Becoming Belle Page 17

  Belle looked at him full face. “And now, William? Are you worried now for your reputation, or about mine?”

  “Not in the least. I made an ass of myself and it was brattish. I have thought nothing of you and your feelings and only of my own. You are a wonder to me, Belle.”

  She allowed him the glimpse of a smile. “William,” she said, and put her gloved hand over his. “Little Isidor is well taken care of; he is happy. His birth, and all that went with it, is something that happened to me, but I have dealt with it. It shouldn’t make a difference to us. Life goes on.”

  “Darling, you have such strength. Can we put my foolishness behind us and make our plans now?” William leaned closer. “You know I’m insanely in love with you and I will make you my wife, if I have to kidnap you to do it. I long to marry you.”

  Belle looked into his eyes. “I would go willingly to any altar with you, William, you know that.”

  “And I with you.” William pushed the table aside and fell to one knee. The scrape of the legs on the floor made heads turn. “Belle Bilton, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” He took her hands in his and smiled to see her cheeks flush.

  “Yes, William Le Poer Trench, yes, I will.”

  A pair of gin swiggers raised their glasses to each other and clinked them, then held them up to Belle and William. Belle giggled and nodded her gratitude to the two old women, and William took the opportunity to press his lips to her cheek.

  “Thank you,” he whispered into her ear and sat in beside her.

  Belle laughed. “When shall we marry, then?”

  “Right away!” William said.

  “What will your papa say? Your mama?”

  “What care I for what they will say?” William lowered his voice. “We may only know each other a few short weeks, Belle, but this is what we both want, we know it is. Let’s just run off and do it.”

  “To Gretna Green?”

  “No, we’ll do it here. London’s our home. It doesn’t take long to get a marriage license. We could be wed by mid-July.”

  Belle giggled. “Married by mid-July?” She nodded. “All right, William. All right, my love. Let’s do it!”

  A CEREMONY

  Belle wore her cherry-print dress; its oyster silk was the nearest she had to white. Flo traveled with her to the Hampstead Registry Office. Belle looked out the window of the hansom at the passing buildings. The bricks shimmered in the morning sun and there even seemed to be a glow coming off the costermongers and shoeblacks, the joes selling violets and roses, and the bowler hat brigade, going about their mornings. This was the most significant day of her life—her wedding day at last—and yet London dandered on as if nothing were new; only the glimmer of the early sunshine made something vivid of the city. What would Mother think, to see her now? And Father? Violet would be annoyed at missing the fun, that was certain, but it couldn’t be helped. It was better to do it this way; a clandestine marriage could not be argued against by anyone. When it was done, it was done. And hadn’t Flo done the same? The Sisters Bilton were not of Hampshire now; they preferred to do things their own way. How giddying it was to be covert, to pledge her love to William unobserved by the world; it was a spicy secret that they carried up until this day.

  Their cabman drove as slow as treacle and Flo roared up at him, “Get a move on!”

  “William will think I’m not coming,” Belle said.

  “The bride is always late. Don’t fret, dearie.”

  When Belle saw William outside the registry, his top hat in his hand and his gloves on, she thought how raw he looked—how like a fledgling. His face was open and startled, as if he had woken suddenly and found himself in a place he did not mean to be. Was he about to spread his wings and fly? Had he decided this elopement was absolutely the wrong thing after all? Her heart hammered in her chest and she gasped; Flo took her hand to soothe her. William’s friend Wood idled beside him, smoking a cheroot and drinking coffee purchased from a stall, as if he was about to embark on any old mundane day.

  Belle turned to Flo, pulled at her fringe and shifted the pearls that nested in her hair. “How do I look?”

  “You’re as beautiful as ever. More so. That dress is very becoming.” Flo put her hands to Belle’s waist. “So neat.”

  “My waist is not at all neat, after, you know, after Baby stretched it.” She ballooned her arms outward.

  “Pishposh! You are the most shapely, beautiful woman in London. Everyone knows it, including your viscount.” Flo squeezed her hand. “And Wednesday is the luckiest day to marry.” Flo recited:

  “Marry Monday for wealth,

  Tuesday for health,

  Wednesday the best day of all,

  Thursday for crosses,

  Friday for losses,

  and Saturday no day at all.”

  “You see! Silly Seymour and I chose a Saturday—is it any wonder we spat like monkeys? For you, dear sister, all will be well.”

  Belle thanked Flo and looked again at William while the hansom pulled up to the footpath. William’s face became hopeful—joyous—when he realized it was Belle arriving and relief sluiced through her body.

  William helped Flo out of the cab, then offered his hand to Belle. He had removed his glove, so Belle took off hers, too, and his grip was warm and steady.

  “You look wonderful, my darling.”

  “Thank you, William,” Belle said, dipping her head.

  “I have something for you.” He took a small box from his pocket and handed it to her. Belle tripped the clasp to find a gold heart on a chain. “My heart,” William said.

  Belle handed it to him, turned her back, and he took it from its velvet cushion and fastened it around her neck. She lifted the cold heart so that it sat above her cleavage and she felt it warm up against her skin. Flo pressed a posy of red and white roses into Belle’s hands and William put on his topper. The early sun beamed down on the four of them as they entered the registry office.

