Becoming Belle Page 25

  Belle took the tiny golden coronet in her hand and studied it. “How dainty. But it’s so miniature it may get lost in my curls,” she said.

  Bassano rushed back to his cupboard. “But the venerable Augustus Druriolanus sent this one, too!” He held up a tiara with seven tall crests that shot up from the circlet like icicles.

  “That’s the one!” Belle said. “If the newsmen want to notice me, then notice me they shall.” She reached for it, and Bassano led her to the mirror and fixed the tiara into her hair. “Isn’t it formidable and gay?” She twisted her head and admired the sparkle of each of the columns; the central one had the largest stones and its crystal glow was mesmerizing.

  “Now, take it off, change your gown and we shall reassemble you for the photographs.”

  Belle did as she was asked and was soon seated in a throne-like chair by Bassano’s much-employed palm fronds. Her dress had a deep neckline, petal-ragged layers, large bows on the shoulder and the bodice was embellished with dog roses; Mr. Harris’s costumier had designed well.

  As Bassano worked they chatted and, during rest periods, Belle rolled her arms and neck to loosen her muscles.

  “My mother summoned me to the Star and Garter lately, Alex, for a tête-à-tête.”

  Bassano inspected her. “Really? And what did Ma Bilton want with you?”

  “She wished me to know that news of my marriage had reached her. ‘We read newspapers in Hampshire.’ Though it was my uncle, of all people, who provided the juiciest morsel—the fact that William had gone abroad.” Belle moved her hands from her lap to her neck, letting the gold heart rest in her palm for a moment. “She met me to shame me, really, that being her natural inclination.”

  “Mothers are queer creatures, are they not? They love us madly until we display the signs of our true selves, until we’re no longer malleable. Then they choose whether to love us anymore. Or not.”

  Belle rose from the chair and paced the studio. “When I came to London, there were none of the ancient grudges to deal with; I was free to be a new self. But now there are different animosities, new adversaries. Every person I meet brings so much with them and everything becomes a gallimaufry of this intrigue and that. It’s tiresome.”

  Bassano came to her and put his hand on her arm. “Life is hard, Belle, that is an immutable fact. And people only make it harder.”

  Belle looked up at him. “My mother should be glad I didn’t end up in a bawdy house, with a thousand other Hampshire lasses. Flo and I have made a success of ourselves, but Mother gives us no credit for that.”

  “Might she be envious?”

  “Undoubtedly she is. She had ambitions as an actress herself. But it would be pleasing if she’d celebrate our accomplishments. Even a little.”

  “And what of your father?”

  “Poor Father. He is lamb to mother’s wolf.”

  “It’s often the case.” Bassano clapped his hands and drew Belle back to her seat. “Come, let us attempt this pose one more time, my dear. We have to keep Augustus Harris happy. Now, try to look less dejected, if you can.”

  “I will try, but when things are topsy-turvy in my life, my whole body reacts from brow to boot. I’m fatalistic, Alexander, it has always been so.”

  “Well, if that’s true—and I’m inclined to think that it is not—you’re an optimistic fatalist and they’re the best kind.”

  “You’re so sweet to me, Alex, and I neglect you terribly.”

  “Come now, let us press on. You’re the queen of the West End, Lady Dunlo, and you have the headgear to prove it.” Bassano pushed his upper body under the camera’s cover and told Belle to hold her pose.

  She breathed in, attempted to empty her mind and tried—and failed—to look serene. Bassano had not the heart to tell her that in her Drury Lane Theatre poster she would look dashed and dispirited. But, then, wasn’t there always something a little toxic about Venus?

  A SEVERANCE

  Little Isidor scuttled away from Belle and hid his face in Sara’s skirts. Her infrequent visits made her a stranger to him. It was April already and she had not seen him since before Christmas. Belle smiled at the child, but, it seemed, he was disinclined to engage with her.

  “It’s all right, Dory,” Sara said. “Say hello to the lady.” She tried to grasp the boy, but he ducked farther behind her. “She’s your mother.” Belle wondered if Sara said that with some reluctance.

