Belle

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’ she asked in a weak voice. ‘I’ve been so mean to you.’

  Belle half smiled. Both the Germaines had ignored her at the start of the voyage, but they had become much more unpleasant since leaving Bermuda, not just shutting her out of conversations in the officers’ mess, but making barbed comments about her. It was obvious they’d found proof she was a whore and felt affronted that they had to eat at the same table with her.

  She had been tempted to tell Arnaud Germaine to go to hell when he begged her to help his wife when she became ill, but Belle had never been able to ignore another human being who was suffering.

  ‘Even whores have hearts,’ she said, as she reached across the bunk to tuck in the clean sheet. ‘In fact, some of us have bigger ones than ordinary folk. But I don’t know how you and your husband could be so hoity-toity about me. As I understand it, you’ve made your money from supplying sporting houses with liquor!’

  Captain Rollins had let this bit of information slip. Belle suspected it was no accident either, and that he hoped she’d use it to her advantage.

  Avril vomited again. Belle stopped her bed-making to lift the woman’s hair from her neck and cool her neck with the damp flannel. Then, when Avril had stopped retching, she bathed her face and gave her some water to sip.

  ‘You’re right,’ Avril said weakly, sagging back against the wall. ‘That is how we made our money. But I guess I chose not to think about it.’

  Belle saw no reason to labour her point, after all Avril was very sick. The china doll in her books had come to grief too; she fell off a shelf and her face cracked, and after that she was never played with again.

  ‘Well, at least you are big enough to admit it,’ Belle said. ‘Now, let’s get you washed and into a clean nightdress – that will make you feel more comfortable.’

  An hour later Belle left the Germaines’ cabin, taking the soiled sheets and nightdress away to wash. She was pleased that Avril’s seasickness appeared to be abating. After being washed and tucked back into her clean bunk, she had fallen asleep and her colour was much improved.

  Belle was washing out the linen in the laundry-room sink when Captain Rollins put his head around the door. ‘How did your mission of mercy go?’ he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Mercifully brief,’ Belle answered, and sniggered. ‘Mrs Germaine is a little better now.’

  She put the edge of the sheet between the rollers of the mangle and turned the handle, watching the water being squeezed out.

  ‘You’d make a good nurse,’ said Captain Rollins. ‘I just saw Mr Germaine and he was very touched by the way you cared for his wife.’

  Belle shrugged. ‘Whoring, nursing, they are quite alike, just looking after different needs.’

  ‘You could hold your head higher if you chose to be a nurse,’ he said.

  Belle glanced round at the captain and found him looking at her very thoughtfully. ‘I could hold my head still higher if I had my own house, carriage and fine clothes,’ she said tartly. ‘But nursing doesn’t pay that well.’

  ‘So you will continue to earn money that way once you get back to England?’

  Belle thought that was a strange question. ‘Not if I can help it,’ she said with a toss of her head. ‘I want to have a hat shop with a few rooms above for me to live in and have a workshop. But I have very little money left, and it is a long way from Marseille to London. So if you have any good ideas about how I can avoid selling myself to get that money, I’d be glad to hear them.’

  ‘It makes me sad to hear you speak like that,’ he replied, his voice soft and reproachful.

  Belle let go of the wrung-out sheet and stepped nearer to the captain, and she caught hold of his cheek with her thumb and forefinger and squeezed it. ‘Like I said, you show me another way and I’ll gladly take it. But don’t trouble yourself about me, captain, as they say back in New Orleans, I’m a tough cookie.’

  At nine that same night, Arnaud Germaine went up on the bridge to see Captain Rollins.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ Rollins greeted his passenger. ‘How is your wife now the sea is calmer?’

  The storm had blown itself out around six o’clock and although the sea was still choppy the ship was no longer lurching up and down.

  ‘She ees much better now,’ Arnaud replied in his heavily accented English. ‘We have Miss Cooper to thank for that.’

