Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

  “Pritchard is a maverick,” Isabel said. “He prefers to go it alone. Isn’t that right, my little one?” She put a finger between the bars of the cage and the bird reeled away, flying up and around, then returning to his perch to stare at her.

  “It’s a solitary bird, the canary, it’s true. A sensitive species—retiring, you might say. But excellent company, especially for ladies of, ahem, expansive leisure.”

  “I see,” Isabel said. She wanted to tell the man she worked for her living.

  “They’s easy to keep: a few seeds, a tidge of boiled egg, the odd dandelion. Sweetest, most mild bird in the world to ’ave round the ’ome, madam. Yes, the perfect bird for a lady, if I may say. And, ooh, you should ’ear ’im sing! Like an angel come down from ’eaven.”

  “We’ll take him,” said Wertheimer.

  “Isidor!”

  “A very good choice, sir, but we do ’ave two-eyed birds, sir, if you care to look over ’ere. Undamaged specimens, so to speak.”

  “No, my friend likes this yellow fellow, so we shall have him. And a cage. And whatever else we need.”

  Isabel squeaked in delight. It had never occurred to her to take Pritchard home—he was a stop-off on her trips to town, a mute comrade to call on when she was fed up with the milliners and modistes. When she was tired of people and their endless chatter and woes. But it delighted her to think that she might have Pritchard’s companionship daily.

  “You’re such a dear, Isidor,” she said, pressing her fingers into her friend’s arm.

  “Anything to make you happy, Issy.”

  The proprietor busied himself getting the canary ready: a turreted cage, food and water bowls, a mirror “for company” and “a bell for summonsing.” The man whistled and laughed as he prepared the bird, telling Isabel to swathe the cage in fabric by night to “make the little fellow feel safe.”

  “Yes, it will keep the mite secure, to ’ave the light blocked out. They frights easy, these canaries,” he said.

  Isabel nodded and watched his ministrations, forgetting baby Isidor for a while, forgetting herself.

  1889

  London

  AN ENCOUNTER

  Viscount Dunlo had appeared in the Corinthian with his friends after the Empire one May night and every time Isabel looked up, his eyes were upon her. It was hard not to notice the man for he was taller than most and his hair sat in golden rolls, like the seraphic boy on the Pears’ Soap box. There is something shy about this one, Isabel thought. She called Lord Albert Osborn over to ask who his friend was. Osborn was one of those who liked to mingle with nonconformists by night and with his own kind by day; he had long been a patron of the Empire and the Corinthian Club and he and his tight pal Marmaduke Wood went about together. Now they had a third.

  “Who is that fine, fair-haired fellow you’re keeping company with, Lord Osborn?”

  “That, Miss Bilton, is the Earl of Clancarty’s eldest son, William Le Poer Trench—Viscount Dunlo. We were at school together. A topping chap.”

  “A viscount? My, my. I didn’t know they made such diffident viscounts.”

  “He was raised in Ireland,” Osborn said, “I daresay that explains it.”

  “Indeed it might.” Viscount Dunlo? Next he would be an earl. Isabel had never encountered a viscount from Ireland and she did so like the Irish—they had a softer manner than her countrymen, were less inclined toward pomposity. And Viscount Dunlo looked to be of just that breed: a refined, titled man. Isabel took her wine in her hand and approached William Le Poer Trench, who drained his drink as he kept an eye on her advance.

  “You lower that champagne like water,” she said.

  William stared at his empty glass and blushed. “I’m drinking heartily tonight. Tomorrow I go to Africa with the militia.”

  “Ah. Then I daresay you need another bottle.” Isabel flicked her hand over her head and ordered more champagne from the waiter who came. “Shall we sit together, sir?” William nodded fervently and they retired to a corner table and sat. “Aren’t you going to ask me my name?” she said.

  “Oh, but I know who you are,” William said, and there was a zealous rake to his voice.

  “Then we’re equal, for I know who you are, too. I’ve noticed you at the Empire in recent times. You are quite the regular.”

  William dipped his head. “Once I had seen you, Miss Bilton, I couldn’t stay away,” he said sotto voce.

  Isabel clinked her glass to his. William’s cheeks flamed, warming her to him. She was used to the bluster and swank of other men; Viscount Dunlo had a mildness about him that was most agreeable. And he was large and handsome, generous of mouth and, when they had stood before each other, she reached heart high on his chest, so that she had to tip back her head to talk to him. This was a man born to protect a woman.

  They began to talk in earnest then and found that they could not stop. Any formality was lost as they flitted from one subject to the next: they touched on everything from the Plumage League who wished to ban feathered hats, to the horrible deaths of Prince Rudolf and his mistress. By and by, William asked about Isabel’s childhood at Aldershot.

  “Military life was too orderly for me,” she said. “I longed to get away, even as a child. Though I was born here in London, I didn’t know it very well—we made limited forays once we moved to Hampshire—but from what little I saw of the great city, I was determined to leave the barracks and come back.”

  William sighed deeply. “We are alike, Miss Bilton. I wager the martial life is not for me, either.” He looked up and held her gaze.

  “Oh, I do apologize, Viscount Dunlo. I was so busy jabbering that I’d quite forgotten you sail with your regiment tomorrow.”

  “Let’s not talk of it.” He swigged from his glass.

  “Tell me about Ireland. I’ve been fascinated by your country ever since the Royal Dublin Fusiliers visited Aldershot.” Isabel had just that moment remembered the Royal Dublins. “They looked very fine in their red coats and bearskin caps. And they had such pretty accents.”

