Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  63 Avenue Road, London

  March 18, 1890

  My darling William,

  You will see by my address that I am still at Avenue Road. Isidor has been such a friend to me and I know that you will thank him for seeing to my safety and well-being. He jokes with me that you are over there to capitalize on the gold rush, but I cannot laugh, for I miss you so. The antipodes are so terribly far away; another planet, almost. You may as well have flown to Jupiter, William.

  Why must you accept, and act on, everything your father says? I am saddened beyond belief by your actions; it is difficult for me to comprehend what has occurred. I know you love me still, as I love you, I really believe this. My heart tells me there has been some horrible mistake, that you would never sign a petition to divorce me and, yet, according to Messrs. Lewis and Lewis, you have done so. Is that what you were trying to warn me of in your last, incoherent note? Have you been threatened with something to do it, my love? Please tell me what has led to this; I am all bewilderment.

  My appetite has fled, William, and my eyes bulge from weeping. Flo and Seymour tell me to keep my heart out but, if I do, I fear it will land on the floor. They assure me you will come back and set everything straight. Their faith in you is touching, all matters considered. Wertheimer tries to cheer me with outings but I am rent asunder; I still cannot quite believe that you’ve done what you’ve done. Or why.

  William, whatever anyone may say of me, don’t believe them. I love you dearly. I do so wish that people would leave other people’s business alone. If your father dispossesses you of whatever he can keep from you, what of it? I earn enough for both of us; we will not starve, of that I am certain. I wait for you, London waits for you.

  Your loving wife,

  Belle

  A REUNION

  Belle had been neglecting her correspondence. Any letter that did not come from William was of no interest to her and she had allowed a pile of unopened envelopes to build up on the chiffonier. Some were for Wertheimer, but most were for her. She looked across at the stack and was made guilty by it.

  “Bring me the post, Jacob,” she said.

  It was eleven o’clock and she had just sat at the breakfast table, jaded finally by the four walls of her bedroom. Jacob piled the letters on the tray and kept one eye on the quivering tower they made as he walked to where she sat. Belle stacked them against the silver syrup cup and sighed. She lifted the first one and sliced it with her letter opener. The bill for her parasol from Madame Gilbert. Overdue. She tossed it onto the floor. Next, a note from Sara to say that baby Isidor needed new clothing. Did Sara write it herself or did she ask her husband to pen it? Either way the handwriting was appalling. Down to the floor with it.

  Belle lifted another envelope; the curl of the writing jigged something in her recall, but it was not until she had taken out the paper and was assaulted by the smell of violets that she realized it was from her mother. The letter was weeks old and, when Belle examined the envelope, she saw by the marks on the rear that it had tried to find her at the theater in Manchester in December before finally arriving at Avenue Road. It consisted of a single sheet.

  My dear Isabel,

  I shall be in London to attend a doctor in March, from the 21st, for one week. I will take luncheon each day at the Star and Garter Hotel and trust you and your sister will join me at least once.

  Mother

  “Succinct as ever,” Belle said, forking a wedge of apple dumpling into her mouth though she had not yet started on her porridge. She needed the sweet dumpling to calm her; today was the twenty-fifth of the month and she would meet her mother. “Jacob,” she called, rising from her place, “send Rosina up to me, I need to get dressed; I’m going out.” She took a plate of Pearl biscuits upstairs with her to eat while dressing.

  * * *

  —

  As the hansom climbed the hill to the hotel, Belle wondered if her mother was staying at the Star and Garter or if it was merely convenient to the hospital she was attending. Was there a hospital in Richmond? She knew not. The pavilion rose out of the trees as the cab approached the front entrance and Belle knew it was there that she would find her mother for, even though Mrs. Bilton was frugal, she liked the finest of surroundings to eat in. The Thames passed pea-soupily by in the grounds below the hotel and the country quiet assailed Belle’s ears in a way that eased her. Would it be pleasant, she wondered, to hear nothing but birdsong and the snap of twigs at night, instead of rolling wheels and the cries of night shifters and the fallen?

