Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  Mother, of course, had collapsed in anguish the day Flo left, as if she did not know the moment had come.

  “Two daughters blowing loose in the London wind. Whatever am I to think?” Mother wailed and Father had soothed her, as only he could, with gentle words and caresses.

  “Think on it, my dear. Life will be so much easier for you with just Violet here. Isabel and Flo are women now. They must take their place in the world. We must let them.”

  Mother was soon comforted, for she discerned the truth in his words—life would indeed be less fraught with two fewer mouths to feed and only gentle Violet for company.

  Flo folded the letter and, feeling watched, she lifted her eyes to see Isabel, a few feet away and grinning like a lunatic. In seconds they were upon each other, in a huddle of hugs and kisses.

  “I’ve missed you so, Isabel.” Flo clasped her sister to her.

  “And I you,” Isabel whispered, doused in emotion now that Flo was here at last. “Come. To our lodgings firstly. Mr. Hitchins will see you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  Flo knew that Pottery Lane would not be sumptuous in any degree, but she was surprised at quite how low the laneway was with its swills of sewerage and dejected-looking children.

  “The poor, sorry mites,” she said, over and over, staring at them until Isabel said the same mites would pick the ribbon off her hem if she didn’t move along.

  Their lodgings were bare but adequate and Flo didn’t mind that they would have to share the bed—they had done so at home until recently. Isabel stowed Flo’s valise in the corner, once she had unpacked, and they sat together on the bed to talk.

  “I know you’ve been censoring your letters to me, Isabel, for fear of Mother’s eyes. Luckily she didn’t see the latest one. But tell me, how is it really?”

  “It’s marvelous, Flo. All of it. The Empire girls have tempered and my days are an endless stretch of rehearsals and socializing. Honestly, life is such a flurry that I’ve barely had a thought of home.” She reached and grabbed Flo’s hands. “Except for missing you rottenly, of course. And now we are to be the Sisters Bilton. Isn’t it wondrous?”

  “More than I could have wished for, perhaps more than I deserve. I hope your Mr. Hitchins won’t be disappointed in me.”

  “Why would he be, Flo? You’re marvelous!”

  “Oh, Isabel, you will see good where there is little. But I thank you. I’ll do my best to live up.”

  “I showed Mr. Hitchins your picture, Flo, and he was in raptures. He looks forward to meeting you.”

  “And I him.” Flo softened her voice. “But what of this man you’ve been seeing so much of? This baron?”

  “Alden? We have a grand time together. We’ve been half a dozen times to the Star and Garter Hotel in Richmond, a truly lovely place. And we ride the Row in his friend’s barouche.”

  “So you’ve written to me. But what’s he like? Is he upstanding? A decent sort?”

  Isabel pushed out her chest and extended one arm. “He is commanding, a real presence. He has graying whiskers.” Flo grimaced. “No, no, they make him look distinguished. He is, I suppose, a very manly man.”

  “And he’s good to you, Issy?”

  Isabel paused then gave a decisive, “He is.”

  Flo took her sister’s hand and they both lay back on the bed. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

  A PERFORMANCE

  The first tinkle from the orchestra always made Isabel’s lungs tighten, and so it was tonight. She stood in the wings and inhaled; this caused the joyous compression in her chest that meant she was fully ready to dance and sing. London’s newsmen, who swarmed around her for interviews any time they fancied, always asked if she felt nervous.

  “No, I do not,” was ever her honest answer.

  Performing took Isabel to a place outside herself; an otherworldly feeling descended once she was in costume, warmed up and waiting to go onstage. It was her body and her mind out on the boards to be sure, but she was elevated there—all cares receded when she sang and danced. She thought of neither the good nor the bad in her life but entered a conscious trance and was carried along in it by the heat of the lights, the jangle of appreciation and clapped hands and the message of her songs. All of this mingled pleasurably with the strength and allure of her own body and its movements. The first time she had ever performed at home in Hampshire brought her to a place of rapture and, now, the Empire’s stage did the same, and she loved it. Isabel had become a prompt favorite with Londoners and now her sister, too, was being esteemed.

