Becoming Belle Page 9

  Wertheimer nodded. “I understand that, Isabel, I really do. But, for myself, I must try.”

  Isabel squeezed his hand; she understood, though it wearied her. “Tell me, is this Sara woman’s home sanitary?”

  “I believe it is—her own children are hardy. They spend a lot of time outdoors. The air is extremely pure in Sussex, you know.”

  Isabel nodded, lifted his hand higher and rubbed her cheek against it. “Whatever would I do without you, Isidor? ‘Issy and Issy.’ Isn’t that right?”

  Wertheimer smiled at their old joke. “Yes, my dear. Forever and always.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat by her into the night. Flo returned with a subdued baby Isidor and placed him in the mahogany cradle that had held Wertheimer as an infant. Isabel rocked it gently with her foot and reveled in its homely creak in the new silence. Flo bade them good night and left for the theater. She did not perform as much now that the Sisters Bilton were retired for the time being, but Mr. Hitchins made room for her in the chorus and gave her a solo song on occasion, for which she was grateful.

  Isabel dozed and woke, chattered softly with Wertheimer and listened for Baby’s snufflings from the cradle. Together they watched a lustrous moon rise over the garden oaks and sail out of sight like a departing clipper.

  “What is to become of me, Isidor? I seem to reel from one bad decision to another. Weston. Baby. What is to be done?”

  “Hush now, you mustn’t fret. Life seems large and unwieldy at the moment, but hummocks have a way of ironing themselves out, too. You’ll see, my dear.”

  “I’ve cooked my goose this time, I think, to a pile of cinders. Who will want me now?”

  “Lots of fine fellows would be happy to call you wife, Isabel.” He lowered his voice. “I’d be glad to myself, as you know.”

  “Don’t be a sheep head, Isidor.” But would it come to that in the end—would she need to enter a marriage of cooperation? Wertheimer would make an adequate husband and his family were not short of brass. But did she not deserve the deep and mutual love she craved? Isabel shook her head to lose those thoughts. “We are friends and friends only. But the most cherished of friends, of course.” She put her hand in his. “All will be well, will it not, Isidor?”

  “Yes, dear Issy, all will be well. For you, all will no doubt be perfect in the end.”

  A FORAY

  Neither Wertheimer nor Flo had wanted Isabel to travel alone to Lewes to see Weston, but she insisted. She left Maidenhead early and it was a relief, truth be told, to be away from the demands of baby Isidor, who remained with her while she decided what to do. Such a fretful, needy boy; he drained her gaiety as much as her strength. Eight long weeks of his caterwauling and no matter how much Godfrey’s Cordial she dribbled into his mouth, she could not quiet the child. Just that morning he had wailed, the treacly concoction bubbling in his throat, and she paced her bedroom with him, singing, until she was weary of the words and of her own voice:

  “He stroked her hair—and all the rest,

  Unlaced her stays and done his best;

  Says he by this job he’ll feather my nest,

  With my nice Godfrey’s Cordial.”

  Still baby Isidor bawled and refused to sleep. “Something will have to be done with you and soon,” she said.

  The Sussex air was blithe after the stuffy train and Isabel felt scampish, walking alone outside without Flo, Wertheimer or the drone of the baby carriage for company. She felt a minuscule sense of her former self before facing again her final destination and her mission there.

  Weston’s abandonment of her had been cruelly done; to have wooed her, impregnated her and then to say she must have lain with another man! And, to add to it all, pilfering checks from her. Of course the fool had misspelled her name in his forgery and was rapidly found out. For all his love of words and books, Alden Weston was unable to spell.

  To brace herself for seeing Weston, Isabel strayed into a gin shop near the Lewes railway station. If, she thought, I could stand before every timepiece in England—Big Ben included—and roll its hands backward, I would do it. Tock-tick, ting-ting. She would love to push through every quarter chime, every hourly strike, until she had not yet met Alden Carter Weston. To be sure, it would mean rebuilding all her successes at the Empire, but it would be worth it never to have encountered the man. Isabel sat with these imaginings in the Lamb and sipped a gin and peppermint.

