Becoming Belle Read online

  “Does he say so, Issy? Has he made any promises to you?”

  “Not exactly.” Isabel felt her suspicions bloom. “But he calls me ‘baroness’—you’ve heard him, Flo. Why would he lie? And he’s so impressive, always. Isn’t he? So convincing.”

  “He’s convincing, all right.” Flo stared at her sister. “Anyway, no amount of seeming genuine equals honesty, Isabel. From what Seymour has unearthed it seems the man is a wastrel, a dyed-in-the-wool fraud.” She dipped forward to catch her sister’s eye. “Issy, he’s a devious man. I wish it wasn’t so, but there it is.”

  Isabel frowned, she had ignored any qualms about Weston because it was simpler to do so. There were checks missing from her checkbook and, though she hesitated to suspect him, who else could have taken them? Not Flo, she had money aplenty from the Empire. Not the landlady—she never entered Isabel’s room. Isabel carried her checkbook with her and Alden could easily have slipped it out of her bag when she was occupied with her friends at the club.

  Flo slumped against the river wall. “When Seymour relayed his findings, I was preparing myself to talk to you about Weston’s deceits. And now this!”

  Isabel smoothed her hands over her stomach. “I shall go to Weston and speak with him.”

  “Is there any point, dearest?”

  “I need to confront him, see what’s what. I need to know if he loves me, Flo. I believe he does and that he will act honorably. Now we shall see.”

  * * *

  —

  Isabel sent a note to Weston to tell him she needed to speak with him urgently. He did not reply, so she went to his Eider Street lodgings and sat in a hansom outside, waiting for him to emerge. At last he came out, looking like a man ready for a night on the town. He stood in the open doorway, surveying the street as if choosing which way he might direct himself to find the best evening’s entertainment. Isabel paid her cabman, alighted and walked up to Weston; geniality deserted his face when he saw her. He positioned himself back inside the door and held it, to bar her entry.

  “You did not answer my letter, Alden.”

  “I received no communication from you lately, Isabel.” His manner was aloof, and she wondered if news of her condition had somehow reached his ears already. Or perhaps, like Flo, he had divined it by observing her, leaving her the last to apprehend her own fate.

  “May we go somewhere private to talk, Alden?”

  He puffed out his chest. “As long as you don’t intend to make a commotion outside my lodgings, right here suits me fine.”

  “Very well, if we must.” Isabel moved close to him and her words emerged as a whisper: “Alden, I am enceinte.” His expression did not change. So he did know! She looked hard at him, but he did not speak. “I am, it seems, a little too far progressed for, um, for steps to be taken.” She waved her hand in front of her stomach.

  “Broken things can usually be fixed, in my experience.”

  Such an utterance! Isabel stared at him. “Alden, I won’t be able to dance for much longer, therefore my earnings will cease.” He did not move or offer any kind word. Might she not expect comfort? Might she not expect a solution to her woes? “Don’t you see, Alden? My reputation will be sullied by this. Destroyed.”

  “And what do you want me to do about it, Isabel? Do you mean to suggest the child is mine?”

  Isabel felt a heart shiver; she moved closer. “Alden, of course it’s yours. How can you say that?” She placed her hand on his shoulder and he jerked away, wiping at his coat as if she might have stained it.

  He clicked his tongue. “You were sharp enough, Isabel, to attach yourself to me when you thought I was the Baron Loando. Your wits will help you find a way out of this predicament.”

  So, Flo was right, Seymour, too. Isabel blanched and stepped away from Weston. How cold he was, how indifferent. “You’re not a baron, then. I had been told as much.”

  “I am not.” He peacocked his chest. “It was said initially in jest, but you seemed to believe it, so it kept on.”

  Ire made her voice rise. “You kept it on! You lied to me. You’re a scoundrel, Alden Carter Weston.”

  “Steady on, Isabel”—he glanced up and down the street—“they’ll hear you in Hampshire.”

  “I know you took my money, Alden. You stole my checks. I know about your dealings in Chicago. And now you mean to deny this child is yours.” She placed her hand on her stomach.