  ‘So I hear,’ the captain said. ‘Ironically, I almost refused her passage because I felt she would become ill and demand attention.’

  ‘I am embarrassed now at the way I treat ’er. My wife say she saved her life.’

  Captain Rollins smiled. He hadn’t imagined that the pugnacious little Frenchman was capable of embarrassment. ‘Then maybe you should reward her,’ he suggested. ‘I happen to know she will struggle to get the train fare back to England.’

  ‘Umm, maybe so,’ Arnaud murmured. ‘But tell me, captain, do you find this girl something of a puzzle?’

  ‘You mean because she is young and beautiful, yet so kindly?’

  Arnaud nodded. ‘She also has a curious way of flaunting what she ees. Those knowing looks, the sharp retorts. I theenk she is laughing at us all. She pointed out to my wife that we made our money by selling liquor to sporting houses, so we were no better than ’er!’

  Captain Rollins chuckled. ‘If she had said that in the mess when your wife was well, that might have created a storm.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But I do not share your amusement. I am afraid now that she will try to gain my wife’s sympathy in order to be invited to our home in France.’

  ‘I don’t think that is her way,’ Captain Rollins smirked. ‘I think you are judging her by your own standards.’

  Arnaud puffed up with indignation. ‘Why, sir, that is very rude!’ he huffed.

  The captain let his First Lieutenant take the helm later and went below to his cabin to write up the ship’s log. But he found himself just sitting staring into space, thinking of what Arnaud Germaine had said about Belle.

  She was something of a curiosity, bold, forthright, and brave too, for most young women in her position would never have dared travel all the way to France on a cargo ship. But what he liked most about her was that she wasn’t ashamed of being a whore. It was as if she’d decided at one point that even though it wasn’t her job of choice, she was going to excel at it. And he had no doubt she had, with those devastating looks and perfect body.

  He wanted her himself, he had the moment he met her, but she’d made it plain enough that she wasn’t available. He thought she was very honest, and he liked her sense of humour too. It made him smile to think of her putting Avril Germaine in her place by reminding her that her husband made his money by supplying brothels. It had also amused him when she’d told him how she’d settled on becoming the railway man’s mistress, only to find him disappointing as her lover.

  Rollins had met many men who treated their beautiful wife or mistress in the same way as a miser hoards his gold, never letting them shine in public and belittling them at every turn. He had to assume that they felt in some way unworthy, or were afraid another man would steal her from them. He could not imagine himself behaving in such a way, for if Belle was his mistress he would want to flaunt her, show her off, feel every other man envy him. What point was there in having a great treasure if you had to keep it hidden?

  But he was a trifle concerned at Germaine’s interest in Belle. Although the man had professed that he didn’t want any further contact with her in Marseille, Rollins had got the distinct impression that the Frenchman’s sole purpose in coming up to the bridge was to try to sound him out about Belle, as if he had some scheme in mind for her.

  He wondered if he ought to warn her not to accept any invitations from the couple. But if he did, she was fiery enough to say something to the Germaines. Sadly, that would mean Germaine was likely to find another ship in future to take his wine to New Orleans. So perhaps it would be best to trust
Belle’s judgement, and say nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The dockside in Marseille was even noisier, more crowded and smellier than the one in New Orleans. Added to that it was dark, very cold, and everyone around her was speaking French. Belle stood at the end of the ship’s gangway, suitcase in hand, terrified because she had no idea what to do or where to go.

  She had expected that she could just walk off the ship and would see a guest house right off, but all she could see ahead of her was dark shapes of buildings which looked like warehouses. Men were trying to take her suitcase from her, beckoning her to go with them to heaven only knew where, and there were small boys pulling at her coat and asking for money.

  Suddenly Arnaud Germaine was beside her. ‘Let me get you a fiacre,’ he insisted, taking her suitcase from her hand. ‘You must find this frightening when you don’t speak French?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Thank heavens you came along,’ she exclaimed, assuming that ‘fiacre’ was French for carriage. ‘I was just about to panic because I didn’t know where to go. Could you ask the driver to take me to a guest house, somewhere clean but inexpensive?’

