Becoming Belle Page 2

  Isabel knew that this was likely the beginning of a tirade and she went to close the door, but Mother saw her.

  “Come, Isabel!”

  “Mother?”

  Mrs. Bilton wriggled in the bed, contorting her body so that she could sit. Her hair draggled down her back, a nest of knots, and she wore her oldest chemise, the one with the brown stains that no amount of kerosene would remove. She looks undone, Isabel thought. Outside, the dismiss bugle sounded its sweet notes and the girl knew she would be late if Mother pursued a row. Father had arranged for Mr. Lloyd, the variety show’s director, to pick up Isabel in his brougham and take her with him to Farnborough for the show.

  Her mother looked Isabel over. “Have Flo dress your hair, it needs to be up.” She tugged Isabel’s plait. “This is childish.” She looked to her husband. “John, take the gown from the wardrobe and give it to Isabel. Hurry.” Her voice was flat but at least she wasn’t fighting.

  A knock to the front door. “He’s here, Mr. Lloyd is here,” Isabel said, taking the costume into her arms with care. Mr. Bilton went to greet Lloyd.

  Mother held out her arms to Isabel. “Sit,” she said. Isabel hesitated; Mother looked so wretched. She seemed calm; but Isabel knew that at any second Mother might cry and wail like a virago again and, worse, lash out with her fist. “Come, come.” Her mother flapped her hand.

  Isabel draped the gown over one arm and sat; she took Mother’s offered hand. “Do not let me down, Isabel.” Mrs. Bilton squeezed her daughter’s fingers hard.

  “I know all the words and steps, Mother, truly I do.”

  “No doubt. But this is my role. My stage. Don’t you dare embarrass me.”

  “I won’t, Mother, I promise you.”

  Mrs. Bilton let Isabel’s hand drop, lay down and closed her eyes. “Go then,” she said.

  At the door Isabel turned to offer further reassurance about how well she knew the part, about how she would do her very best to honor Mother’s talent, but there were tears, cascades of them, sliding out from under her mother’s eyelids, so Isabel took her leave in silence, closing the door softly.

  * * *

  —

  Mr. Lloyd had a wet mouth and Isabel disliked the way he poked out his tongue and licked his lips while looking at her. The brougham was stuffy but she daren’t ask if she might open the window.

  He leaned forward. “You are as fine a girl as your mother, Miss Bilton. There’s that to be said.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lloyd.”

  “You will go far if you wish.” He cleared his throat. “On the stage, I mean.”

  “Yes, sir.” Isabel hitched her gloves up on her wrists and peered out the carriage window; she did not like to look at Mr. Lloyd, for the way his eyes dillydallied over her person discomfited her. It was not like being watched at play by the barrack soldiers; this man’s gaze penetrated her and made her feel murky. How Flo would laugh when Isabel mimicked Mr. Lloyd later, all roving stares and sodden lips. Isabel suppressed a smile.

  They passed the Aldershot rat pit, where men had terriers kill rodents for money, and Isabel fancied she could hear shouts and squeals. When they trundled along High Street she put her hand over her nose, too aware of the smell of the slops that drained into the open sewer there; the stink could permeate even carriage doors. On the road to Farnborough, the apple farms that lined the way seemed to scurry past and she recalled the day the previous summer when she and Flo had accepted a lift on a hay cart from a young farmer who whistled beautifully for their benefit. They in turn had sung for him. Hampshire could be a glorious place at times.

  The brougham hit a rut and Mr. Lloyd, who had been snoring lightly, jolted awake and smiled. He shot his tongue over his lips and began to scrabble through his coat pockets.

  “I have it here someplace,” he mumbled. He plunged one hand deep into his trousers and began to fumble. Alarmed, Isabel once again turned her eyes to the passing countryside. “Here it is!” he roared, and she sensed his hand hovering near her body. She looked and he was proffering a rectangle of paper.

  “What is it?”

  Mr. Lloyd rattled his hand at her as if she were an imbecile and Isabel took what he was holding. It was a grubby thing and she saw now that it was a calling card. She turned it over.

  “‘Mr. H. J. Hitchins,’” Isabel read aloud, “‘Acting Manager, the Empire Theatre, Leicester Square, London.’”