  The Lamb, unlike rougher London counterparts, provided seating; she could linger there in comfort and let her mind wander or settle as she chose. Two women sat nearby, slurping at cream gin and feeling no need to converse with each other; a man stood at the bar with his pennyworth, ready to leave once his throat was scalded. The proprietor lifted the basket of cakes from the bar and wiped the mahogany in a slow circle where it had rested. No one looked around or spoke. This was a place of precious peace.

  A sip of gin, a thought of Weston. He—and his likes—were the pinnacle of her desires not so long ago: all she wanted was a man of some heft who would look after her in style. How little she understood of men then, of how swagger masks all manner of swinery. She was unschooled in the treacheries of those who roved all over, seeking innocents to fool and swindle.

  Isabel lifted her glass, found it was empty and ordered a hot butter gin, for warmth. She swirled the cloudy mixture and drank. Gin, gin, lovely blue ruin, sweet Bryan O’Flynn. Isabel set down her drink and squinted at the gaslights until her eyes watered—their glow was mesmerizing. The business with Weston, his deceits and betrayals, must not put her off trying for a good man. She had had her brush with the brutish sort. There now, it was done. She needed a good fellow, someone with both breeding and money to recommend him. But how many of them were to be found in London or anywhere else?

  * * *

  —

  Isabel found Lewes Jail was not as imposing as she had feared, until she realized she had only gained the lodge and the prison proper was farther along, inside high redbrick walls. A warder escorted her through the huge stone archway and across the yard.

  When Weston’s letter had come, stamped in black with “Jail of Lewes,” Seymour wanted Isabel to throw it in the fire at Fairleigh Lodge.

  “Let the flames have it,” he said. “You mustn’t read a word of what that man has to say. Give it here, Isabel. I shall burn it for you.”

  “No,” Isabel said, “I will see what he has to say.” Perhaps Weston would acknowledge his child, perhaps he would express remorse. Perhaps he meant to arrange for baby Isidor’s upkeep?

  Seymour tutted. “He will have nothing to say that doesn’t concern himself alone.”

  “Seymour’s right, Isabel,” Flo said. “Don’t concern yourself with Weston any longer.”

  Isabel was curious and opened the envelope. In the letter Alden Weston pleaded with her to visit, but he did not once mention her condition or ask if his child had been delivered into the world. So it was anger that propelled her to East Sussex, and, along the way, she planned the mighty bull and cow she would have with Alden, the insults that she would throw at him, the retorts she would slap down. She readied her lines as if preparing herself for a show at the Empire.

  But she was not prepared for the bludgeoned look of him; it had not entered her mind that his appearance would be altered. The warder brought her to a passage and stood beside her, while Alden stood a body’s length away, behind an iron-grated door. He wore a gray suit with a glengarry cap that sat, pudding-like, on his head. He was plump now, puffed-out in the cheeks. And he was subdued, as if every jot of vigor had been leeched from him.

  “Isabel,” Weston said, “you have really come.”

  “Yes, Alden. I received your letter.” Isabel glanced at the warder, but he stared ahead in an attitude of indifference. “How are you?”

  Weston looked at the floor. “I am well, all things considered.”

&nb
sp; Isabel bristled at the forlorn tone. Had he not committed fraud and therefore was it not his own fault that he was incarcerated? Had he not run from her when he realized she was carrying his child?

  “We shall reap as we sow,” she said.

  “Indeed. I’m reading the Bible every day, you’ll be pleased to hear. I have that, a prayer book and a hymn book. That’s as much as I’m allowed for entertainment.”

  “You’re well nourished in that case,” Isabel said. She shivered, the jail felt colder than an icehouse.

  “We go to chapel. And I sup well, too: a pint of gruel twice a day, meat soup, bread and potatoes.” His look was imploring; he begged for a pinch of kindness but Isabel was in no humor to give it. Still he had not asked after her health or about the baby.

