Becoming Belle Read online

  This particular evening, Mother was performing her toilet at the table, and Isabel and her sisters stood in a row, plaiting each other’s hair in preparation for going to the theater to watch Mother’s play. Isabel worked on Flo’s hair, and Flo worked on Violet’s. The girls were excited, but they tamped down any giddiness while Mrs. Bilton was present and obediently styled their hair. When Isabel was done, she went to where Mother sat and watched her line her eyes with black and carmine her cheeks.

  “May I have some powder, Mother?”

  Mrs. Bilton’s gaze did not move from her own reflection and she continued to dab at her face. At last she spoke.

  “Who is performing tonight, Isabel, you or I?”

  “Mother?”

  “Who is going onstage, girl? Answer me. You or I?”

  “Not I, Mother.” Isabel squirmed. “That is, you are, Mother. You are going onstage.”

  “Correct. And for that reason, among many more, you may not have powder. Or rouge or any other item from my armory.” She slapped down the lid of her toilet case and Isabel stared at it so as not to have to meet Mother’s eyes.

  The girls’ father, hearing his wife’s raised voice, came into the kitchen to see what was what.

  “My beautiful ladies,” he said, and he crossed the room, took Mrs. Bilton’s hand and kissed it.

  She rose to look into his face. “This is it, John. I can feel it. This time I will be plucked and swept up to the theaters of London. Isn’t that so?”

  Father didn’t answer immediately, and Isabel knew he was trying to formulate the kindliest answer possible. One had to be soothing with Mother but, Isabel knew, one also had to be quick. Speak, Father, she urged inside her mind, speak! Say something about how finely Mother commands the stage, no matter what you know in your heart.

  Mother stepped back from Father. “Why don’t you answer me, John? I declare to the devil, I know why. It’s because you don’t listen to me! You never listen. You don’t care! Oh, talking to you is like talking to a, to a . . . a radish.”

  The other girls stopped all movement and waited. Despite better sense, Isabel felt a giggle bubble from her mouth. It fell into the room and no one moved. Silence.

  “A radish,” Isabel said then, feeling the need to explain that the word had caused her to let loose the foolish laugh.

  Before Isabel could react, her mother had rushed forward, snatched a hairbrush from Violet and slapped Isabel hard on the crown with it.

  “Do not mock me, girl,” Mother hissed.

  Isabel’s hand flew to her smarting head, but she stayed where she was and she did not cry. Mother turned and flew from the room; Father rushed out behind her. Isabel looked after them, thinking, I will not take much more of this. Be sure of it. I simply will not.

  * * *

  —

  Belle was nestled in the Corinthian Club with a thimbleful of sweet Madeira, her muscles aching pleasantly after hours on the stage. Mr. Hollingshead had had the club’s unofficial motto newly inscribed on the wall in a scrolling script: The Corinthian Club—formed for the breaking of every law of God and man. It made Belle smile. She looked around to see who was in. Jack Hollingshead had already been over to greet her, as had Bassano and dear Wertheimer. They congratulated her on the show—she had danced well, she knew—but her eyes continually strayed past them to see if William had arrived. She saw some of the dancers from Drury Lane and a few more from the Canterbury. The Gaiety Girls, being new, stood around large eyed with anticipation. Belle raised her glass to them and they held theirs aloft to her, then huddled to whisper that she was none other than Belle Bilton, one half of the Sisters Bilton.

  It pleased Belle that the club’s patrons were of such miscellaneous character: here were the braggarts and coin-tossers, there the heads-bent conferrers. Years of soldiers and regimental living had aided her love for the disorder of bohemia, the freedom in thought and dress thrilled her, the very nonuniformity of it all. And that everyone melded together in one merry band pleased her even more. There was something spicy about the Corinthian’s clientele—they were a contained yet giddy crew. Fracas and disagreements happened seldom at the club; any fallings-out tended to be temporary affairs, oiled with good humor and eased with good wine. Bonhomie reigned. Belle liked that Mr. Hollingshead turned away most chance comers, for he wanted only a select society at the Corinthian. If, she mused, I could set up home in the club, I most definitely would.

