Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  “I should think he was. He wrote in a letter to me that he believed himself truly married. And that he must now get out of it.”

  “What did your son say when you informed him that you knew of his marriage?”

  “He sneered at it. The marriage.”

  Belle flinched. This was invention: it had to be. She did not like to hear this version of William trotted out before the gawpers. The earl was not to be believed, but how would the throng in the public gallery know that? Would Judge Hannen believe him?

  “Your son is educated, I presume?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is your son sane?”

  “He is now.”

  The public gallery rippled with laughter and Belle looked at William who seemed unmoved. The earl was determined to act the fool, it seemed, and his son was determined to remain stoic in the face of his father’s nonsense. Bravo, William!

  Lockwood waited for quiet and pressed on. “Did you promise your son a good allowance if he stayed abroad until he turned twenty-one?”

  “No, and if my son has said that, he is wrong.”

  “Did you show your son a newspaper article that hinted that Lady Dunlo had had three children out of wedlock?”

  “I may have.”

  “Did you say if she was left alone she would have another?”

  “I do not recall saying that, but it is possible.” The earl chuckled, and a rumble of mirth rose from all sides of the court.

  Judge Hannen banged his gavel. “I will not have laughter.”

  My God, Belle thought, the earl truly hates me. Flo took her hand and petted it. She was rubbing so hard that Belle’s skin felt raw.

  “Let me read to you, sir, from a letter your son allegedly wrote to you in July of last year. ‘My dear Papa’ etc. . . . ‘Why I got married, I do not know. I have no excuse, I am not sure I was drunk. I don’t think I was but I believe I must have been rather off my head these last few months. Several of my friends have been most kind—Mr. Wood, Mr. Osborn—and have gone to solicitors without my knowledge and have done their level best to see if there was a flaw in my marriage. I know, of course, that I have acted the devil. I am very sorry for it. I care not a rap for myself but I do care for Mama. No one is to blame but myself; truly no blame attaches to the girl. All is my fault. I cannot expect to get forgiveness from you. Please understand I want to know your wishes.’ Did you deduce from those words that your son wanted to get rid of his wife?”

  Belle listened and cringed. If William wrote those words—if—he did so with fear in his soul. What kind of a man was Clancarty who would bully his son and then lie about it all in the Courts of Justice? Did he think he was above the law?

  “That was my understanding, that he regretted the marriage.”

  “Do you mean to say that you held no inducement for him to go abroad?”

  “None. He perfectly agreed to go.”

  Belle wanted to rise and shout, “He did not! You coerced him, sir!” but she knew she could not.

  Mr. Lockwood strode on. “Did you know that your son wrote affectionate letters to his wife from his travels?”

  “Yes. I gather he believed her to be the most immaculate woman in the world.”

  “Until you and Mr. Robinson decided to undeceive him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your son know you had his wife shadowed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you say that this suggestion to have Lady Dunlo watched came, in fact, from your son?”

  “Certainly.”

  Belle knew this to be an outright lie; William was not the man his father was and would do no such thing. How could the earl sit and concoct such stories? Was he losing his mind? She shifted in her seat until Flo hissed at her.

  “You mustn’t wriggle about, Belle. Think how it looks.”

  Belle stopped agitating and sat rigid backed instead, hands anchored together to stop herself twisting them.

  Lockwood let the earl’s precise word—“certainly”—hang in the air before continuing. “Did you, Lord Clancarty, tell your son, in a letter, that it was possible to get a divorce without being present in court?”

  “Yes, I believed so then. I understood if I acted as his representative he might remain abroad.”

  “You put the matter in the hands of Misters Lewis and Lewis, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “You knew they sent the divorce petition to Australia for your son to sign?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you feared if your son returned to England to act for himself all might not go as you wished. Is that correct?”

  Lord Clancarty opened his mouth to speak but nothing emerged. Belle watched him attempt to answer, but his thoughts seemed unable to connect with whatever it was his tongue wished to say.