  Since she’d nursed Avril, both she and her husband had become friendly with Belle. They had played cards most evenings after dinner, and Belle had got to like Avril. But she was wary of Arnaud; he had gone out of his way to be charming, but she felt it was forced.

  ‘I know the very place, my dear,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘But let me take you there and I can introduce you to the owner.’

  The smell of fish in the harbour was overpowering and Belle pulled up the collar of her coat and buried her nose in the fur. The stink was coming from a brightly lit shed less than twenty yards away; she assumed by the shouting coming from it that the fish was being auctioned.

  ‘That is an interesting place to look in by day,’ Arnaud remarked, with laughter in his voice. ‘But it is not pleasant to look at lobster, cod and herring when you are cold and tired. Take my arm now and I will get a fiacre.’

  It crossed Belle’s mind to ask where Avril was, but the noise and clamour were so great that she just held on to Arnaud and let him steer her through the crowds.

  He put two fingers between his lips and whistled loudly. ‘I always wished I could do that,’ she said admiringly. ‘But it’s not very ladylike.’

  Arnaud laughed in agreement and pointed out how effective it was as a cab driver was already flicking his horse with a whip to guide it over to them. ‘Soon we will be out of this tumult and you will feel safe again.’

  ‘This is incredibly kind of you, Mr Germaine,’ Belle said as the Frenchman helped her into the cab.

  ‘It is the least I can do after you nursed my wife when she was so sick,’ he replied, putting her case in and leaping in after it, having said a few words to the driver.

  Belle’s hands were like ice, but it felt a little warmer in the cab. ‘Where is your wife?’ she asked.

  ‘She told me to go after you and see you were safe,’ Arnaud replied. ‘My family will take her home and I will join her later. She asked me to invite you to visit us over Christmas.’

  It would be Christmas Eve the next day, but Belle couldn’t see Christmas as anything more than another inconvenience which would prevent her heading home to England immediately. Even if there was a train running in the morning, she didn’t think she had enough money left for the ticket. Worse still, what little money she still had was going to run out fast while she was living in a guest house. She would have to find some work to earn more, but that was going to be difficult without being able to speak French.

  She had wanted to ask Captain Rollins to lend her some money, but she found she couldn’t do it. Likewise she wished she had the nerve to ask Arnaud.

  ‘I’d love to visit you, but I will have to find some work as I don’t think I have enough money to get back to England,’ she blurted out.

  ‘I’m sure that will all fall into place,’ he said silkily, patting her on the knee.

  Suddenly Belle felt uneasy. She didn’t know whether it was just because she was tired, cold and anxious, but it sounded like his apparent kindness was just a ruse to make her indebted to him.

  She was only too aware that there was just one sure way she could make money quickly in Marseille, and she was resigned to that. She’d already decided to use the hotel plan, an idea she’d got from a couple of girls at Martha’s. But while she would be happy to slip a hotel doorman a few francs for assisting her to find the right client, she certainly didn’t want to have Arnaud or any other man taking what she earned.

  She couldn’t speak out, however. He might have been genuinely trying to reassure her everything would turn out fine. If she said something sharp he might turn her out of the cab and she wouldn’t have the first idea of where to go.

  In the end she said nothing; it seemed the safest thing to do.

  Madame Albertine, the red-headed owner of the guest house, fired a volley of French at Arnaud, and judging by the excitement in her voice and her wide smile, they were really good friends.

  But all at once she clapped her hand over her mouth and turned to Belle. ‘I should not be speaking French to Arnaud when you don’t understand it,’ she said in perfect English. ‘I am so sorry. Please forgive me?’

  Belle smiled and said she hadn’t expected anything other than French to be spoken here in France, and that she would try to learn some while she was here.