  “A very good friend of mine is Mr. Hitchins. A bosom comrade, one might say.”

  “How nice for you.”

  Isabel went to give back the card, but Mr. Lloyd folded his fingers around hers and pressed hard.

  “Keep it, my dear. I think Mr. Hitchins would very much like to meet you, Miss Bilton. Yes, indeed. When you are older and ready for big things, contact my dear Hitchins.”

  Isabel pulled her hand away, glad of the protection afforded by her gloves, and nodded her thanks to Mr. Lloyd.

  A HANDOUT

  It was Father who came to Isabel’s aid when she confessed she was serious about the stage. She had danced on and off in the five years since that first night at Farnborough Hall but never regularly enough to satisfy her craving to perform. She and Father were alone in the kitchen at home one spring evening when the subject bubbled up, not to be quenched. Mother, Flo and Violet were out at a philanthropic talk; Isabel had declined to go.

  “Shall we drink tea, Issy, while the others enjoy listening to the Queen of the Poor?” Father grunted. He disdained altruists and could not understand why his wife liked to listen to their blather. “Yes,” he said “a cup of black tea will do us nicely.” As a sergeant Mr. Bilton had a generous tea allowance but, still, he was frugal with his ration; today he meant to be bountiful. “I should rather enjoy a sup. And you, Isabel?”

  “Of course, Father. Sit by the hearth and I’ll make it.”

  John Bilton watched his daughter, nineteen now and glorious, move about the kitchen; she could not cross a room without it looking like a ballet. Her movements were fluid, she was at home in her supple little body. Flo, too, loved to mince about, but she had not Isabel’s grace. And Violet, well, poor Violet had a mule’s feet. Mr. Bilton looked on while his daughter unlocked the caddy and spooned leaves into a scalded pot; she flitted across the flags and placed pieces of rum cake onto a gilt-edged plate. He observed her with pleasure; Isabel was a dancer through and through. But she was domesticated also, a good cook and tidy, after a fashion. He had to own, though, that there was an itch in the girl: she was giddy, always looking outward, as if for a great rescue. And skitting about like a gadfly, while singing songs, seemed to be her greatest occupation and joy. Would Isabel make a useful wife? Sometimes he thought her no wiser than a child—she could be disconcertingly naïve—and, yet, she was capable. A girl of contrasts. Was this an advantageous thing, or was it troublesome? He couldn’t decide. One thing was undeniable, though, Isabel would not suffer being enclosed with the family much longer. How he was to profitably marry three daughters Mr. Bilton could not fathom. He would not brook a soldier’s hand for any of them, that he did know, least of all for his darling eldest.

  “Isabel, Isabel,” he said, when she sat opposite and prepared to fill his cup.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “What will we do with you?”

  She poured tea and fussed a slice of cake onto a small plate for him. “I know what I should like to do, Father.”

  Ah, here it was, there were plans abrewing. “And what is that, my dear? No doubt it involves some poltroonish young man who has snagged your heart.”

  Isabel lifted her eyes to meet his. “No, Father, it doesn’t. I should like, if I could, to make my way in the theater.”

  “You wish to pursue the life of a performer?” John Bilton sighed. This was Kate’s influence, though she would deny it. Why had he ever allowed her to take to the stage? He studied Isabel. “
I confess you have the talent for it, my dear, but are you quite certain it’s what you want? Your life lived by night? Your mother merely dallies with the stage, but you, I gather, mean to embrace that life. You would be mixing with all the disrespectable types who frequent theaters daily. I’m not sure I like it.”

  “Queen Victoria herself attends the theater, Father.”

  Mr. Bilton snorted. “So she does.”

  He gazed at Isabel. It was not possible to fully relish the idea of her taking to the stage but he didn’t want a military life for her either; he had seen what it had done to his darling Kate. However, the time was ripe to put some distance between his wife and Isabel. The house could no longer contain their histrionics when they opposed each other. Well, when Kate went into opposition against Isabel, if he were truthful with himself.

  “Isabel, if you are to do it all, it will entail a move to London. You do realize that?”

  “Yes, Father, that’s what I dream of.”