  The many-paned roof and gas chandelier made a glittering dome of the pavilion’s ceiling; it beguiled Belle always. She stopped in the doorway to admire the glow and when she dragged her eyes downward they fell on her mother who was standing by a small table, as if waiting for her. Mrs. Bilton had the same regal posture as ever, accompanied by the same vanquished set to her jowls, as if the whole universe were set against her. Her mother sat when she knew her daughter had seen her and Belle advanced.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Your sister failed to come.”

  “Flo is busy; she is rehearsing a new show.”

  “One should never be too busy for family.” Mrs. Bilton waved her hand and a waft of bergamot filled Belle’s nostrils—this fruity-sweet spice was the aura of Mother. “And you are not in this show?”

  “I declined to take a part. I have needed to rest lately.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Bilton made no inquiry after Belle’s health, a fact that did not pass her daughter’s notice. “It has been some time, Isabel, since we broke bread together.”

  Belle sat opposite her. “Several years, Mother.”

  Even though Belle did not care for her mother’s good opinion, the older woman’s bellicose manner still unnerved her. Mrs. Bilton had always done well as an artillery man’s wife by being as combative yet self-possessed as any soldier. Her father put it down to his wife’s Welsh upbringing, though how childhood in a castle had made her so pugnacious, Belle failed to see. She studied her mother’s face—inscrutable as ever—and waited for her to explain the exact reason for this meeting.

  “How is Father?”

  “Yes, you should ask how your father is for you have not seen him in so long. I am happy to say that he is in good spirits. As robust as he ever was.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Violet is also thriving.”

  “We correspond.”

  Mrs. Bilton grunted, a noise Belle presumed represented distaste for her and Violet exchanging letters. Belle ignored the disapproval and scrutinized the menu, though she knew it by heart from frequent visits to the Star and Garter. She looked across the table to her mother and took in the gray that was salted through her upswept hair, and the further sag of her chin. She was in her forties now, Belle supposed—an aging woman. “You look well, Mother,” she said at last, tired of waiting for the conversation to continue.

  “I am not well, but there it is.”

  “Nothing too serious, I hope?”

  “Is that your hope, indeed?” Mrs. Bilton squinted at her. “I am not mortally ill, but I am told my condition is grave. It debilitates me certainly.”

  “You will, no doubt, outlive every one of us, Mother.” Silence then, for Belle did not want to press her mother about the nature of her complaint when specifics were not on offer. “The shin-of-beef soup here is extraordinarily fine,” Belle said, and nodded to the waiter who had hovered for some time nearby.

  They both ordered the soup. Mrs. Bilton asked for plain toast and Belle said she would have hers with Gentleman’s Relish; she loved the pep of the spicy anchovies as a foil to the beef. Her mother asked for portions smaller than the hotel’s usual ones for herself.

  Mrs. Bilton talked then of people they knew at Aldershot—those who had died; those who had gone abroad with their regiments; those whose daughters had married, we
ll and badly. Belle found it hard to match faces with the list of names her mother recited, no matter how she concentrated; lack of sleep began to overtake her and she yawned. Blood roiled around her eardrums making a far-off murmur of her mother’s speech; Belle blinked and when she focused again, she realized she had missed some important statement.

  “I beg your pardon, Mother, I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I said that we read newspapers in Hampshire.” Mrs. Bilton frowned, put out by Belle’s lack of attention.

  “Yes?” Belle affected innocence but guessed what would come next.

  “Lloyd’s Weekly takes a particular interest in your affairs.”

  “You were on the stage yourself, Mother, you know how they love to gossip about theater folk.”

  “And as you well know, Isabel, I am not referring to your music hall engagements. I speak of your marriage.”

  Belle looked out the window, down to where the river snaked past; she could see several ladies walking the towpath. She thought how grand it would be to stroll there with them, drawing river-weedy air into her lungs and prattling, perhaps, about this milliner or that dressmaker. How grand it would be to be a normal married lady with few cares.