  Isidor groped his way around Sara’s legs and stared up at Belle; a snail trail of snot silvered his upper lip. He made no move to wipe it away and neither did Sara, and Belle did not want to ruin her lawn handkerchief by going at him. What to do?

  “His nose is dirty,” Belle said.

  Sara bent low and pulled the back of her hand under the boy’s nose; she gawked at Belle as if she were absurd to have pointed out such a thing. Belle still clutched the parcel with the flannel shirts, cape and knickers she had brought for Isidor. On the train she had vowed to herself that once seated in Sara’s cottage, she would gather the boy onto her lap and talk to him. He might even answer her—at almost two years of age children could talk, she presumed. Belle would show him his new clothes and maybe even dress him in the red wool cape, so he would remember it was from her when she was not there. She would cuddle Isidor, pet his hair and sing him a ditty:

  Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea,

  Silver buckles at his knee;

  He’ll come back and marry me,

  Bonny Bobby Shafto!

  But the unaccustomed fact of her son, his physicality, tumbled her from her good intentions. The boy looked bedraggled and feral in a long, shapeless shirt—a replica of Sara’s own children. Where was the braid-trimmed shirt Belle had so recently sent? This was a baby’s garment he had on; it was time he was in something shorter with knickers to match.

  She watched Isidor move about the room; he reminded her of a mouse, watchful and silent, but swift when it was needed. Belle did not now feel any desire to touch the boy, or sing to him, or rock his body on her knee. And she did not want to dress or undress him; if she did, she would see whatever grime painted his naked body. He looked as though he might be sticky as a newt all over.

  It was easier, it seemed, to be a mother in her imagination than in fact. Her own mother’s disdain for her flooded Belle of a sudden, and she did not like that little Isidor raised similar contemptuous feelings in her breast. She would not become Kate Maude Penrice Bilton, not in this world or any other. Belle was capable of being a loving and gracious mother, she knew it. Something must be done. She dipped to the floor and brought her head close to her son’s. He jinked away from her, quick as quick.

  “Dory,” one of the older girls warned. She knew, no doubt, that Belle’s visits were important.

  Belle moved closer to the boy and he slunk back. “Would you like to take a walk with your mama, Isidor? With me? I am your mama.”

  Sara pushed him forward. “Go out with the lady, Dory. Show your mother the trees and flowers. Show her the pond.”

  “Is it far, the pond? Does he know how to get there?” Belle asked, all amazement that one so young might have knowledge of such a thing as a route that led somewhere.

  “It’s only down the way, ma’am. He plays there most days.” Sara scooped up the child and looked into his eyes. “You want to go to the pond, don’t you, lad? Eh, Dory?”

  Isidor nodded, struggled out of Sara’s arms and ran for the door. Belle followed.

  * * *

  —

  The pond was a scummy, dark pool beside a derelict cabin. Belle had followed Isidor’s short, sturdy strides along a mud track to get there; she lifted her hem to avoid gathering a rim of dirt. The air felt sweet in her nostrils, as refreshing as post-cigarette air.

  “What a superb day, Isidor, to be surrounded by nature. How fortunate you are to live in such a place, are you not?” Sh
e rocked in her shoes which were seeping now on the boggy bank.

  Her son ignored her; he fell to his knees at the pond’s edge and dragged rushes and twigs into a roundel, as if he meant to make a nest for himself. His back was to Belle, and she felt his avoidance of her as a deliberate rejection of her voice, of her touch. Belle had never in her life been fond of children; she was not a clucky cooer like Flo who, since a child, had loved opportunities to be with babies of all kinds. Belle’s own son made her feel inadequate; her maternal feelings—those she thought she should have—would not rise. Around her the trees crackled and she felt as if a hundred pairs of eyes judged her ineptitude as much as her discomfort. A rustle from the track they had come by made her stare that way. She was not sure if what looked like the figure of another child was real or fantasy. It was a bush perhaps, the branches hung like limbs. Belle squinted but could make no sense of the form at this distance.

