches and tables; the walls held dragon hangings and stringed instruments. Chi Ki served a bitter tea that Belle did not finish and he began to prepare two bamboo pipes with bowls like pigeons’ eggs. She watched as he dipped a needle into the gallipot of treacly opium and let it fizzle over a lamp flame; he stuck the needle into the bowl of the pipe and handed it to Belle. The smell of burned sugar and laudanum alarmed her and she passed the pipe to Wertheimer.

  “You first,” she said.

  He took it, grinned and drew rapidly on the pipe, which burbled as pleasantly as Pritchard when he was content. Wertheimer sucked harder and two wisps of black smoke escaped his nose. Belle watched perspiration rise rapidly on her friend’s brow; his cheeks slackened like collapsing dough. He grunted, lifted his chin and settled back into the couch like a man unboned after love.

  “The lady now,” Chi Ki said, and he began his ritual once again.

  Belle wondered if she really wanted to be made insensible. Wertheimer opened his eyes and gave a faraway, languid smile that seemed to Belle to come from another realm. Yes, that was a place she wanted to go to herself, she concluded. She held out her hands to take the pipe from Chi Ki, but he held it for her instead; she wrapped her lips around the mouthpiece and took rapid pulls as she had seen Wertheimer do. Immediately she felt her face loosen and the moist push of sweat on her forehead; her heart slowed to a dull thud and she even fancied that she could feel her pulse become lethargic in her wrists. Then her arms and legs did not feel a part of her body anymore—they appeared to float above her, ghost limbs. And her mind unraveled and sagged into a dull trance.

  “How are you, my dear?”

  Wertheimer’s face hovered over her and he was smoking a cigarette. Someone placed a cigarette between her fingers, too, and she smoked it obligingly and it seemed to take an hour to finish it. She saw that Wertheimer was having another opium pipe. She found that her thoughts were neither hers nor not hers—they directed themselves without her bidding. One moment she was scolding William, the next she was fully in the room, listening to Wertheimer who was now mumbling who knew what to nobody in particular. Mostly, Belle seemed to have no thoughts at all and she floated, instead, in some cloudy elsewhere. Her eyes felt veiled and hazy. She flapped one hand in front of her face, sure suddenly that it was made of smoke or, at least, that the hand did not have a thing to do with her arm.

  “We have sailed through the gates of paradise,” Wertheimer said, and then repeated the words quietly, as if spellbound by them: “We have sailed through the gates of paradise.”

  “How poetic you are, Isidor,” Belle murmured, looking at her slumped friend who seemed to be on the other side of the room though his hot hand was in hers. “William is poetic, too.”

  Chi Ki materialized at Belle’s side and proffered another pipe, but she knew that a second blast of opium would flatten her.

  “No, I thank you.”

  He went to the other end of the couch and held the pipe while Wertheimer smoked it. Chi Ki smiled benignly at Wertheimer, who was in a stupor, though his eyes glistened. The next time she felt roused, Belle knew by the slant of light from the window that it was late afternoon. Hours had idled past without her being sensible of them marching by. She squeezed Wertheimer’s hand and, though his eyes stayed slitted, he spoke coherently.

  “We must go now, yes,” he said, and he hunched forward and pushed himself to stand.

  Belle rose, too, and looked at her skirt to see if her legs knew enough to propel her across the room and down the stairs.

  “My wife hail a hansom for you,” Chi Ki said, and Belle was surprised to see an English girl enter the room on some unknown signal. “Cab for Mr. Wertheimer and friend,” the Chinaman said and she nodded and left.

  “An unlikely marriage,” Belle said to Wertheimer, once in the cab. “But a solid one perhaps.”

  He slid against her shoulder and his head found rest there. She did not tell him that his carnation was getting crushed, for it would fuss him. Belle looked out at the passing streets and wondered if a fog had descended or if her eyes were still clouded from the opium. Once at the house on Avenue Road, Isidor insisted he must use the boot scraper before entering, but he could not lift his foot. He tried and it flopped and he snorted, tried again. Jacob had to help Belle
escort Wertheimer up the staircase to his bedroom.

  “My legs feel utterly uncooperative,” Wertheimer murmured. “Now, why should that be?”

  They pitched him onto his bed, and Jacob straightened his master’s clothing and put the pillow under his head.

  “I’ll have Rosina prepare a mustard poultice, sir,” he said. “It cures any kind of ache or ill.”

  “Quite,” Wertheimer said; his eyes were shut but he was clear of voice.

  Jacob followed Belle out of the room and stopped behind her at her door until she turned to see if he wanted something.

  “I trust you had a pleasant day out, ma’am?” There was a smirk on his lips and Belle did not like it; he was little more than a tea boy, after all.

  “See to your master, Jacob. I wish to be left alone.”

  Belle entered her room and laid her sluggish body on the bed without undressing; she wanted to rise and remove her corset, which cut into her flesh like teeth, but she did not have the will to move so much as a pinkie. A dream-riven sleep followed, a world awash with seawater—number sixty-three, the whole of Avenue Road, her bedroom there—all were salty with brine. Objects floated by—the ormolu clock, her coal hod and shovel, the detestable porcelain pugs—but everything she reached out to escaped her grasp.

  * * *

  —

  When Belle woke in the night, the moon was a silver coin framed by her window; she slipped under the covers in bodice, skirt and stockings. She wondered if the same moon hung like a lantern over Australia or Hong Kong or wherever William was now; she watched its ride, graceful and easy against the navy sky. The moon does not struggle to gain its place above the world, she thought, above the oceans. Tomorrow I will write to William and my letter will sail safely across the waves to his hands.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning Belle was clapperclawed with tiredness, but her resolve to write to William was fresh. She rose to fetch her writing slope and bring it back to bed with her. Passing the mirror she saw salty tracks staining her cheeks. She wiped at them. Had she been crying in her sleep? Impatient with her disheveled reflection, Belle turned her back on it and gained the bed. Propped against pillows she took up her pen, dabbed it in ink and began: