Becoming Belle Page 16

  “He speaks the truth, to be sure.”

  “You’re not tiring of the music hall, surely?”

  “I may be tiring of my whole life, Isidor.” Belle knew she sounded dramatic, but everything was atumble. “William seems to veer between manly sincerity and juvenile absurdity. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take him seriously. When does life follow a glassy-smooth path, Isidor? When does one know that one is on the right path?”

  “Now I see. Dunlo. But, come, you have a jolly time, don’t you?”

  “I do, but I seem to have so many strands to keep straight and everything gets tangled. I told William about Baby, you know, and since then we’ve barely had a proper conversation. I don’t know what he’s thinking, truly.”

  “Ah. Revelations affect men in odd ways, Belle. Be patient.”

  “I shall have to be, I suppose.”

  The food arrived and Belle cut a kidney and popped it into her mouth. She considered not eating and, instead, letting the port ooze through her to make her relax and stop her troubles fouling her thoughts. Her cares encompassed William’s silly actions and her capricious feelings about baby Isidor. And then there was the immovable Flo, beloved but ever present.

  Once the tang of Worcestershire sauce hit her tongue, Belle realized she was hungry. She called for more bread to dredge up the sauce and barely lifted her eyes to Wertheimer while she ate. When her plate was as clean as the moon, Belle sat back, reached for her glass and drank a good gulp of port.

  Wertheimer looked at her. “I would say bon appétit, but you appear to be finished.”

  Belle giggled. “I did not dine once today. Silly as it seems, I quite forgot to eat.”

  “I have raised a smile, at least. At last. Now, take a deep breath and tell me, what is the matter between you and the viscount? Is Dunlo acting the complete fool?”

  Belle sipped her port, letting it warm her. She leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Yes and no.”

  “Is his interest waning?”

  Belle wondered if there was a note of hope in Wertheimer’s question. “On the contrary. William’s as fervent as he ever was.”

  “Have you talked of marriage?”

  “William talks of little else. It’s all ‘When we are wed, this’ and ‘When you are my wife, that’ and ‘You will adore Ireland once you grow accustomed to it.’ I haven’t thought that he was altogether serious. Well, I haven’t allowed myself to think he might be, I suppose.”

  “Goodness. I hadn’t realized you two were so far along. And so soon. I knew you regarded him highly, of course but . . .” Wertheimer paused. “What of Dunlo’s family?”

  “He assures me he can deal with them. He is tight with his mama.”

  Wertheimer lifted his port and drank. “Do you love him, Belle?”

  “I do, I think. I mean, yes, I do love him. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Love always is.”

  “Something about him turns my heart upside down and I don’t quite know myself when I’m around him. Though he can be mightily childish at times. But, you see, he’s good and steady, too.” She sipped her drink and thought a moment. “I feel safe with him, but, at the same time, he makes me skittish as a colt. I don’t seem to know what I comprehend when he is near; I hardly feel like me.”

  Wertheimer leaned forward and put his hand to Belle’s cheek. “You do love him, my dear. You’ve just said it.”

  She looked at her friend. This was the effect William had on her, a topsy-turviness, and, in the end, a heated regard, a feeling of needing to be always near him, of desiring him in a needy, ravenous way.

  “Yes. I think you’re right, Isidor. I do love William. I love him well.” She paused. “He made me a ludicrous proposal this evening. He was drunk and treated it as sport.” She frowned. “He won my hand in a game of lanterloo he played with Wood and Osborn.”

  Wertheimer smiled. “Dunlo’s original, I’ll say that. So, what’s to be done?”

  Belle thought for a moment. William was drunk and irresponsible tonight, but she knew there was sincerity behind his shenanigans. “Well, game or no game, I believe I shall marry him.”

  “Brava!” Wertheimer held up his glass. “And he will make an uxorious husband—foolishly doting upon you until the day one or other of you expires. That much is clear.”

  “If he can only free himself from the chains of his father, he will.” In truth Belle knew William had to both extricate himself from—and bond himself to—the earl if he was to inherit anything.

  Wertheimer held his glass aloft. “To marriage!” he said. “To Viscount Dunlo and Miss Belle Bilton!”

  Belle clinked her glass to his. “To love.”

  * * *

  —

  Belle stood in the wings, listening to the introduction for Mr. Tusso and his dummy. These matinee performances tired her; she felt she was only in bed, then out of it again and she had not slept well. William was no doubt still abed, sleeping off his excesses. The chairman banged his hammer and launched into his customary mellifluous oration:

  “Vitally virtual variations vary valuably, vying venerably with vocalization! Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the world’s finest ventriloquist: Miiiiiister Fred Tusso and his crafty companion, Coster Joe!”

  Belle listened to the chairman go on; her corset pinched at her ribs and she tugged at it in irritation. Men always got a bigger to-do than girls, but these introductions were too much—since when had puppet masters become so popular? The crowd clapped, bellowed and stamped until Mr. Tusso settled himself onto his stool and stared them into silence; he wore a suit of amber fustian and his companion its match. The spotlight dazzled and, in its beam, dust motes descended slowly like new snowfall. Mr. Tusso conversed with Joe who sat on his lap and afterward, with the help of Mrs. Tusso, he made a whole army of dummies speak to one another.

  Belle found she couldn’t laugh; she longed for the act to be finished so she and Flo could get onstage, and off again, as quickly as possible. She was distracted and wanted leisure to sit and think about William’s bid for her hand, about her future. Nay, it had not been a romantic proposal—in fact it had been a ridiculous one—but it was meant; he talked so often and so surely of them as a married pair. What matter that it was decided by lanterloo? But did William do it like that because he was upended by the news of baby Isidor? Was that why he proposed in such a silly way? But, now, had she not come to London for colorful experiences? Had she not come to meet a good man? Belle stretched her arms over her head and extended each leg in turn. Yes, it was more than possible that she would be wed before long. But William would have to do better than some drunken offer, badly executed.

  More applause and soon came the cry: “And now, the dainty dames you have been waiting for all afternoon, please be upstanding, please applaud your loudest for the bountifully beautiful, the amorously artful, the one, the only, Sisters Biltonnnnn!”

  Belle patched on a smile and flounced center stage, meeting Flo there. The piano in the pit struck up “My Wild Irish Rose” and the sisters linked arms and sang:

  “My wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows.

  You may search everywhere, but none can compare

  With my wild Irish Rose.”

  The audience applauded madly, then settled to listen. Belle warmed a little to their goodwill and strengthened her singing. After another verse, she waved her arm for them to join in, which they did with heart. But the clangor of the piano tried her ears and the smell of turning fruit and porter assailed her nose. Sometimes, when her mind was occupied with the bigger parts of life, she wondered at all this prancing for squawking children and drunk men. Many of the adults were more intent on their pipes, biscuits and pewter pots than the stage, and the youngsters preferred Tusso’s dummy to everything else. All the while she sashayed and sweated while the footlights scalded her eyes. She lo
ved to perform, to be sure, but day after night could be wearying. Would she need to do this much longer? Might there not be an easier life ahead?

  The next part of their act was a tap dance and Belle hoped Flo had rehearsed her steps. When she and Seymour were in the thick of one of their bust-ups, Flo’s head seemed to drain of everything she knew. The pianist started the tune, and Flo stepped the wrong way so that Belle had to maneuver to the other side and guide Flo back to where she was meant to be. Meanwhile Belle buck-and-winged, faced the audience and kept up her smile. She could hear that her taps and Flo’s were not falling together and she silently cursed her sister and her absent husband. When Flo once again crossed to the left instead of the right, Belle grabbed her by the waist and shoved her into the correct spot.

  “Go back to bloody Seymour,” she hissed. “You’re making a botch of this.”

  “Let go of me,” Flo said, and wriggled away from Belle, glossing over a series of steps in an uncomplicated shuffle.