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” Mr. Lockwood said.

  William rose from his seat in the courtroom and everyone swiveled his way.

  “I have a question,” he said.

  Belle put out her hand as if she could press William back into a sitting position. What was he about to say? Murmurs flew about the room.

  “What is Dunlo doing?” Flo whispered.

  “I know not,” answered Belle.

  Mr. Lockwood turned to William, then to Judge Hannen, who flicked his hand in William’s direction to indicate he might speak. William stood up straight and turned to face his father.

  “My question is this: Why do you dislike me so, Father?”

  The judge banged his gavel. “No,” he shouted, “not in my court. Take your seat, Lord Dunlo.”

  But William had been goaded to life by his father’s blasé, glib testimony and he refused to sit.

  “How can you come here, Papa, and act the jester about matters as serious as my future happiness? How can you take the character of my wife?”

  “Be seated, sir. I tell you,” the judge called. “Order! Order!”

  The earl tried to pull himself erect to face William, but he was weakened by his illness and, instead, he hung on to the box and swayed in an ungainly crouch. He opened his mouth but, once more, no words emerged. Mr. Russell rushed to his side, but the earl batted him off.

  “You think that I have brought shame on the Clancarty name, Papa.” William lifted his arm and pointed. “You have shamed yourself here today. Firstly by lying and then by laughing about it.” He glanced at Belle and she smiled her encouragement.

  “Remove that man. Remove him!”

  William turned to the judge. “I will remove myself.” He left his seat and stalked out of the courtroom.

  “Very well done, William,” Belle murmured, looking after him.

  “Bravissimo, Dunlo,” Flo said, taking Belle’s arm and pulling her to stand, “and about time, too.”

  A PAUSE

  Belle stood by the window of the smoking room and watched the downpour wash Avenue Road. Obese drops fell from the leaves and puddled underneath the trees. The cloudburst had come late in the day and the city had waited for it, steamy and sulfuric beneath the threat. It was a release when the rain finally fell, though Belle felt as churned up as ever within herself.

  “Why can’t something happen? Something large that would lessen people’s interest in us,” she said.

  “Is that what you want—indifference?” Wertheimer said.

  Belle shrugged. She did not know what she wanted. Did she really wish disaster on some other person to divert attention from Dunlo v. Dunlo and Wertheimer? A raging fire? A murder? A lightning strike to Buckingham Palace?

  It alarmed her to see the surge of newspapermen at each day’s end, their undignified rush out of the court toward their Fleet Street dens, mouths dribbling ink. She knew, too, that the Pig and Goose across the Strand was most likely wedged each evening with those who had liste
ned all day. No doubt the most succulent tidbits of the case were chewed over along with plates of pickled snout and foie gras, slugged back with pots of ale.

  “Strangers are so hungry for crumbs of my life.” Belle went from the window to a chair and flopped into it. “I’m a mouse in a nest of vipers when I sit in that courtroom. And the place is full to suffocation.”

  “London loves a scandal, Belle, you know that. All the better if the parties are already known as you are. And if the people can ingest it in court, even better.”

  “But there is no scandal here, Isidor, isn’t that the very point? We are not lovers and never have been. We’re not at fault!”

  Wertheimer came over and squatted by her chair, his smoking jacket swung out behind him like a peacock’s train. “Of course that’s the point and it will be proven. Already Clancarty has made himself look extremely foolish by his actions and testimony. Don’t fret.” He pressed her arm. “And Dunlo was splendid in standing up to his papa at last, was he not? Marvelous!”

  “He was splendid. But seeing William at court every day stirs me up—he’s there, so close, yet he may as well be in the antipodes still. He hardly glances my way. What can it mean?”

  “I suppose he’s trying at last to do the right thing. It will be over soon. And then you might talk to William properly and see what’s what.”

  “I had rather hoped to catch him today. Where did he get to? Did he even leave? I think he may have concealed himself inside the building afterward. Perhaps his father tries still to face him and get under his skin.” Belle rolled her shoulders to unleash some of the disquietude of the day. “I’m so utterly fatigued.”