  Mrs. Bilton coughed, drawing Belle’s eyes back to her. The atmosphere was torpid between them; her mother made a show of not speaking again. Their food arrived and Mrs. Bilton kept her eyebrows raised when she lifted her spoon to taste the soup. Her portions were small, as she had requested: a porringer of beef soup and one slice of toast—it looked a minuscule amount of sustenance to Belle.

  “There’s a Welsh plate if ever I saw one,” Belle said.

  Her mother grimaced. “I am not, I must say, Isabel, alarmed by your hasty marriage. Rather I am perturbed by the reports that have come after it. It seems you have managed to both snare and sacrifice a husband almost instantaneously.”

  “William has had to go abroad on business, Mother, nothing more. You mustn’t believe every tittling gossipmonger who speaks.”

  “But, my dear Isabel, I did not hear these reports from tattlers. Your uncle—my brother—happened to stop at a club called the Corinthian, I do believe, when he was in London before Christmas. An acquaintance there told him the details of the sorry tale.”

  “Well, then, you know everything.” Belle threw her napkin over her soup bowl; her mother’s words churned up her anger. “I am shamed by my own husband. There it is. Under the influence of his dominant father, Lord Dunlo left for the antipodes mere days after our marriage.”

  Her mother buttered her toast carefully and bit into it. “You are having a thin time.”

  “Oh, it will please you that the story has moved on, Mother. It gets ever more dreadful. My husband now means to divorce me!”

  “Well. What a performance you have managed to mire yourself in, what an extraordinary pickle.”

  Mrs. Bilton continued to chew her way through the bread at a slow pace; she looked straight at her daughter as if trying to fathom how she could be hers, then she cast her eyes down to the food she was laboring so hard over.

  The very way her mother ate riled Belle. Her own appetite, such as it was, had collapsed. As she sat and watched Mrs. Bilton eat, she remembered childhood scenes where her mother would ram unwanted food into Belle’s mouth. On one occasion Mrs. Bilton had held her daughter’s nose and spooned an entire creamer of semolina between her lips. When Belle had sicked it up, her mother had forced her to eat it again. Yes, out in the world Kate Maude Penrice Bilton was the beautiful Welsh wife of Sergeant John George Bilton, but at home she was her children’s oppressor. She very much resented the drudge of maternal duties.

  “No doubt you are aware, Mother, that because of this there will be a court hearing.” Belle adjusted her gloves, pushing her fingers firmly into them. “But I’m sure of William’s love for me. Though he has acted abominably, I’m certain that everything will turn out for the best.”

  “You clearly never took it upon yourself to learn the first rule about husbands, Isabel: they must fear you. The coy, winsome woman does not make a good wife. If your spouse is not somewhat frightened of you, you have failed.” She snorted. “And you think all will be well?” Mrs. Bilton put her hand to her face; her shoulders shook, and it took Belle a moment to realize that it was mirth that was causing her to convulse.

  “Do you mock me, Mother?”

  Mrs. Bilton waved her hand. “I married down, Isabel, and you married up, but a fat lot of good it did either of us.” She chortled and laughter tears filled her eyes.

  Belle stared at the rocking, rollicking form of her dour mother. Before the waiter could jump to assist her, Belle pushed back her chair and stood.

  “Good day to you, Mother,” she said, and walked away.

  She heard Mrs. Bilton’s voice call after her, “And good luck to you, my dear!”

  Belle did not turn around.

  A REPORT

  Lady Dunlo,” Bassano said, as Belle entered his studio. “I do so love to call you that.”

  “Enjoy uttering it while you can, Alexander, for it may not be my name for too much longer.”

  “I read about your predicament in the newspaper this morning, my dear.”

  “Good heavens, it has been reported on already? Those newsboys are like starved urchins picking over scraps.” Belle flopped into an armchair and Bassano fetched another and pulled it to her side. “There’s no privacy in this town, none whatsoever.”