  “Follow me now,” Belle said, but Flo was elsewhere and Belle could only cover up for her by staying out in front and throwing herself into the dance with vigor.

  At the end of the routine, while the audience yelped for more, Belle tried to catch Flo’s eye, but her sister would not look over.

  “Let me alone, Belle,” she whispered.

  The applause subsided and the audience waited.

  Belle stepped forward. “We will leave you with our favorite song,” she said, “the one set at the forge, which I daresay you know. Join in with us, please do!”

  The crowd roared its appreciation and the sisters began:

  “A lusty young smith at his vise stood a filing,

  His hammer laid by but his forge still aglow,

  When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling

  and asked if to work at her forge he would go.

  With a jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle,

  With a jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle, hi ho!”

  A CONSOLIDATION

  William whimpered. The words “lanterloo” and “proposal” pinged inside his head like breaking billiard balls. He was tossed across his Burlington Hotel bed, still dressed, and a spit pool dampened his cheek. He hauled himself up and went to his washstand to perform his ablutions. His blood must surely be half gin today; he could feel its sour stride through his veins. The mirror spoke its own tale: his eyes were puffy and his hair sprung this way and that in an unruly show. He tried to subdue strands, but they were recalcitrant.

  “Damn it to hell,” he said, poked some more, then left his hair to flop about in any stupid fashion.

  William went to the window; it was unbearably bright. He had not closed the shutters and he scrunched his eyes against the light and his pounding head. He had gotten drunk, he knew, not just because Wood and Osborn were debauchees who loved to divert him, but because of what Belle had told him. It didn’t change his love for her, but the news of her boy had disarranged him. She was more experienced than he, vastly more of the world; Belle had lived already and knew what it was to bear a child. She had loved before, even if it had all gone sour with the chap, that shameful fellow. But Belle knew things about men and women that he was only now learning.

  And then, of course, there was Papa. Papa would not be happy and that would mean strife. William shook his father from his mind and concentrated again on Belle. So she was practiced in the arts of love. Wasn’t that a good thing? Didn’t it meant that they would bond rapidly once married? And wasn’t she utterly delightful in all ways, a woman of grace and beauty? Belle pleased William in places that he did not know could be pleased. The violence of his hangover swarmed through his brain; William rubbed his temples with force and let out a moan. “Aaahhhh.”

  He must go to Belle. She was no doubt furious with him and rightly so. She would be sleeping, though. Late to lie and up with the lark did not mix well. Or perhaps she had slept badly, because he had upset her? He hoped not; it pained him to think he might cause an unruly night for her. William scratched his head, pulled once again at his hair and tried to cut through the suet all the alcohol had made of him, mind and body. He must let Belle slumber, she needed her rest; later he would see her and make amends. William then remembered a promise to take luncheon with Osborn, so he dressed in haste and made his way to Verrey’s.

  * * *

  —

  Ah, Dunlo. The condemned man has arisen!” Osborn grinned and waved his knife to beckon his friend forward. For a gentleman, Osborn had beggarly manners. “The haddock is glorious!”

  William crossed the room, sat opposite Osborn and wished he had not come. He should have gone to Belle, no matter if he had to make her landlady wake her. He watched his friend shovel food into his mouth and longed for transportation at the hands of some higher power, back to yesterday afternoon. Back to the time before he had played lanterloo. Before he managed to get so vigorously drunk that he embarrassed Belle. If only some nifty Gabriel might appear and spirit him up into the sky, up through time to the hours before he, Wood and Osborn had begun their spree. Oh why was he always so easily lured into actions he later regretted? William sighed. The damask tablecloth glared into his face; the silver, too, had an aggressive glisten. He rubbed his eyes, felt his guilt smother him like a vine.

  “Are you all right, Dunlo?”

  “It’s only that everything is so uncommonly bright today,” William murmured, lifting the menu which had a pristine white cover.