  Tonight, as Maid Marian to Flo’s Robin in Babes in the Wood and Robin Hood, she waited stage right for the silvery flash of light that was her cue. The scene changers swiftly erected Sherwood Forest, and when they were done, swoosh, a blast of starry sparkles ushered Isabel into the dark. She rushed forward and took her place center stage. Beyond the dimmed footlights she could discern rows of heads; when green moonlight illuminated the scene, the audience broke into merry applause to welcome her. This was the moment she loved—London’s adulation never failed to please her; Isabel’s innards softened and calm closed in.

  She faced the audience without speaking and began to flex her right leg, then she lifted it higher. As her leg rose so, too, did the hem of her gown which barely skimmed her knees as it was. Higher with her leg, arms out for balance, and a satisfying gasp erupted from the crowd. As her leg went up and up, her skirts slipped farther along her thigh; a ripple of appreciation came to her ears. She knew that Alden Weston was probably out there, savoring the sight of her; murmuring his admiration along with the rest of the audience.

  The cymbals and drums built a shimmering tension that crawled into Isabel’s gut and helped her to raise her leg higher and higher with what felt like the greatest of ease. Heavenward her foot in its laced slipper went, past her hip, past her breast, past her shoulder, until Isabel clasped the back of her calf in her palm and stood feeling the stretch through her tendons, the deep pull of her own muscles and, finally, the serenity that came with the knowledge that she had executed the move well and was maintaining her balance.

  “Huzzah!” a man roared from the front row, and the rest of the crowd stamped and clapped in response.

  “Brava, Miss Bilton!” went the cries.

  Isabel raised both hands above her head, brought her leg back to earth and curtsied to cascading applause.

  Flo, who had crept to the stage while Isabel completed her gymnastic feat, cried out: “Why, Maid Marian, have I come at an inconvenient hour? I seem to have caught you at your drill lesson!”

  The theatergoers laughed, applauded and settled into their seats. The Sisters Bilton were a popular pair, an instant hit. Isabel turned to her would-be suitor and smiled.

  “Robin Hood, why do you sneak up on me so? Have you no thieves to catch?”

  “Ah, there is only one catch for me, dear Maid Marian.” Flo pushed her feathered cap back, held out her hand to Isabel, and they clasped fingers and gazed at each other.

  The orchestra played the opening notes and the sisters began the first of many love duets of the night.

  * * *

  —

  He’s as old as Methuselah!” was Flo’s first comment on seeing Alden Weston.

  “Oh, Flo, why do you amplify?” Isabel had brought her sister to the Corinthian Club, for Isabel had warmed to the place immensely since that first visit just one month past. Flo, always as prudent as Isabel was naïvely impulsive, saw no reason not to speak her mind to her sister. They both stood and looked at Weston, who was holding forth among some ladies about a novelist he admired. Isabel gazed with admiration while Flo kept a skeptical heart. She noted that he had in fact seen them but allowed them to wait to greet him. Did he have appalling manners to add to his great years, or was he just a show-off?

  Flo sighed. “Oh, Isabel, he�
�s surely twice your age at least. What profit can come of that?” She did not mention her thoughts about Weston’s discourtesy to them, though he was so very clearly making them wait. Flo glanced once again at him. “I presume he’s married?”

  “He says not.”

  “He says not! Unsullied by suspicion, as always, Issy. Must you see only the good in every man jack?”

  “And must you catechize me, Flo? I’m your elder, don’t forget.”

  “Then Mr. Weston is your elder elder.”

  “We’re not in Aldershot now, Flo. We can see whom we please and neither Mother nor Father can tell us not to.”

  Flo giggled; it was freeing to be away from home to be sure. “Yes, it’s true. But you don’t have to let yourself be ensnared by the first man who takes an interest in you, Isabel. Discriminate a little.” She looked around at the Corinthian’s sloshed and groggy clientele. “Though good men may be hard to find among this lot.”