  * * *

  —

  Wertheimer sent over another glass to Belle; she toasted him and he colored charmingly. For such a fellow of the world, he retained a naïve grace. His ravenish looks did not stop him from appearing angelic. It amused Belle that his daily buttonhole never flagged or wilted. She accused him of carrying a tiny water spray, encased in gold, to keep it fresh. Wertheimer kept the finest of everything, and she loved him for that. She rose and went to her friend, raising her glass again in thanks. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat.

  “Belle.”

  “Will you continue on to Cleveland Street, Isidor? You might meet some sweet fellow to spend time with.”

  “I’m not sure, dearest. I may retire early tonight. I can accompany you home if you’d like?”

  Belle was about to say she planned to wait a while, for William, when she saw him rushing toward her across the club. His eagerness to see her was so apparent she felt at once embarrassed and thrilled.

  “Isabel!” He knelt at her feet like a serf and grabbed her hands to kiss them.

  Belle’s eyes flicked around the club. “Sit, William, do sit.”

  Wertheimer had stood to welcome Dunlo, but the viscount barely returned his greeting. The chap was clearly mad about Belle, but was he a little green, a scintilla too young to truly appreciate the charms of such a woman? Wertheimer had seen William often at the Burlington Hotel with his friends Wood and Osborn—they all had rooms there. They could be a raucous trio some nights and he had, he realized, dismissed them as puerile and somewhat beneath his notice. But if Belle liked the chap, there must be more to him. Wertheimer stood back and watched. Dunlo’s large mouth hung open and his eyes were wild, drinking Belle in.

  “You look ravishing,” he said, and Belle nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. She glanced around again to see if other people were watching, but most were engaged in small groups, talking and drinking their fill.

  “William, do sit. You, too, Isidor. We can make a jolly party.”

  “Indeed we can,” Wertheimer said, and he pulled out a chair for Dunlo.

  “Why, thank you, Wertheimer.” William smiled, a congenial acknowledgment of the other man’s tight friendship with his beloved.

  Belle leaned into William’s sight to get his attention. “How was the earl?” she asked, though she feared to hear the answer.

  “He scolded me roundly—again—for not getting on the boat to Africa, but I don’t care a rap for what the old fellow says.” William laughed and Belle knew that this was a bluff; there was something jumpy about him always when he spoke of the earl, and now he did not meet Belle’s eyes fully and frowned into the distance.

  “Was your father frightfully angry?” Wertheimer asked. “Does he know why you didn’t leave with your regiment?”

  William looked at Wertheimer. “I daresay he heard rumors it was over Belle, but I denied any knowledge. Said I would rather stay in town than get lost in some African jungle.” William turned now to Belle. “My father complained once more about how hard he’d worked to obtain the commission for me and said he now looks an absolute fool. He tried to get Mama to agree with him, but she said not a word.”

  “You call your mother ‘mama.’ How charming.” Belle wondered if baby Isidor would ever call her that. Was he, in fact, calling Sara mama at this very moment? And if he was, did it matter?

  “And Father is ‘papa,’ of course.”

&n
bsp; “Papa,” Belle murmured. William’s guilelessness tickled her, but it made her realize how youthful he was, too—at twenty more than a year younger than she; he wouldn’t come of age until December. But it wasn’t only a matter of years, William was fresh, unplucked, if one could say that of a fellow; somehow, oddly, she realized it only endeared him to her more. And weren’t men always a little behind women, always more gullible and raw? He was a dear boy, a dear man, unlike any she had known before. There was his pedigree, of course, and his handsome build, but he was softer and sweeter than other men, too. There was a genteel core to William that seemed to be of his own making, something inherently good resided in him. He was steady, despite his youthfulness, and Belle found she believed in him; she knew in her heart that he would be constant. But would he speak of her to his family? He would have to if they were to continue on. And didn’t they mean to do just that?