  “Then we must help you to shake off that fatigue.”

  Wertheimer rang the bell and ordered Rosina to prepare a hot bath for Belle.

  * * *

  —

  Though unaccustomed to taking baths—like most people she preferred a stand-up wash—when Belle sank into the tub she was grateful to Wertheimer; the water lulled and comforted her. The buoyancy it afforded was both freeing and gentle. Taking the bar of lilac soap that Rosina had left for her, she skimmed it up and down her arms and legs, enjoying its slithery silk.

  After a time, the bathwater made prunes of her fingers and Belle examined the puckered pad of each digit as if it were a map that might yield a followable path. She thought of William and his betrayal. Am I to be his scapegoat? she wondered. He ties himself in knots displeasing to his father and unravels them by condoning lies told about me. How could he do it? But perhaps his squaring up to the earl today, his defiance in court, augured well. It was so hard to know what was what when William would barely look at her, much less speak to her, day after day. He was a confounding man. What was she to think?

  Belle laid back her head and closed her eyes. A vision of little Isidor came to her, followed immediately by the splosh as he was swallowed up in the Heathfield pond. Then the trees in judgment around her and a ticking silence. And the girl—Mabel, was it?—staring stupidly. The horrid quiet, the one-second action of her hand shooting out to grab at him, the soaked clothing. Belle squeezed her eyes tight to unpick the scene. Am I, she thought, to lug this guilt about with me forevermore, awkward as a third leg? The boy was not harmed, he lives yet. It’s not as if I discarded him on the street. My son belongs to another time now and to another world entirely.

  Belle slid lower in the bath, determined that the heat should take her cares and float them away. She held her palms above the water and marveled at how strange they looked, how ghostly and other.

  “What a brew my life is,” she said.

  She looked at her bobbing breasts and at the hill of her belly released from its corset cage; she ran her hands over its softness. Would it ever grow plum ripe again, the temporary home to another babe, one that could be cherished, one born of a man she loved? Belle drowned the thought and plunged even lower to let the warmth engulf her; she had had enough thinking to last her a decade. It was better, for now, to allow herself to lie in the scented water and let all concerns, conjectures and conclusions float away. Life would unfold in its own messy way and she had to let it.

  AN EXAMINATION

  Mr. Lockwood was puffed out like a pigeon when Belle, Flo and Wertheimer entered the court to take their places. He came to where Belle sat and pressed her fingers with his own.

  “Courage,” he said.

  She nodded her thanks and placed her hands in her lap, entwined together to stop them shaking. She was glad of the veil on her hat, for it protected her a little from the eyes that continuously sought her out from the gallery. Her mother had not appeared after the first day, fatigued, perhaps, by the drab testimonies of various landladies of Belle’s and Wertheimer’s. None of them had found fault with their behavior, thankfully; it would have been just like some vindictive old fool to grab a little infamy for herself by telling lies. But, to a woman, they had observed no stain on Belle’s character, though one claimed she had not known Belle was a dancer when she lodged at her house. Had Belle not made her a gift of theater tickets at least once? She was positive she had.

  Marmaduke Wood, too, gave his evidence in an unappealing way—his stance was louche and he kept a sardonic tone to his voice that seemed to irritate everyone, not least Judge Hannen. To think Wood had had the privilege of being one of their two wedding guests! He said in evidence that he recalled meeting Belle at the races in Brighton and asking her if she thought it fair that she should “go about” with Wertheimer so much while Lord Dunlo was away. Wood said she had given the impression that she would rather be with Wertheimer than anyone else. He went on to say that Belle had also told him she missed William and asked him to use his influence to stop the suit proceeding against her.

  Mr. Lockwood said, “Do you mean to tell me that in the conversation in which she asked you to use your influence to prevent the divorce proceeding, she said she was devoted to Mr. Wertheimer?”