  Little Isidor continued to erect his twig burrow, some sort of refuge, perhaps, from the other children. Maybe he came here so often to get away from them and the smoky hut. Belle was disquieted by his lack of attention to her; his absorption in choosing the right stick, and the perfect clump of moss, irked her. And yet she admired his stout concentration on his task—he struck her as a fully formed, tiny man going about his day’s work. How did babies suddenly become people? When exactly did that occur?

  “Look, Isidor,” Belle called. “Dory, look over there—daffodils.” She pointed to the flowers that stood in a sunny cluster at the base of a tree near the water’s edge.

  Dory lifted his head, turned and fixed her with a stare that seemed to encompass every ounce of Belle’s neglect—it was at once a look of sorrow, indifference and, she was sure, contempt. It was as if the boy knew full well that she was his mother, but spurned the fact violently. Such a small person, such malice. Could one so young really have such feeling? But, oh, didn’t Belle perhaps look that way when she, as a girl, stared at Kate Bilton? The boy continued to glare at her and it jarred her insides. What was amiss that she could not control the men in her life, even one as unfledged as her son? For years she had witnessed her mother lord it over her father, and he had obeyed without question. Belle could not make her own husband stay by her side, and now this child she had labored into the world would not respond to her. Was her agitation and sadness over William warping her, or was it a fact that she would never be able to engage satisfactorily with men? And, further, would she ever become a loving mother to treasured babes?

  “See, daffodils,” Belle called out, trying to be amiable, and waved her hand again.

  Little Isidor turned his head toward the flowers, rose out of the muck and went to them. He plucked each stem; when one dropped to his feet, he scooped it up. He stood with the bunch of daffodils wrapped in his small embrace.

  “Well now,” Belle said, “you are a gentleman after all. Come, give the flowers to Mama.”

  She held out her arms and fixed what she hoped was a cordial smile to her lips. But Dory did not come; instead he walked back to the water’s edge and laid the flowers by it. He hunkered down and plucked off the daffodils’ golden heads, then tossed them bloom by bloom onto the murky surface of the pond. He gathered the stems, went to his nest and began to weave them through it.

  “You little Podsnap,” Belle said, but the boy did not look her way. “Isidor Alden Cleveland Weston, turn to face me when I speak.” He did not shift. “I’m talking to you, boy.” She could not understand her noxious anger, it rose through her and swathed her, and she could not seem to tamp it down. “Isidor!”

  Dory stopped his work, but did not turn and did not move. Belle stared at him, at his composure, his stubbornness. The small body and the back of his head seemed an affront to her.

  “Turn!” she shouted. Her voice echoed into the trees and across the pond. She was as mad as hops; the child was an intractable little shit! Weston had made him so; Sara had made him so. “Turn to me!” Belle roared.

  The boy stayed where he was, his gaze toward the pond. The very stillness of him enraged her. How dare he deaf ear and cold shoulder her, how bloody dare the child?

  “Turn your face to me, Isidor.” Her voice was low and steady now.

  The boy remained a statue; Belle inched forward. “Turn!”

  He would not move and his mulish stance made her furious. She went up right behind him and grabbed at his arm, but Isidor had sensed her and he jerked himself away. He toppled then and Belle watched, stunned, as he fell forward into the pond. A heavy splash and, swift as a stone, he was gone. Wavelets rippled from where he had sunk and Belle watched them flutter outward, then disappear. Daffodil heads bobbed away from the bank.

  A crack and shuffle nearby made Belle turn her head and one of Sara’s girls stepped out and gazed at her.

  “You!” Belle shouted and the girl turned and ran back up the track toward the cottage.

  All was silence. The trees seemed to hold their breath along with Belle. For a moment the hush deafened her. She could feel the shush of air at her fingers where Isidor had missed her grasp. Had she been about to hit him? She knew not. Belle looked up through the trees at cloud fragments ragging across the sky. What had she become? Was she going mad?

  The thrash of wings and a click-and-shift movement among the trees woke her from her trance. At the same moment Isidor burst through the surface of the water, whooshing air into his lungs in starved gulps. He was farther from the bank now and, arms flailing, he once again fell below the surface. Reason and remorse flooded Belle and she lunged into the pond; she knew where he had been, and she got to that spot and groped through the dank water to find him. Nothing. She plunged sideways and moved her arms frantically under the water. One hand caught something and she yanked it surfaceward. His ankle! She pulled on the leg until she was able to grab the boy’s waist and heave him up into her arms. Belle stumbled, but she stood in the water and held him, terrified he would slip from her, swift as an eel. Isidor coughed and dragged breaths into his lungs; he did not struggle.