  “It is yours, too, Issy. Meditate on that.” He stepped back and moved to close the door.

  “Alden! Is this to be the end of us?”

  Isabel pushed her hand to the door, and he slammed it against her, hurting her wrist. She shrieked, but he did not open the door. She held her arm and a slick of sweat convulsed her from forehead to feet. She slouched against the wall of Weston’s lodgings and tried to calm her breathing. How could he be like this? Just days ago he had called her his baroness. Now he meant to deny her completely? What kind of a man was he?

  Isabel lurched forward and walloped on the door.

  “Alden! Alden! Please come back. Speak to me.” She knocked hard. “Alden!”

  Weston did not reappear. So this was how it was to finish. Isabel couldn’t believe it; she slumped against the door and wept. A passing couple stared, then turned their heads away and marched on. Isabel gathered herself—she did not want to be seen like this—and walked the length of Eider Street, nursing her wrist, small sobs rupturing her attempt at composure every few steps. She shook her head and walked more briskly. How could a man whom she thought she loved treat her this way? What wrong had she done to deserve such cruelty? And what on God’s earth was she to do now?

  1888

  London

  A TURN

  Isabel chose her lodgings in Turnagain Lane because she loved the street’s name. Turnagain Lane—a place that would bend her path and usher her toward a new life; a place to call her own. Flo was married now to Seymour and they had their own tiny nest; a hasty match, for sure, but perhaps Flo was the better for it. Safer from the wider world of men. In truth Isabel was happy for Flo. Seymour was not the most impressive of chaps but he was shrewd and lively in his own way, and he and Flo certainly sparked off each other, kept each other alert. He could be a little too partial at times, maybe even jealous of Flo’s time with others, but this, to Flo, spoke of his love for her. And if that pleased Flo, well, Isabel might not argue.

  Alden Carter Weston was gone, too, imprisoned for a series of frauds, his schemes found out at last. Weston had wronged Isabel, and she preferred not to stay living in the room where she had been so naïve; he was, as Flo and Seymour had divined, a human shambles. Isabel needed the fresh walls of Turnagain to face in order to ruminate on what she might do next, to make plans for the baby. It would soon be difficult to disguise the swell of her middle. Thankfully, though she was many months into her pregnancy, she carried small and her corset did the rest of the work. Though it was all getting very uncomfortable. And she had yet to decide whether to get a woman in or foster the baby out.

  Miss Blundell, the landlady at Turnagain Lane, was a suspicious type, wary of her tenants but prone to outbursts of inquisitive friendliness, too. There must be, Isabel thought, a college where landladies are schooled in the art of circumspection, for they all seemed to distrust their lodgers as much as they needed them. Though she pried, Blundell had not divined Isabel’s lies. She had told the woman that her name was Mrs. Bilton and that her husband was with his regiment in India. And Blundell clearly did not frequent the Empire Theatre, nor did she read the Pall Mall Gazette, for she was unaware of Isabel’s profession. The landlady’s ignorance was her best feature and Blundell was often agreeable—she was accommodating when Flo needed to stay on occasion, she and Seymour being prone to frequent squabbles. Her husband wanted Flo to give up the stage but she rather liked the money.

  “Your sister has not your fine feat
ures, Mrs. Bilton,” Blundell said in Flo’s hearing, in the hallway one February afternoon, “but she has her own charms, I daresay.” This was the landlady at her best—bighearted toward poor Mrs. Bilton, who cherished her sister’s company in the absence of Mr. Bilton, but still allowing herself to toss out insults.

  “You are an angel, Miss Blundell,” Isabel said; she held the woman’s gaze before casting her eyes down. “I feel so lonely from time to time. My sister, that is Mrs. Seymour, is a balm to me.” Isabel flicked her eyes to Flo, who had to turn away in case she grinned.

  “I had a sister myself, Mrs. Bilton. She was my dearest companion until the gout took her.”

  “My sympathies.” Isabel pressed the woman’s cold hands in her own, nodded ruefully and rushed up the stairs with Flo, stifling giggles until the door of her room closed behind them.