  “I will not swear she used the word ‘devoted,’ but it was the impression I got.”

  Belle shuddered to think of Wood’s recounting of the conversation. Were those really his impressions of what passed between them that day? She had thought their exchanges pleasant and Wood amicably on her side. He was most attentive and stayed by her for quite a spell. Despite Wood’s usual long tales about nothing, in her mind the part of the conversation about William and the impending proceedings was mutually friendly and supportive. Oh, but how was one supposed to remember exact words uttered months before? It was impossible.

  Belle let the din of the waiting courtroom fill her ears; it reminded her of the background noise to a nightmare—a horrible, far-off scuffling and muttering that clotted the mind. When Judge Hannen entered the court and gained his seat, the noise abated and, Mr. Gill, acting for Wertheimer, began.

  “Lady Dunlo has never, before or after her marriage, been the mistress of Isidor Wertheimer. It might be said by men of the world that no man could do what Mr. Wertheimer did for Lady Dunlo without having some return for it. But I assure you, gentlemen, no guilty relations subsisted between my client and the respondent. As to the evidence regarding Lady Dunlo’s residence at Sixty-three Avenue Road, might I remind you that the page boy, Jacob Baltimore, was formerly discharged by Mr. Wertheimer. Would a discharged servant have any motive for saying favorable things? Would a private inquiry agent, who had destroyed his evidence and was being paid to shadow my client and the respondent, say favorable things?”

  Mr. Gill paused and his whole body seemed to twitch as he let his questions linger.

  “These people saw the lady and gentleman dine together, take cabs together and walk together. They saw no deep familiarity between them. One witness says he saw Mr. Wertheimer’s arm around Lady Dunlo’s waist, another that he saw him kiss her. But it has been established that these events took place prior to Lady Dunlo’s marriage, at a time when Mr. Wertheimer may have hoped she
might be his wife. Surely human nature is not so degraded that this might be done without it being inferred that of necessity a guilty relationship existed?

  “Mr. Lewis, solicitor to Lord Clancarty, wrote to Lord Dunlo in Australia to tell him his wife was frequently in the company of Mr. Wertheimer. This, he supposed, was told to Lord Dunlo as a surprise. However, Lady Dunlo frankly and frequently told her husband, in letters to him, that she kept company with her friend Mr. Wertheimer. Mr. Lewis’s letter continues thus:

  “You have had time to think over your unfortunate marriage and I hope you now see how sad a step you then took, having regard to the previous history of your wife. It is now open to you to do justice to yourself and your family by taking proceedings for a divorce. And, if you are prepared to follow the wishes of your family, I enclose a petition for your signature.

  “Who do these proceedings belong to, gentlemen? The person who seeks relief in the court is usually the person who is injured. But in this case, the proceedings are those of the Le Poer Trench family. Lord Dunlo is invited to do justice to the family.

  “Why did Lord Dunlo sign the petition? Gentlemen, I have no good answer for that. But let us remind ourselves that the aristocracy enjoy great advantage over other people, however I have yet to learn that they can perjure themselves with impunity. In his petition Lord Dunlo swore that his wife committed adultery. Yet he wrote to his wife that he did not believe the statements against her. No man has a right to swear to anything he does not believe. I ask again, how was it he was induced to sign this paper? Remember Lord Dunlo contracted a grave illness in the antipodes. Remember, he says himself that he was ‘confused,’ that he was ‘muddled.’ His mind was ‘in a stew.’

  “Let this suffice, gentlemen: in all of these matters, Lady Dunlo has been treated in an infamous and disgraceful manner. She was under the misery of perpetual observation. Her name was discredited.”

  On and on Mr. Gill went, outlining that private inquiry agents were paid by results and that it was not in their interest to find no evidence of misconduct. He deplored the burning of the notebook; he asked the jury to believe there had been deliberate lying. He said that Lady Dunlo would have worked out of necessity to support her husband, but she could have expected generosity from the highborn Clancartys, or at least some sort of nobility of conduct.