  “I have you,” Belle gasped. “I have you, Dory.”

  * * *

  —

  You’re sodden, ma’am.”

  Sara met them on the path and lifted the boy from Belle’s arms and handed him to one of her older daughters. They entered the cottage and Belle saw the small girl who had been at the pond; she stared at her and the girl eyed her back and said nothing. Isidor did not fuss or sob, and Sara’s older daughter stripped him deftly and wrapped him in a blanket. Sara pulled Belle by the arm to the fireplace and bade her sit. The whole family stood around, watchful, as Belle tried to explain.

  “He fell. He fell in the pond,” she stammered. She glanced at Isidor, who sat in the girl’s lap, shivering, and kept his eyes fixed to Belle’s. “I . . . we were picking daffodils and we must have gone too close, for he lost his footing and—”

  “No!” said a small voice. The younger girl stepped forward.

  “Hush, Mabel,” said her sister. “The lady is speaking.”

  Belle looked around and continued. “I went in straightaway. I grabbed Dory; he wasn’t in the water for long.”

  “You both got a fright, no doubt, ma’am.” Sara glanced at the boy. “No harm done. Come, Miss Bilton, let me take your gown and dry it for you. You may lie on the bed in the room beyond until you’re recovered.”

  “No, no, it’s quite all right, I have inconvenienced you enough today. My clothes will dry on the train. I must get back to London now.” She wanted to say It is not Miss Bilton, it is Lady Dunlo, but did not. She felt a stab of guilt at the thought; she could be as imperious as Kate Bilton and no mistake. And as deliberately cold.

  “Sit a while, miss. Dry your skirts at least.” Sara beckoned to her eldest girl. “Annie, make cocoa for Miss Bilton and a round of bread and treacle for Dory.”

  The girl nodded and set about her tasks; Belle p
ushed her feet in front of the grate and stared into the fire. She tried not to think about what had happened by the pond and she deliberately kept her gaze away from her son.

  The cup was veined with dirt and the cocoa tasted bitter, but Belle drank it and was thankful for its heat. Mabel, the smaller girl, stood where she had been since they had arrived back and would not unfix her eyes from Belle. She was made uneasy by the girl as much as by the conflicting feelings that mauled her breast and mind.

  “I will thrash you, Mabel, if you do not find a way to occupy yourself,” Sara said, lifting the poker and shaking it at her daughter.

  Dory unpeeled himself from the blanket and climbed out of the chair he had been placed in. He walked toward Belle, naked, and stood before the fire. Belle thought he was going to speak, but he only stared at her. She held his gaze; he had Weston’s eyes, not hers. Would little Isidor eventually end up like the pretender that his father was, his whole life built on deceit? Or would he be more like Belle—unruly in every choice? Perhaps he would live as simple a life as Sara and her family. Whichever path he followed, she could see no fine future for him.

  Sara came over and put a long shirt on the boy and rolled up the sleeves. When she was done she kissed the top of his head and pushed him away. He took a twig from the pile by the fireplace and scuffled on the floor with it. Belle watched him and realized she felt mostly indifferent to the boy; he did not fill her with love, though she rather wished he did. He bore the taint of Weston, that was the problem. But the child was safe, well and at home. It occurred to her that she might feel more affection for her canary than for her own child; the bird raised feeling in her, something akin to love. Could this be true? The thought was both horror and balm. Was she the worst mother to have lived? A replica, in fact, of her own mother? Weston had soiled the boy for her; she could not get over the circumstances of his birth. Belle was not proud of these feelings, but how was she supposed to muster love for little Isidor? But then, she reasoned, if she did not care for the boy, she need feel no true maternal burden. If motherliness toward him was not naturally awoken in her, she was surely not to blame. This new rationale made a sigh of relief erupt from her mouth and the boy lifted his eyes to hers at the sound.