  * * *

  —

  The registrar had a distant air; he seemed to Belle to look through her when he spoke and he said the required words in haste, as if he had an urgent need to be elsewhere. Still, he could not dim her happiness: her heart was swollen to the point of eruption and she could not stop her eyes from lingering on William’s face. She wanted most of all to laugh with the joy that coursed through her, but she kept her head and said what was required, glad of the heat of William’s hand tight around hers.

  William smiled and repeated the sentences the registrar offered him. “I do solemnly declare, that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, William, may not be joined in matrimony to thee, Isabel.” He produced the tiny gold band they had bought together and slipped it on her finger. “Receive this ring as a token of wedded love and faith.”

  Belle gazed at William when she said the words: “I, Isabel, take thee, William, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, and thereto I pledge thee my faith.”

  Belle looked at her ring, so alien but so cherished. She twirled it with her thumb and glanced at it over and over while the registrar finished the ceremony.

  “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife.” The man gave a small grimace that Belle supposed was an attempted smile. He stood staring at them and eventually nodded sharply, and said, “Yes.” He flapped his hand between them.

  “Oh,” William said, and he gathered Belle into his arms and kissed her. She pressed her body close to his and let the warmth of his mouth linger.

  “Bravo!” called Wood.

  “Many congratulations, darlings,” said Flo, putting her hand to Belle’s back.

  Belle and William broke apart but still held each other, mesmerized by the wonder to be found
in each other. Belle’s eyes looked liquid, William thought, almost as if she might cry, but he knew it was happiness that caused the shine; it radiated from her.

  The registrar cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Le Poer Trench, please to follow me.”

  In a dimly lit back parlor, Belle signed the marriage certificate and wrote “spinster” and “actress” in the appropriate places. William took the pen and wrote their ages; he put “under age” for himself and “full” for her. The registrar, noting this, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  When they joined the others, Wood slapped William on the shoulder. “Capital, Dunlo.” He shook his friend’s hand with such vigor that William cried out and they both laughed. “Now,” Wood said, “shall we eat?”

  Flo slipped her arm around Belle and they walked ahead. “You’re Lady Dunlo now,” she whispered and the two touched foreheads and giggled.

  William stood for a moment and watched Belle move before him, the sway of her body beneath the cherry-specked gown, the upsweep of her hair that showed the pale curve of her neck. She deserved a dress of French lace, an aisle, a veil, a minister—the whole ball of wax that a church wedding meant. He hoped that in Ireland they would ascend his beloved Church Hill and in Saint John’s he would give her just that. And Ballinasloe would be their honeymoon, their home, their life. He rubbed the fob of his watch that held the wording of the family motto: “Dieu pour la Tranche qui Contre? If God is for Trench, who shall be against?” God would see that Belle got the pomp and ceremony of the kind of wedding she deserved.

  “Wait for me!” William called, and he followed the others out into the warmth of the July morning.

  * * *

  —

  The wedding breakfast was a feast of stewed oysters, thick slices of chicken galantine, moist almond cake and sculpted ice cream. William had reserved a bijoux parlor in the equally tiny Victoria Hotel, but a rook’s roar from the registry office.

  They were a party of two halves: Flo and Wood were as merry as grigs. They drank champagne like lemonade and were soon spatting about everything from the Sudan Campaign (Wood: “We deserve Egypt”) to bare-knuckle fighting (Flo: “Those men are lions. Heroes!”). Belle and William, though warmly content, were more subdued; they sat side by side in a complexity of bliss and contrition.

  “Will your parents be terribly cross with you?” Belle said. She hadn’t wanted to ask, in case William’s answer sullied these moments, but her concerns had grown; and, now that the deed was irreversible, she was concerned for William, for his dealings with his parents. She put her hand on his knee and he placed his fingers over hers.

  “I imagine they will be aggrieved, yes. Mama will accede, though. Eventually. Papa? Well, Papa is himself; he has his own mind about everything. But don’t worry, Belle, things will be set to rights.” He brushed his hand across her cheek. “How will Mr. and Mrs. Bilton take the news, do you suppose?”

  “My father will be ecstatic.” She smiled at her freshly minted husband, imagining her father’s enthusiasm for the match. He would congratulate her—“Well done, my girl, well played!”—thinking of how Belle’s position and comfort would be advanced by the marriage. Like most people, he very much approved of fine living and large inheritances. “My mother is not as easily pleased. About anything.”

  William put his arm around Belle. “I’m sorry we won’t have a tour, my love.”

  “That’s quite all right, William. The Empire would never spare me in high summer—we knew that already. We will have a holiday later.” Until William could sort things out with the earl, secure his future, Belle would continue to work and earn for both of them. She looked across at her sister and Wood, wondered if they weren’t flirting. “I do wish we could have had a larger party,” she murmured. “Seymour would keep Flo in check and Wertheimer would be a comfort to me.”

  “You need Wertheimer no more, darling. I’m your comfort now, I’ll look after you.”