  Wertheimer stood. “I think I shall go to Cleveland Street, after all, Belle. Leave you two to catch up with each other.”

  Belle put out her hand and pressed Wertheimer’s. “We shall meet soon, Issy.”

  “That we will,” he said, bowed and took his leave.

  “Good night, Wertheimer.” William watched him go. “Topping fellow. Cuts a grand figure around the Burlington. Aloof but friendly, I always find.”

  “He is a dear friend to me and kindness personified.”

  “But what news with you, Belle?” William leaned in closer. “Did you lament my absence? I rather hope you missed me terribly.”

  “I did miss you, William.” She dipped her head. “More than I can say.”

  “What have you been doing? Did you go anywhere, see anyone? Tell me how you passed the hours while we were apart, I must know everything.”

  Belle thought of her trip to Heathfield in Sussex and the visit with little Isidor at Sara’s home. She remembered the leaf skeleton in her bag that she had saved to show William.

  “I took my ease today. I did little beyond lie in my bed and eat from a box of Fry’s Chocolate Creams.”

  “How I wish I could have been there with you,” William said softly, looking at Belle to see if she would react. He sat up straighter. “Papa and I went to see some stallions in Sussex. Even though he’s out with me, he asked me to come with him. Very fine horses they were, too.”

  “Sussex? Goodness me. What part?” An image of an encounter on the train with William and the earl skittered into Belle’s mind and produced a moist tingle on her brow. “How did you travel there?”

  “In Papa’s cabriolet. We went to a stud farm in Godalming.”

  “Godalming is in Surrey, William.”

  “That’s it, yes. Surrey. I get the names mixed up. It’s so much simpler in Ireland where the place names are easy to distinguish: Ballinasloe, Athlone, Loughrea.”

  “Ballinasloe! Athlone!” Belle said. “Such odd, bewitching names.”

  “They come from the Gaelic.” William took Belle’s fingers in his own. “You’ll know all the Irish towns and their names when you’re my wife.”

  Belle dropped his hand and her heart jigged. If only they might marry! “Don’t jest about such things, William.” Was he sincere? Belle’s head tingled. “It’s not funny to joke about serious matters.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny, Belle. I’m wholly in earnest.” He twined his fingers through hers. “Look here, I have a surprise for you. I mean to take you for a jaunt in Papa’s cabriolet. I have something planned. What do you say?”

  “Why, I say yes, of course. Where are we going?”

  “That’s the surprise. I shan’t tell you! We will go next week when Papa is out of town and you’ll see what the outing entails when we get there. You’ll like it, it will be vast fun.”

  William leaned forward as if he meant to kiss her, right there in the middle of the club. Belle dodged his mouth and frowned a warning at him; kisses were for their secluded haunts only, it wouldn’t do to cause babble for the newsmen to apprehend and report on in their sneaky way. She looked around for a suitable distraction.

  “Look, there’s Bassano. Alexander!” she called, waving the photographer over. He came and stood by her chair. “This is the man who inspired me to change my name to Belle, William. It’s all thanks to dear Bassano.”

  “Buonasera, Viscount Dunlo,” Bassano said, and William stood to shake his hand.

  Belle sipped her wine and let the two men talk. There now, William was meeting all her friends and he was gracious with them. His good breeding and natural ease meant he could fit himself in anywhere. How delightful to see him earlier with Wertheimer and now chitchatting idly with Bassano. It made her want to throw off caution, hop to her feet and kiss him roundly right in the middle of the club. Belle caught his eye and winked, and the quick smile he sent back lit a beam through her. William was endearing in ways that were becoming more attractive to her by the day. What a triumph and a blessing that in the vast splay of London town they had managed to meet each other.