  “Did you see the yard, Isabel?” Weston asked. “They hang men there.” He agitated his hands, which were coruscated with pus-filled scabs. “I handle the rope. They have me picking oakum. See?” He held up his fingers; and she looked at the welts that decorated them and the broken, blackened nails. His hands had once been as peach soft as her own. “It’s worse than the worst of Dickens,” he whispered.

  Isabel stifled a snort. Here he was living his own true drama and still he talked of books. Ludicrous, conceited man.

  “You have not inquired after your son, Alden. Has it escaped your memory that I was with child when last we met?”

  The warder cleared his throat, but Isabel was only too aware of him beside her and did not need reminding that he could hear their conversation.

  “I hadn’t forgotten, Isabel, but I wasn’t sure whether you had, ah, taken measures.”

  “And you never inquired. But, no, Alden, I did not take any measures. If you recall, I told you that I was too far progressed for that.” The warder strolled away and Isabel was grateful to him. “Your son is alive and well and, you may like to know, he flourishes despite you.”

  “A son.” Weston rubbed his ruined hands across his face. “His name?”

  “Isidor. Isidor Alden Cleveland Weston.”

  “I see. Isidor. He’s named for your new Jewish friend.”

  “The only one I’ve had this past while.” So he knew of Wertheimer; how news scuttled even into the darkest corners.

  “Surely Wertheimer is too busy scollogueing at the Corinthian Club with his particular pals to be of any use.”

  “How dare you! Isidor Wertheimer has housed me and taken care of me when no one else would. He’s paying for the upkeep of your son. And you mock him. From your prison cell! You who were often so drunk in the Corinthian you couldn’t speak, let alone walk home unaided. Good day to you, Alden.” Isabel turned to the warder. “I wish to leave.”

  The man extended his arm to indicate to her to walk ahead of him. “After you, miss.”

  “Isabel!” Weston called. “Issy! I apologize. Come back, come back. Isabel, I need money. I need money, damn you.”

  Isabel did not turn her head. “If you need money, Alden,” she called, “I suggest you write to your wife.”

  “Isabel, remember this: Shylock always wants his pound of flesh! Your Wertheimer won’t let you off easily.” He pulled the cap from his head and whacked the grate on the door. “Isabel, I need money; I need to get out of here. Damn you, woman!”

  She walked ahead of the warder through the frigid corridors of Lewes and out into the welcome glare of the Sussex sunshine. The walk to the railway station was a lighter affair than the one from it. Flo and Seymour had been right, of course; she should not have come. Weston was not worth it; he didn’t care a whit about his son, his only care was for himself. Weston was beyond the help of anyone. Horrid man, she would not think of him again. That was the last time she would mire herself with a scoundrel; the next man to capture her heart would be honorable, a good man.

  Spotting a row of shops, Isabel veered across the road to distract herself in admiring their wares. In the window of a modiste’s stood a mannequin clad in a mauve-and-plum-striped dress, with a neat purple jacket to match. How Isabel wished to wear a gown like that, over a corset laced so tightly her breath would come in gasps. Soon, she thought, soon. I will emerge from this after-baby ennui and dance again. And when I am earning again, I will build up my savings and buy everything that pleases me, everything that is au courant.

  Feeling of a sudden hungry as a raven, she accosted a passing baker’s man and gave him a whole penny for a half buster. She pulled the loaf apart in great handfuls that she stuffed into her mouth as she walked, caring nothing of who saw her. The bread lodged in her throat, but she chewed and swallowed, forcing it into her as hard as she hoped to force Alden Carter Weston from her mind.

  A BARGAIN

  Isabel never did inquire exactly how Wertheimer knew Sara. When he first brought Isabel to Heathfield in Sussex, the cabin on the edge of the sleepy village seemed at once the perfect place for baby Isidor and the most miserable spot in England. The woman was sullen, Isabel thought. Not sour exactly, but wary and silent. Sara regarded Isabel with what she took to be reproachful eyes and she wished to escape the mean dwelling and its occupants as quickly as possible. Isidor squirmed in her arms and she held him in the same hopeless way she always did. He was an unruly, earthy child and, even after two months of mothering, she did not know how best to control him and his convulsing limbs. Isabel handed the baby to Sara when she felt a sneeze forming in her nose. It came in a spasm and she stepped outside into the warm September air, waving her hand in front of her face, though she was away from the smoke that engulfed Sara’s room. When she came back in, baby Isidor was docile in Sara’s arms and he was gazing at Isabel as if trying to remember from where he knew her.