  “What a ghoul!” Flo said. “Watch you don’t end up hacked into pieces some midnight. It could be a play: The Tenant of Turnagain Lane. Missing, presumed deceased.”

  Isabel giggled and flopped into her chair; she was frequently tired these days. “Oh, old Blundell’s not so bad.”

  “This came for you.” Flo held out an envelope. “It was left in our dressing room, but you were already gone.”

  Isabel took the envelope and opened it. “An invitation from Major Noah to attend a soiree at his hotel.”

  “Major Robert P. Noah? The American journalist? The noble Jew? Do you know him?”

  “He sent me flowers last week, remember, after our performance?”

  “Why do the quality always flock to you, Isabel? Where’s my card from Major Noah, my flowers?”

  “You should accompany me, Flo. I will send a note to the major; he will no doubt be pleased for you to attend.”

  “No, no, darling. Seymour would lose a kidney if I went. Best go on your own. See if you can’t have a genial evening, after all that has been going on.”

  “If you’re sure, Flo.” Isabel did not mind going alone but it was always nice to have a companion at a stranger’s party.

  “Much as I would like to enjoy the lavish table of the excellent Jew, I decline. It will do you good to be in fine company for an evening. Keep your mind from your woes.”

  Isabel pulled at her fringe curls with one hand and smoothed the front of her skirt with the other. “What ever shall I wear?”

  * * *

  —

  Major Noah’s gathering was a soupçon more formal than Isabel had expected. She was glad of the modesty of her gown, a blue surah silk with a fichu of lace for the shoulders; it complemented her figure while hiding the hump of her stomach. Yes, she decided, she looked altogether graceful and decent. No one would divine that she was with child.

  Major Noah directed his guests to the table.

  “I insist on mixing the company,” he said, “one lady, one man, all the way around.” His American accent grated on Isabel, it was commanding and loud; Weston’s was the last voice like that she had heard.

  Some ladies hung back by the major while the footmen helped the rest to sit. Isabel, whose pregnancy fatigued her, sat gratefully. The table held rows of tiered silver dishes lavish with grapes and apples and, between them, the candles glimmered so that the glassware seemed to quiver. Isabel found herself with an empty seat to one side and, to the other, a man with a red-carnationed collar, a couple of years older than her, who also wore a shy smile.

  “Isidor Wertheimer,” the man said, and held out his lavender-gloved hand. Was everyone a Jew at this gathering? Isabel wondered. “Don’t fret,” Mr. Wertheimer said, “there are gentiles aplenty here.”

  Isabel smiled. “Ah, so you are capable of reading my thoughts, Mr. Wertheimer. That is an auspicious start.”

  They both laughed.

  Isabel removed her gloves for dining, laid them in her lap and looked around. She spotted Mabel and Tilly from Drury Lane Theatre come in and they lingered, tittering, beside their host; Isabel nodded to them though she found them the silliest of girls.

  Mr. Wertheimer leaned in. “And you are?”

  “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Wertheimer. Miss Isabel Bilton. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Is a door. Is a bell. We have the beginnings of a house between us!”

  Isabel laughed and looked at the man properly for the first time. He had dark hair and eyes the green of seawater; he reminded Isabel of a raven, sleek and neat, except that the color in his pallid cheeks rose sweetly when he spoke to her. He was not the kind of man who was attractive to her but his playful manner, in a room peopled mostly with strangers, soothed her.

  “We could be ‘Issy and Issy.’” She leaned closer. “What do you know of our host, Mr. Wertheimer?”

  “His family and mine have long been acquainted; my father goes back and forth over the Atlantic for business. The major’s pater, Major Mordecai Noah, was a friend of my father’s—‘the most famous Jew in America,’ Father called him. He tried to found a colony on a river island in New York as a haven for European Jews.”

  “An admirable venture to be sure. Is our Major Noah very famous?” Isabel looked to where the major, surrounded by ladies, poured bumpers of wine from a decanter while the butler stood idle. Isabel had learned through Weston that Americans liked to do things differently. Major Noah looked content and benevolent, a man sure of his own worth, as he topped up the glasses.