  A REFLECTION

  William lay in his bed in the Burlington Hotel, glad not to be in his boyhood room in Berkeley Square where he had spent the previous night. Sleep did not come easily there—he had always preferred his Garbally bedroom—and he passed the hours of darkness adrift between this world and the other, the drop and rise of his dreams assaulting him like the vagaries of Galway weather. He did not belong in Berkeley Square anymore; that house pertained to William the boy and he was entering the realms of manhood. Or so he hoped. It seemed to him he straddled youth and maturity in the same precarious way he was asprawl between Ireland and England. He always felt like an in-between person, someone who belonged firmly to two places and yet to no place—no tribe—at all.

  Marmaduke Wood and Lord Albert Osborn, his closest friends in England, were good sports, he had to own, but they spent money like the nouveaux riches and he was having a damn hard time keeping up. He had met them at school but, as he got older, he wondered whether he really belonged with them or to them. They seemed to be snipped from a different cloth from William; he supposed it was his Irish side that made him feel at variance with his friends. They were English through and through, and liked to remind him of that, as if it was the most important thing. Their Englishness gave them a certain poise and pluck that he knew he lacked but didn’t necessarily want. There was a softer core to William that he considered to be part of his Irish heritage and he treasured that. Still, he liked Wood and Osborn’s boisterous company when he was in London. They brought out his rambunctious side, made him less muted, braver, and that was to be relished from time to time.

  Ireland, Ballinasloe and Galway—especially his childhood home, Garbally Park—were sewn into William, sinew and bone. Garbally was wefted through him: every acorn that fell, every splash and turn of the River Suck, every pheasant that barked in the woods. His affection for the land at Garbally, and the house that sat on it, was almost frantic. Was that bound up with the fact that he always felt on the edge of losing his connection with Galway, despite being his father’s heir? Everything came back to Papa, really. Papa was the reason William could not conduct himself with grace into manhood.

  William, Wood and Osborn had talked much about this business of becoming a man. At twenty years of age they were expected to be men but, like all their acquaintances, they retained the ineptitude of their younger years and their fathers lamented the fact often. Days before, on a horseback ride in Rotten Row, the three young men had idled their animals along the bridle way to talk.

  “How does one become a man?” William had asked.

  Wood hooted. “Dear Dunlo,” he said, “if we must educate you on the delights of bedding women at this late juncture, all is lost.”

  “Does not the glorious Miss Bilton incite your manhood?” Osborn said, grabbing at his own crotch and howling.

  “Do stop, Osborn.” William glanced around the park to
see if anyone might have overheard. “You know what I mean.”

  “One becomes a man by doing one’s duty of course,” Wood said. “Doesn’t your pater say that fifty times a day?”

  “Perhaps even more than that.” William pulled at his mare’s reins to slow her. “But what is my duty?”

  “Your duty is whatever Papa tells you it is, my boy. That’s the way for all of us.”

  “And I have shirked my duty by refusing to go to Africa.”

  “The old man will expect you to buck up now, Dunlo. Not one misstep more.”

  “Listen to you,” Osborn said. “You sound like a pair of old milksops. Your duty, as I see it, Dunlo, is to snag that Miss Bilton and get her onto your mattress by fair or foul means. Win her, boy, you’ll be sorry if you don’t. Someone else will snare her. Wood and I would be happy to relieve you of the burden of the celestial Miss Bilton.”

  “I say.” William felt a burr of anger rise to his throat. “Don’t talk of Miss Bilton in that way. It’s not respectful, Osborn.”

  “Respectful? Respectable? What the deuce, man?”

  “Be careful, Osborn,” William said. He would not have Belle spoken of as if she were less than. She was as fine a woman as any highborn miss they knew.

  Osborn clicked to his horse to get her to trot. “Let’s toss for Miss Bilton! What say you, Wood? Isn’t that a first rate plan?”

  Wood gentled his horse into action and cantered away, calling back, “We’ll all play for her, Osborn, how’s that? Wouldn’t that tickle you, Dunlo?”