  Osborn stopped sawing at his food. “Have we a big head this morning, eh? A touch of delirium tremens perhaps?” He chuckled, mock-trembled his hands and recommenced his attack on the fish. “Suck a peppermint or two, Dunlo, it always works for me!”

  “I need more than peppermints, Osborn.”

  William perused the menu and ordered poached eggs. When they arrived, the yolks were so pinkly perfect on top that he almost wept. Hangovers always made him maudlin and the sight of such magnificent eggs stirred him and, therefore, the swirl of remorse inside him rose higher. William agitated his fork and did not eat. How he regretted the fervor of his drinking; how deeply he regretted his idiotic proposal to Belle. How he wished his devotion hadn’t wavered, even if only briefly. If he had remained resolutely loyal to her he wouldn’t have gotten soused and he wouldn’t have played lanterloo. William pushed away his plate and stood.

  “What ho, Dunlo?” Osborn blinked as if emerging from a stupor. “Where are you off to, man?”

  “Good day, Osborn. I have business to attend to.”

  * * *

  —

  Belle’s landlady looked at William as if he had crawled from a thieves’ den when he asked to see Belle.

  “Miss Bilton is sleeping, I fancy. She’s a young lady what works ever so ’ard, ever so much. Why, she’s already done one performance today and is returned to ’er room for relaxation.” She squinted at him. “I do not know that she wishes to be disturbed.”

  William should have remembered that Belle had a matinee. The landlady was right: Belle did work uncommonly hard. But he wanted urgently to see her, to set things to rights.

  “Might you tell Miss Bilton that Viscount Dunlo is below and wishes to speak to her?”

  The woman sparked on hearing his name. “I most certainly will, sir. Step inside, sir. Come into my parlor, Lord Dunlo.”

  “That’s quite all right, madam. I thank you, but I shall wait here.”

  “As you please, your lordship.” The landlady bobbed a curtsey and disappeared up the stairwell, roaring Belle’s name, lusty as a street crier.

  William lit a cigarette and smoked it quickly; he stalked up and down the footpath, welcoming the harsh powder of the smoke in his lungs. He rubbed his vesta mermaid with his thumb and watched carriages clip up and down Conduit Street. On a normal day he would assess horse withers and guess horse heights, but all he was capable of now was
regurgitating his remorse to chew on. He waited what seemed an uncommonly long time for Belle but took that interval as part of his punishment. She looked pensive when she opened the door, came outside and closed it.

  “Belle.” William offered her his arm and was relieved when she took it.

  “Shall we step into the Seven Stars?” Belle said and William nodded.

  There were a few quiet drinkers inside the public house, nursing their pots of ale and nips of cream gin. Belle went straight to the bar to inspect the edibles.

  “Tea and Banbury cakes for two, landlord, if you please,” she said.

  William followed her to a corner and waited while she sat. “I want to apologize, Belle, for last night’s antics.”

  “And so you might, William.”

  The barman brought a tray and poured the tea. Belle and William both reached for a cake at the same time, snapped back their colliding hands, then lifted cakes and held them without eating. Belle broke hers into bite-size pieces and William imagined licking the spicy fruit from her fingers and the look that that might bring to her face. He shook his head and gathered himself.

  “Belle, I made an idiot of myself last night, but here is what you should know: I do mean to marry you.”

  “And you suggest that by playing cards to win my hand? By having some foolish game with your hoity-toity friends with me as the agreed prize?”

  “It was very badly done, Belle. I know that now and I’m sorry. I rather lose my head when I drink too much, and Wood and Osborn, well, they like mischief of every kind.”

  “And they rather seem to enjoy making a fool of you.”

  William flinched; he was stung but only because she was right. “Yes, they often make a fool of me and it’s not a difficult task.” He watched Belle pop a piece of Banbury cake into her mouth and chew; she wouldn’t look at him. “When you told me about your boy, I became fuddled. I wondered why you would want to be with me, so inexperienced, so callow. I may have lingered, too, on what it might mean. On what others might think.”