  Arnaud said he had to go, and that Belle wasn’t to worry about the bill as he would like to settle it as a thank you for taking care of Avril. Belle felt ashamed she had been suspicious of his motives earlier and thanked him, kissed his cheek and wished him a Merry Christmas.

  ‘Until we meet again,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘I will send a carriage for you.’

  Madame Albertine was around forty, very attractive with her red hair, green eyes and voluptuous figure. She wore a beautiful silvery brocade gown which Belle admired.

  ‘I am going out to supper tonight,’ she said. ‘Any other day you would find me in very dull clothes, but it is Christmas, so I made an effort.’

  As she led Belle up the stairs she said she hoped she wouldn’t feel too lonely. ‘I had a full house but my guests have gone home to their families now. In the next few days though I shall introduce you to some of my friends.’

  The room she showed Belle into was small, with plain white walls and shutters on the window, but there was a vivid-coloured quilt on the brass bed and Madame Albertine put a match to a fire which was already laid in the hearth.

  ‘It will soon be warm,’ she said. ‘If I’d known I was going to have a guest I would have lit it an hour or two ago.’

  ‘It feels warm enough anyway,’ Belle said gratefully. ‘I was scared when I got off the boat. I’m just so happy Monsieur Germaine brought me here.’

  Madame Albertine smiled warmly. ‘It will be good to have some female company over Christmas. Now, I’ll leave you out some bread and cheese for supper. You can find your own way down to the kitchen, I’m sure, it’s just off the hall. Make yourself at home, won’t you? And I’ll see you in the morning. Perhaps you’d like to come to the market with me for the Christmas food?’

  The last thing the older woman said before she left was that there was plenty of hot water for a bath if Belle wanted one. Back in New Orleans, she had to boil up pans of water to fill a tin bath, and on the ship she hadn’t been able to have anything more than a strip wash, so to be told that there was a bath here was like being given an early Christmas present.

  Belle slept like a log that night. She only woke as the shutters were opened and sunshine came into the room. Madame Albertine was there with a large cup of coffee in her hand.

  ‘If you are to come to the market with me, we must go now,’ she said with a broad smile. ‘Up you get and put on your clothes.’

  Belle was enchanted by the narrow winding lanes which led down to the market near the harbour. The houses were mostl
y rather dilapidated, with paint peeling off shutters and doors that looked ancient, and they were stuffed up together in a higgledy-piggledy fashion too. She could see the similarities to the French Quarter back in New Orleans in the shutters and the wrought-iron balconies, but this was the older, less organized sister. The lanes were narrower, the smells stronger and there were no signs in English.

  When they reached the market Belle kept her wits about her so as not to get separated from Madame Albertine, fearing she could be lost in the huge crowds for ever. She had seen many markets – back in Seven Dials it was one big market daily – but she’d never seen anything like this one.

  There were many hundreds of stalls filled with every kind of foodstuff she could think of, and a lot more she didn’t recognize. Hares, rabbits and pheasants were hung up by their feet on poles. Ready-plucked turkeys, chickens and geese were displayed on vast shelves. There were stalls with mountains of shiny red apples, others where different fruits and vegetables were displayed so beautifully they looked like a work of art. There were splendid iced cakes especially for Christmas, Dundee cakes and other similar kinds topped with glazed fruit and nuts. Dozens of huge red, brown and white sausages were hung up, the stallholder often hacking off a slice and inviting his customers to try. There were countless jars of what Belle assumed were preserves although she couldn’t recognize the contents, and stalls selling only bread, many of the loaves made into plaits and other fantastic shapes. There were herbs, spices, bottles of wine and cordials, chocolate, toffees and sweets.

  Here and there was a stall selling hand-painted decorations for the Christmas tree, and there were also gingerbread biscuits with decorative icing which immediately reminded Belle of Mog. She used to make biscuits like these for Christmas and hang them by their strings on a line above the stove.