  “We shall take our leave, Sara,” Wertheimer said. It bothered Isabel that his polite address to this woman was identical to the manner and tone he used with her. She had thought herself unique in his affections and assumed the gentle way he spoke to her was reserved for her alone. Isabel stared at Sara, trying to hide her annoyance.

  Wertheimer pressed a pouch of money into Sara’s hand and she looked at him, her expression unchanged. “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  Isabel stepped forward, feeling she was breaking a spell, and kissed baby Isidor on the forehead. “Good-bye, my little one,” she said. She hooked her arm through Wertheimer’s. “Shall we?”

  The coach that would take them to the railway station came into view. On the train, Isabel stared out the window at the hedgerows, wondering if Baby would miss her and if she would miss him. She wanted Wertheimer to comfort her and he would have given his consolation gladly if Isabel had indicated she required it. But she kept her face to the passing countryside, both repelling Wertheimer and waiting for him to offer solace. She wished he would at least tell her everything would turn out tolerably, no matter if he did not know whether it would or not. When they arrived in London, Wertheimer asked if she would like to dine at the Café Royal.

  “I don’t feel hungry,” Isabel said. She could not say why leaving Baby had affected her so miserably; she guessed it was some pang of maternal guilt and it surprised her to feel it, considering she had not adapted well to motherhood. Wertheimer took her hand, placed it on his arm and began to walk. She looked up at him. “Might we go to the bazaars instead of the Royal?” she asked.

  “Of course. A splendid plan.”

  Wertheimer loved to frivol away his money and the bazaar stalls always threw up some trinket or gewgaw for him to buy. Every surface in his rooms in the Burlington Hotel, as well as in Fairleigh Lodge, was decorated with striated glass vases and china fairings. He owned vesta strikers shaped like bulldogs and fish, and pert courting couples fashioned from porcelain. He had trinket boxes and a rack of meerschaum pipes in the shape of lions’ heads and female nudes. He was always happy to add more novelties to his collection or find bits to sell on.

  They gained the street from the station, and the t
umult of the traffic and the roaring costermongers assailed Isabel’s ears. It made her wonder how it was she never normally noticed the noise. Though loud as Niagara, London always seemed to her a place of tranquillity and ease.

  South of Oxford Street, they entered the glass doorway of the Oriental Bazaar, a fragrant, many-windowed place of aviaries and towering ferns. Isabel passed the parrots, monkeys, lovebirds and squirrels to find the cage that contained the warbling one-eyed canary she often visited.

  “That fellow will never sell,” the proprietor always said, “for ’oo wants a cyclops canary in their ’ome?”

  The bird was stout and sunny, despite his affliction, and his one black eye seemed to Isabel so alert and attentive that she was sure he remembered her every time she visited. He trilled and sang, cocked his head and stepped madly this way and that on his pale legs. The canary’s good eye had a flirty black stripe flicking away from it that gave him the air of a Chinaman. It stood out as if painted with kohl against his lemon feathers.

  “That one likes you,” the proprietor said, sidling up and feeding a tiny piece of apple to the canary. The bird waggled its head and stepped nearer to Isabel, lifting his face to hers as if imploring her to commune with him.

  “I daresay he does like you,” Wertheimer said. “Look how he gazes at you and preens for your pleasure.”

  “He and I know each other well, don’t we, Pritchard?”

  “Oh Lord, she’s only gone and named the bird!” said the proprietor.

  Wertheimer grinned. “You’ve called him after the murdering Glasgow doctor? I say, Issy, you do have a sense of humor. Who should his companion be, though: his wife Mary Jane or poor Elizabeth, the maid?”

  The two men laughed. “I wouldn’t want to be old Liza,” the proprietor said, and mimed the strike and toss of a vesta, and a puffing conflagration.