  “Alden’s a baron, Flo. Did I mention that?”

  “An unmarried baron. Yes, you have said little else since I got here. There’s surely nothing like a title to increase ardor.”

  Isabel liked when Flo teased; it augmented her own good humor. She kept her eyes fixed on Weston, felt a little proud that the gaggle of girls around him were consuming his words with such attention. She murmured, half to herself, “I do love that he takes me to the best of places and in that barouche with the white horses.”

  “Yes, Issy, you’re living as you dreamed.” Flo put her hand on her sister’s waist. “But, please, be alert. You mustn’t dash too headlong into things, no matter how charmed. Be a little careful, darling, that’s all I wish to say.”

  “I am careful, Flo. And, as I’ve also told you, Weston behaves well toward me.”

  “I hope so, my dear. We can never be too cautious. Life is different for ladies; we don’t possess the freedoms afforded to men. Even in London.”

  Isabel squirmed a little. Did Alden, in fact, always behave well? Was that true in its entirety? Isabel had not told Flo that Weston’s affections could be mercurial, for she barely acknowledged the fact to herself. Though she liked to consider Weston fondly when she was parted from him, she sometimes found his kindness went sour in a single moment. In her limited experience of men at Aldershot, she had never encountered such turnabout behavior. Isabel put it down to the different customs of Americans, but it seemed to her, too, that recently Alden wooed her only on the nights she was paid, the better to borrow from her; another thing she blurred for herself as she did not like to reflect on it.

  Weston at last excused himself from his mob of admirers and walked to where Flo and Isabel were, his arms aloft.

  “You can only be Miss Flo Bilton. Your sister speaks constantly of your graces and I see she doesn’t exaggerate. You are a beauty.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Your lucky parents have at least two bewitching daughters among their brood.”

  “Flattery without end,” Flo said. “I can see why my sister enjoys your company.”

  “Come,” Weston said, linking arms with both ladies, “let’s drink some wine and talk of literature and love.”

  Flo snorted and Isabel ignored her; it was like her sister to scoff at Weston even while she was allowing herself to be pursued by Willy Seymour, a city man who came to the Empire every night of the week it seemed. He had attached himself instantly to Flo. Seymour was always mooning about backstage, waiting to slip a rose into Flo’s hand and tell her how marvelous she was. Isabel was sure Flo could snare a better catch than Seymour, with his gray office face and hideous bowler hat, but Flo found things to admire in Seymour and seemed determined to indulge him. Isabel was still learning that what glittered for one woman was often exceedingly dull to another. And though Weston’s luster did not always dazzle as Isabel would like, he was, at least, a baron. So what if he was a little thorny at times, a little coarse? He was American and they had their own ways. She watched him swagger for her sister.

  “Do you love to read, Flo, as I do?” he said. “I cannot get your sister to lift a book.” He waved his hand in the direction of the Corinthian’s library, the quietest room in the club.

  “Oh, Isabel is not for literary pursuits, Mr. Weston. She prefers to live her story.”

  Weston laughed. “What a superb notion! And so superbly put.”

  “Flo is quite the bookworm, Alden. She reads Dickens, Mrs. Gaskell, all of it.”

  “A woman after my own heart.” Weston slapped his fist to his chest and let out a bellow of laughter. He winked at Flo, but she ignored him and drank her wine.

  Mr. Hollingshead, the Corinthian’s proprietor, appeared by Isabel’s side and touched her arm. “A word, if you please, Miss Bilton.”

  “Of course, Jack.” Isabel excused herself and went across the room to stand at the end of the bar with him. She angled her body so that she could see Weston and her sister. Weston had slid closer to Flo and his hand was cupped between his mouth and her ear. Good, Isabel thought, he means that they should get along; he is being friendly and attentive.

  “Miss Bilton, I must speak to you about your bill.”

  “My bill?” Isabel had no outstanding monies that she knew of. She guessed, though, that it might be of Weston’s making. “Might you show it to me, Jack?”