  “Our Noah writes serious articles that bring him some notoriety. Fame, I do not know about.”

  Isabel glanced at her companion again. He was well-spoken, kind in his demeanor and from a wealthy Jewish line, most probably.

  “And what of you, Mr. Wertheimer? What notoriety does your family possess?”

  “None whatever. We are merchants. Salesmen and dealers. My father has a shop in the heart of Mayfair.”

  “A shop? You are being mysterious. What sort of shop causes him to travel so much to America? Whatever does he sell?”

  “Antiques and curios.”

  “How charming. I do love fine, old things.”

  Wertheimer smiled. “As do I, Miss Bilton. And it is a charming business, you’re quite right. I dabble in it myself. No doubt you are a lady of leisure.”

  “Indeed not, Mr. Wertheimer, you assume wrongly. I am an actress at the Empire Theatre; I dabble in dance, one might say.”

  “How marvelous. Now I’m the one who is charmed.” He studied her. “You look familiar, Miss Bilton. Have you, by any chance, lately been pictured in the Tatler?”

  “Yes, I have, just this past week.” Isabel smiled. She liked that photograph, by the genius Bassano; he could make a toad look fetching. It was taken when she thought she loved Weston—and falsely believed he loved her—and she glowed rather. “Ogden’s Cigarettes and Wills are currently vying with each other to be the ones to include the picture in their packets.”

  “A tobacco card beauty, how marvelous,” Wertheimer said. “And it was a fine likeness, too.”

  The butler poured wine and the pair clinked glasses. “To dabbling,” Wertheimer said. “And to you, Miss Bilton.”

  * * *

  —

  Two days after the major’s party, Wertheimer collected Isabel from Turnagain Lane in a claret-colored brougham with a large W initialed in gold on the side.

  “What a splendid brougham. Is it yours?”

  “Father’s. He’s abroad acquiring antiques and I’m permitted to take out the carriage.” He helped her in. “Where shall we go?”

  “Why, Rotten Row, of course.” Isabel loved to mingle with the fashionable and elite in that part of Hyde Park, everyone riding on horses or in carriages, observing one another. “We may see the Prince of Wales with one of his ladies.”

  “Indeed we may,” Wertheimer said. “And he may see us. The Row it is.” He called up their destination to the driver and on they trotted. “It�
�s jolly nice to see you again, Miss Bilton.”

  “And you, sir. But you must call me Isabel.”

  “And you must never call me sir again. It’s Isidor.”

  “Do you live with your parents, Isidor?”

  “No, I have rooms in the Burlington Hotel.”

  “Along with all the other well-to-do young men of London.”

  “Indeed.” He grinned. “As you can imagine the night antics there are rife; I may take a house somewhere for peace. The Burlington would be a finer place if women lodged there, too.”

  “If the Ladies’ Associated Dwellings Company had their way, every working girl in the city would be locked into their religious asylums. I like the relative privacy of my Turnagain Lane lodgings.” Isabel slid her hand through his elbow crook. “Tell me something terribly amusing, Isidor. I do love to be entertained.”

  “My goodness, am I supposed to entertain an entertainer?”

  “Oh, say any old thing. I don’t mind.”

  Wertheimer turned to her and smiled. “Well, Isabel, I went to Greek Street yesterday and paid a hundred pounds for a hundred-year-old coffeepot. A silver pot with an ivory handle. A thing of transcendent beauty.”

  “One hundred pounds! That’s a pound for every year of its existence.”

  “Indeed it is, Miss Bilton, I hadn’t thought of that. I want to tell everyone I meet about my coffeepot, every sweep and bone grubber that I pass on the street, such is its gloriousness. And I intend to have my coffee from it every day.”

  “It’s an investment to be sure then.”

  Well, here was a man who valued finery and Isabel valued him all the more for it. She was an ardent admirer of pretty things and she put money by each week to spend when she spotted covetable items: a lace fan, a silver hairbrush, a painted parasol. Yes, she was going to like Isidor Wertheimer enormously.