  “Dreams? Ah!” Mr. Bilton bit into the rum cake; crumbs and raisins scattered to his lap and he pinched them together and popped them into his mouth. He chewed and regarded her, his lovely girl. How would she fare in the city? She was still under his care and she had a heedless side that worried him, an incautious way that took over sometimes, perhaps born of her guileless nature. But the devil of it was that Isabel had a knack since a baby for triumphing, even when things did not go her way. When things toppled, she righted them.

  “Well, if you dream of being an actress, Issy, you must try it out,” Mr. Bilton said at last. “Dreams need courage to buoy them up and that, I think, you have. And there is no doubt that you have the ability; Mother has seen to that by letting you perform with her.” He slurped his tea, then set down the cup. “Go to the wardrobe in my bedroom. There you will find an inkwell in the shape of a horse’s hoof.”

  “Really, Father, a hoof?”

  “Yes, yes. Go and fetch the thing, bring it here.”

  Isabel went and rummaged under folded breeches and undershirts; she found the inkwell—an odd, ugly object—and brought it to her father. He flipped open the brass lid; there was no glass well inside. Mr. Bilton stuck his fingers into the space where it should be and retrieved a roll of banknotes.

  “My secret stockpile,” he said and winked. He unfurled some money and handed it to her. “This, my dear, will get you to London and keep you safe for a few weeks. Until you get yourself into some theater or other.”

  Isabel looked at the wad of notes he had given her. “Oh, Father,” she said, “it’s a king’s ransom.” She fell to her knees before him and hugged his waist.

  “There, there.” Mr. Bilton patted his hand to her hair. “Enough foolishment. Sixty guineas or so will see you right in London for the time being. I’m trusting you, Isabel, to keep your head in the city; I’m trusting you as surely as I would a man. Up now, my dear, and sup your tea.”

  “Thank you, Father. Thank you, truly.”

  Isabel rose and sat opposite him again; she drank from her cup and beamed. There was a luster to her now, a more joyous cast around the eyes than Mr. Bilton had ever witnessed there. He sincerely prayed that he was doing the right thing by releasing her into the world. And he prayed further that his wife would not lose her mind over his letting Isabel go.

  SPRING AND SUMMER 1887

  London

  AN AUDITION

  The door to the Empire Theatre stood under a glass awning. In his return note, Mr. Hitchins had indicated that he would meet Isabel there and not at the stage door, as she had expected. But no one waited for her and she didn’t want to peer through the glass for fear of looking provincial. Isabel’s hair was dressed high and she wore her best walking gown; and, though she didn’t have a looking glass in her Pottery Lane lodgings, she knew she was at her finest. The cabinetmaker who kept the room below hers had stood to watch as she passed and his fulsome gawp and botched cap tip told her she looked her best. One of the lane’s cat flayers, an ancient woman who stripped skins at her front doorway, spat as Isabel went by, and this, too, she took for a good sign. The women on the street were never cordial, but Isabel didn’t mind much; the men greeted her and, in that way, she had some daily conversation to quell her loneliness.

  It was only days since she had left Aldershot—eight when Isabel counted them up—but in that time she had moved into Pottery Lane, thanks to the assistance of a dragoon’s wife at Aldershot, and she had secured this interview with Mr. Hitchins. Isabel had, too, walked London like a kind of Lazarus, newly awoken to the joys of the world. Her feet were battered from trotting the streets, but it did not cost her. She felt as if the city moved around her alone, laying out its diversions before her as special gifts. It was all beautiful: the dome of Saint Paul’s, the ample parks, Buckingham Palace. And every bit of every day held new charms: a shard of city light cutting through her snug bedroom, a pink-frosted cake eaten at leisure in a tearoom, the playbills studied outside every theater on Leicester Square and the Strand. She liked to fancy her own name emblazoned there instead of Vesta Tilley and Bessie Bellwood.

  Not even her solitude dimmed Isabel’s pleasure at waking each day to London’s racket—the din of carriage wheels, hallooing street children, the brick men’s clamor—and the knowledge that she was far from her enclosed family life in Hampshire. Of course she missed Father and her sisters, but it was an extraordinary relief to be away from the crush of Mother’s ill humor. It lightened Isabel, made her feel like a feather at the whim of a breeze.