  “Flo, will Seymour be joining us later?” Belle called across the table.

  Flo looked at Belle. “His office won’t spare him. Perhaps we’ll see him tonight.” She turned back to Wood who was enthusing about boxing gloves.

  “They make the fighting more strategic,” he said.

  “What a load of cobbler’s awls. How can a pair of bloated mittens change anything?”

  Belle angled her body away from Flo and Wood and looked up into William’s face. He seemed older to her suddenly, capable and in command. Could he have matured in a matter of a few hours?

  “I hope we will have a church ceremony when we go to Ireland, darling,” he said. “Saint John’s in Ballinasloe sits atop a slope, overlooking the town—the hill of Knockadoon, they call it. You’ll like Ireland. Galway is such a green and lovely place; a little wild, a little cultivated. The locals are very native but they warm up to new people. Eventually.”

  “Where would we stay, William? Your parents may not want me to stay at Garbally, despite the fact that we’re married.”

  “Leave Papa and Mama to me. They will come around when they see how much I love you. Grandmama has a dower house in Loughrea; she rarely leaves London, so we might go there for a spell. I want to show you Galway. And let everyone see my wife.”

  Belle squeezed his hand and kept her doubts to herself; the Clancartys might not reside much in Ireland anymore, but they would not want Belle there, staining their name. The older generations wished everything to stay as it had been. But perhaps she and William might alter their thinking? Perhaps, when they saw how truly they loved each other, they might come round? They were married now, despite all, and no one could tear that asunder. How brave and wonderful William was to throw off the shackles of his birth and marry for love. Was he not the most courageous man? Belle’s mind slithered over and around their situation, but she shook herself out of it—she did not want to fret; today was the happiest of days.

  Belle lifted her glass and sipped her champagne; it had lost its froth and tasted sharp. She wished she had brought her flask—a swig of blue ruin would surely see her straight and stop her rattling thoughts. A sudden yelp from her sister bounced Belle out of her reverie, back to the wedding celebration.

  “Hold your quail pipe, Wood,” Flo was saying, “I’ve heard quite enough from you.” She scissored the air in front of Wood’s face as if she meant to cut out his tongue. He dodged and giggled and Belle waited for them to collapse into each other’s arms, such was the intimacy of their sparring.

  “You might not have any more champagne, Flo. We have to perform tonight and you know what happens when you get squiffy. You forget the words, not to mention the steps.”

  “Don’t be such a gloom pot, Belle. And on your wedding day! You’ll give everyone the morbs.” Flo waved toward the window. “Look, you got the Queen’s weather, you got the man, what else do you need? Let me have my fun.” Flo swayed and blinked, looking first at Belle, then at Wood who, though equally drunk, appeared to sober up smartly.

  “Let me order coffee,” he said and, rising from the table, he tripped off to find a waiter.

  Belle took William’s hand in hers and kissed it. Her stomach jumped at the thought of holding him to her later. She anticipated that he would be a tender lover—his kisses were so—and she longed for the moment when they would yield to each other.

  “It seems ghastly unfair that you ladies have to go to the Empire tonight of all nights,” William said.

  “We knew it would be this way, William.”

  “A girl has to earn her crust,” Flo said. Deflated now that the party was over, she picked petals off the wedding roses until Belle lifted the posy out of her sister’s reach.

  William twisted the gold band on Belle’s finger. “We have tonight, here in the Victoria,” he said. “And the next few nights, too.”

  “That we have,” Belle said, anticipating again the heat of his long body again
st hers.

  “Oh, lord,” Flo said, throwing her eyes ceilingward.

  Wood bustled in, a coffee-laden waiter behind him. When they each had a cup in hand, Wood raised his.

  “A toast: here’s to your coffins. May they be made of hundred-year-old oaks which we shall plant tomorrow. May you both live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live. May the best of your yesterdays be the worst of your tomorrows.” He tilted his coffee cup higher. “To the bride and groom.”

  “To the gride and broom,” Flo said, hoping that Belle would laugh. She did.

  They clinked cups and swallowed and Belle realized that they had not made a toast with the champagne. The thought vexed her; she knew that toasting with empty glasses was unlucky. What of full coffee cups? She looked at William’s radiant face as he sipped and soothed herself. It was as Flo had said: all would be well. For certain sure, all would be well.

  A UNION

  Flo pulled Belle’s cherry-print gown over her head and helped her into her costume, a vast concoction of Venice lace and furbelows that, in truth, looked more bridal than the dress she had just taken off. Flo’s own wedding to Seymour had been tiny and swift, too, but she didn’t mind that—she had never enjoyed fuss. But Belle, with her fairy-tale heart, surely deserved more than a registry office and to have to work on her wedding night.

  “How are you, old girl?” Flo asked as she tugged at Belle’s bodice to make it sit nicely. Belle smiled like a soused pilchard and pulled herself out of some reverie, making Flo laugh. “Ah, I don’t think I have to worry, it’s as if you’re under a spell.”

  Belle blinked. “I feel charmed, Flo. Full up and fevered and content.”