  “Well, that’s true. But it’s a short piece; I daresay no one will notice it wedged between ‘Floods in Mississippi’ and some nonsense about a liberal majority in the Stoke-on-Trent election.”

  “You may as well read it to me.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear it, Belle?”

  “My life has been one bizarre turn upon another lately, Alex, I am sure I can bear the words of a journalist. Read, please.”

  He lifted the newspaper and thumbed through the pages. “Here we are: ‘Viscount Dunlo, son of the Earl of Clancarty, is bringing an action for divorce against his wife who was Belle Bilton, one of the Sisters Bilton, the music hall artistes.’”

  Belle started forward. “What do they mean ‘was’? I’m still here, am I not?”

  Bassano lowered the paper. “It merely means that since your marriage your name has changed to Lady Dunlo.”

  “Yes, quite. Carry on.”

  “‘The co-respondent is a relative of a wealthy dealer in bric-a-brac. Lewis and Lewis are acting for Lord Dunlo and the papers were served on the co-respondent at the Lewis and Lewis offices in Ely Place. An attempt was made to serve the co-respondent on Tuesday in a hansom cab . . .’ Oh, this next bit is fantastical, you will love it, Belle: ‘The process server threw the papers into the cab, but the co-respondent kicked them out again.’ Is that not wonderfully silly?” Bassano chuckled.

  “It may well be silly but it’s exactly what happened. I was there. How do these newspapers know every fiddle-faddle of a person’s doings? It’s very unfair.”

  “But why on earth did Wertheimer punt the papers out of the hansom?”

  “We were confused, caught off guard. Isidor reacted and the first thing that shot out was his foot.”

  Bassano raised his eyebrows. “Shall I read the rest?”

  “Go on.”

  “‘The papers were found by the police in St. James’s Square and brought to the offices of Lewis and Lewis. The co-respondent subsequently went to Ely Place and was served with them properly.’ Gracious, you have been having adventures, Belle. Is it any wonder I hardly see you? I must be far down on your list of daily activities.”

  “I don’t avoid you on purpose, Alexander. I’ve been addled, my head a fug of thoughts and schemes. And when I get like that, my skin suffers, my smile droops and the last thing I desire is to titivate myself for the camera.”

  “No do
ubt there is some coven of women that you turn to for blowing off rages.”

  “Alex, you know perfectly well that Flo is my only female friend and I only tolerate her because I’m related to her.” Belle stretched her legs and studied her ankles, turning them this way, then that. “Women don’t altogether like me, Bassano, and I don’t care for their company much either. Men are easier, somehow.” Belle puckered her mouth in concentration. “Though men do seem to bring me endless strife.”

  “Ma bella Isabella, you’re one of those extraordinary women who craves—and deserves—happiness, but it seems to come to you embroidered with botheration.” He let down the newspaper, reached over and put his hand under her chin. “There’s something tragic in your eyes, Belle. You are tragic and prone to self-sabotage but nonetheless magnetic. Yes, my dear, your charms are total. Perhaps your tragedy is beauty.”

  “Alex, you do talk perfect rot.” Belle let a sharp laugh and took his hand from her face. Self-sabotage? It was probably true.

  “It’s understandable, my dear, that you don’t wish to hear yourself dissected. I’ve been reading too much Thomas De Quincey, perhaps.” He stood and held out his arms. “Come, you’re here now and we should get to work. Augustus Harris doesn’t invite any old matron to take the stage as Venus at Drury Lane, after all. You’re a cause célèbre and you must capitalize on it.”

  “It is delightful to be asked to dance in Drury Lane, I’m happy for it. And it’s time for me to rise above my worries and earn some money again.”

  Bassano went to his prop cupboard; he balanced what he took out of it on his palm and crossed the room to Belle.

  “Your Mr. Harris has sent over this piccolo crown for your new likeness. Is it not the prettiest little ornament you’ve ever seen?”