  “Miss Bilton?”

  Isabel turned to see a spry, silver-haired man in the Empire’s doorway. “Mr. Hitchins? Good morning.”

  Hitchins held out his hand and she shook it. “Good morning to you, miss.” He smiled and studied her but she did not feel examined, as she had so long ago with his friend Mr. Lloyd. “Come, come,” he said.

  He led her through the mirrored foyer and up the vast staircase to the Empire’s auditorium, a wonder of gilt and crimson plush. Isabel whirled, looking from the gallery to the grand circle to the boxes to the pit. The air in the theater was smoky and beery, with a bittersweet tinge like boiled onions, but there was promise in it, too. Isabel turned, finally, to appreciate the stage.

  “The proscenium is thirty-five feet high,” Mr. Hitchins said, as if he himself had designed and built it. He pointed ceilingward. “Look at the cornicing, how intricate it is.” He swept his arm downward. “Note the width of the promenade.”

  This was not Farnborough town hall; this was grand and regal and proper. A thrill flushed through Isabel’s body. Here she might dance.

  “It’s truly magnificent,” she said quietly, and she meant it.

  “And our players are magnificent also, Miss Bilton. Can you be that?”

  Isabel squirmed but she girded herself and looked at him, full face. “Yes, Mr. Hitchins, I believe I can.”

  “We shall see,” he said, and bid her follow him across the stage, through the greenroom, which was large enough for a spectacle, to the dressing rooms. “Change here and I shall see you onstage.” He left.

  Change? Into what? She had not brought a costume; it had not occurred to her. Isabel looked around, made frantic by her mistake; there was nothing to be seen: no dress, no hat, no cloak. She opened the door and peered down the corridor. Had they passed the wardrobe? She didn’t think so, but she had noticed the scene-painters’ room and also, she was sure, a prop room; she went there and tried the handle. The door opened and she slid inside. There was a higgledy-piggledy of thrones, armor and crockery; shelves held folded backdrops labeled with the names of shows: Harlequin, The Forty Thieves, Robinson Crusoe. Side by side, a huge puppet head and a lifelike piglet were eerie and still in the dim light. Isabel squeezed through the cluttered room, pushed up the lid of a trunk and, after a short rummage, found the prop she needed.

  * * *

  —

  M
r. Hitchins sat on a chair, downstage. Isabel had expected him to sit below, in the fauteuils; his proximity shook her. But she walked center stage, for she knew this might be her only chance, and stood before him.

  “Regrettably, Miss Bilton, the piano man has not come; you shall have to improvise.” Mr. Hitchins nodded for her to begin.

  Isabel’s blood pounded through her veins and washed into her ears; her heart bulged under her ribs. No music? That was all right—she would make it all right, she could beat it out in her head. She took deep breaths, urged herself to be calm and brought her feet together; she had removed her boots in the dressing room and the boards felt cold through her stockings, but that soothed her. She opened the Chinese fan plucked from the prop room trunk and held it up. Isabel had removed her jacket so that Mr. Hitchins might see how slender her waist was and she held her elbows aloft now to billow the fan so that he could fully appraise her form as she moved. With no music to guide her, she could set her own pace, so she began with just the fan and her eyes, coquetting for Mr. Hitchins as if it were something she did for men every day of the week. She slid the fan to cover her left ear, then briefly covered her eyes: her lover knew now that they were being observed. She switched the fan to her right hand: now he knew she had another suitor. Isabel closed the fan with a flourish and held it in her hand as she began to sway, arms above her head, her ruffled skirt swooshing with the rhythm of her hips. Mr. Hitchins’s eyes on her were appreciative and she undulated slowly the better to show the slender vigor of her body. Isabel twirled on the spot twice, then performed jeté after jeté around the stage, tapping her ankles elegantly each time she jumped, and flicking open the fan in her extended hand each time she landed. Often she and Flo would do this in the barracks yard when the soldiers were drilling elsewhere. Now she conjured the air of the garrison around her, Flo flitting behind, chirping out a suitable tune, the sound of their soles on the ground.