  Mr. Hollingshead discreetly folded out the page before her and stood by to shield it from others’ eyes. There were sangarees and cocktails, punches and juleps, as well as several bottles of wine and champagne listed.

  “Mr. Weston said you knew of this and I merely wanted to make sure that that was the case.” Mr. Hollingshead leaned forward and trained his eyes hard on her; he was being helpful, she knew, but she felt a prickle of annoyance. She glanced again at Weston and tamped down her irritation with Mr. Hollingshead—it would not do to be discourteous to him, the club was, like the Empire, becoming another home. Isabel patted his forearm.

  “Thank you, Jack. I will settle it next week, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, Miss Bilton.”

  She folded the paper, slid it into her pocket and nodded to Mr. Hollingshead. She looked to her sister; Weston was flailing his arms now, in the middle of one of his tales of derring-do, no doubt, where he was the hero against some wicked enemy. He did love to embroider and Isabel liked to listen; he had so much to say and always in such an entertaining manner. Flo, she could see, was not quite as charmed by Alden’s large stories. Isabel pressed the pocket with the bill; she would not mention it now. To either Flo or Weston. Best to pay up and forget about it. What did the bill amount to but the price of a few drinks? Wasn’t Alden good to her on other occasions? Didn’t he pay for dinner at the Star and Garter just yesterday? It didn’t matter; Isabel wouldn’t let it matter, she had more money now than most girls could dream of. Wasn’t it good and proper to share with the man she went around with? Mightn’t she fall in love with Alden by and by? He had many fine qualities and a way of making every small outing feel like a party. He was cocksure and exciting, more so than Englishmen; and of all the women in London, he had swooped in on her. Isabel launched across the club and put one hand on Flo’s shoulder and the other on Weston’s.

  “How lovely to see you two together at last.”

  “Quite,” Flo said and emptied her glass down her throat.

  A COUPLING

  Weston had begged Isabel many times to come with him into the Corinthian Club’s library. Isabel knew it to be an abandoned place; some of the Empire players prattled about girls who went there because of the privacy certain men liked. They spoke of low-lit corners and fast encounters. Now that she stood inside its book-lined walls, the dim light making a den of the room, Isabel found the library to be a respite from the bar’s clangor.

  “See?” Weston said, “isn’t it a fine place to retreat to, Issy? Didn’t I tell you it was?”

  She stood in the middle
of the room, looking into the fireplace’s glow. “You were right, Alden, of course.” Some nights, after performing, Isabel was bone weary and liked quiet; the library suited her mood tonight. She moved closer to the fire.

  “Are you cold, my dear?”

  Isabel was warm enough, but this was the brightest part of the room; and, from the chatter of the chorus girls, she knew exactly why Alden wanted her here. One part of her thrilled to his attentions, another part was dedicated to fending him off. Flo’s voice tinkled like a warning bell in her ear. Sensible Flo; she preferred the dull Seymours of this world to the glamour of the Westons and that was her right. Isabel, however, became heedless around men like Alden Carter Weston.

  She had to acknowledge that Alden’s kisses, stolen in a carriage or on a secluded walk, could be rough; he didn’t have the tender mouth of her imagination. And sometimes she was mystified when he was capricious: he could be light and easy one moment but suddenly his mind was a broil of far-off concerns. When she asked what troubled him, he might snap; other times he was gentler. Alden Weston was a wild yet vivifying companion, that was certain.

  Isabel lifted her hem to heat her ankles; perhaps she was a little cold, she was tired after all. Weston came up behind her, curled his hands around her waist and laid them on her stomach. She let her head droop to his shoulder. His lips grazed her neck, pecking softly, and, though she feared someone might enter and see them, she savored the wet trail his mouth left on her skin. Tonight Alden was sedate, and she enjoyed it when he was like this, gentle and considerate. Isabel closed her eyes and arched her neck in tandem with his kisses; his solid body, flush against hers, made a tussle of her insides. But what if Mr. Hollingshead came in? Or the fire boy to stoke the flames? She opened her eyes and straightened up.