  William’s face softened. “Ireland is a wonderful country, to be sure. The people are decent and mild. Garbally Park, our home in Galway, has my heart in its grip, I don’t mind telling you, Miss Bilton.” He smiled and Isabel could tell that thoughts of his home moved him keenly. “It’s a green and lovely place, rich with trees but with long views of the parkland. We have twenty-four thousand acres altogether in County Galway, Miss Bilton. At least, my father has.”

  “And do you have siblings, Viscount Dunlo?” How glorious the word “viscount” felt on her tongue.

  “I have a brother, Richard, and a sister, Katherine. But I’m the eldest.”

  The Honorable Richard and the Lady Katherine. And Viscount Dunlo the heir to twenty-four thousand acres. Well, well. Isabel’s stomach warmed and she leaned closer to her companion. “My father was not blessed with a son,” she said. “I have two sisters, Flo and Violet. Father complained of being ‘confoundedly surrounded’ by women but, of course, it was lightly meant. In a world of soldiers he welcomed the diversity of our company.”

  “I’m certain he did.”

  William’s eyes lingered on Isabel’s face and she let them. He was a decidedly good-looking young man. Such flawless skin, such a neat military mustache. She wondered how it would feel brushing against her mouth.

  William, for his part, was entranced. Having so long admired her on the stage, here she was before him, a thousand times more lovely at close quarters. To be sure, he had clearly seen—and memorized—the shape of her small body at the Empire: the tiny waist, her comely legs, the curve of her bosom. But, modestly attired in her evening gown, and up close, Miss Bilton was delicately beautiful, luminous, and there was a certain wistful set to her eyes that stirred him to his kernel.

  They surveyed each other in this way as they talked, each appraising, each fin
ding no fault with the other, only beauty and advantage. Isabel tamped the giddiness in her heart, she did not wish to appear too keen, but there was no mistaking Viscount Dunlo’s interest. He appeared to sip her words along with his champagne and it pleased her enormously. He seemed such a sweet, good-natured man.

  The Corinthian Club was almost empty when they raised their heads and it was obvious several hours had passed. Isabel was mesmerized by their easy banter and laughter, the shy glances exchanged and the bolder ones held. Their conversation never idled—it was as if they had known each other before and were merely slipping back into an old pattern of cheer. It was, Isabel thought, a singular meeting.

  A NAME CHANGE

  Alexander Bassano told Isabel that she was “bella,” as he bid her to stay very, very still. He grunted, flicked his fingers and Isabel held her breath. Bassano’s head wriggled under the cover and she stared ably forward. Her mind was not on Bassano’s fiddling machinations but on Viscount Dunlo, William Le Poer Trench. It thrilled her that William had not gone to Africa with his regiment, preferring to stay in London to be near her. He had simply gotten up the morning after their first true meeting and decided to stay in London.

  “How could I leave you?” he said, as unadorned a statement as that, when he sought her out at the Empire the next night.

  Isabel had stood in her dressing-room doorway, still in her stage rig-out, and stared at him, glee ascending into her throat. “Indeed, Viscount Dunlo, I am extraordinarily glad that you did not leave.”

  Since that night, three weeks before, they had met daily to sup and walk, flirt and drink. And they talked, it seemed, a century’s worth of words. They sought each other out like air and Isabel only felt easy when at last that part of the day arrived when they would be together. She hoped he would come to the Corinthian Club tonight and sit by her to talk. Isabel liked William’s peculiar accent with its unpredictable lilt into Irishness. She enjoyed his earnest devotion—there was something quaint about his sincerity when he listened to her chatter. William would sit, his eyes round as shillings, while Isabel complained about a pianist who couldn’t keep time or the bodice of a costume laced so tightly it made her want to gag. He loved to hear her talk about what it had been like to live at the barracks at Aldershot and her father’s role as an artillery sergeant. William sat, mute as a lap dog, and listened. Yes, there was something tranquil and unvarying about him and the way he gave his attention. He was never showy like so many of the other men of Isabel’s acquaintance. She knew William only since early May, but already there was extraordinary alchemy between them, an almost supernatural ease. It delighted her.

  “Finito!” Bassano called, bringing her back from thoughts of William. “Bella, bella,” he said, though he was as London as jellied eels. “Bella!”

  “Bella,” Isabel repeated. “Belle. Belle.” Isabel studied Bassano; they were good friends since she was in his studio so often to be photographed for shows and for the press. “Do you know, Alex, I think you’ve just given me an idea.”

  “What’s that, my dear?”

  “The way you said bella, it’s made me think to change my name. I will be Isabel Bilton no more. ‘Belle’ seems a better one for me. Belle Bilton. Belle! What do you think?”

  “Eccellente! Belle. It sums you up, Isabel.”

  “Belle! I like it.” She blew through her lips—pffffff—like a kettle releasing steam and swiveled her jaw, now this way, now that. “I rather think Mr. Hitchins at the Empire will like it, too.”

  She concertinaed her neck and shoulders and dipped her chin to her chest, then shuddered and shook out her arms making her sleeves shush pleasantly. She let the pose roll out of her body and allowed her own self to come back, along with her new self—Miss Belle Bilton. Now, didn’t that sound fine? It was a fitting name for a woman of the stage. The newspapermen would like it, too. They were hungry for her now that she was back.

  Bassano removed the camera plate and fixed the image. Once finished, he sailed toward his sitter and fingered the kohled beauty mark to one side of her mouth. He ran his hand over the knot of walnut hair atop her head, then scooped her cheek in his palm.

  “Molto bella!”

  Belle lifted his hand away and cocked her head. “Would a Gainsborough suit me, Alex?”

  “A Gainsborough? Now, do you mean a painting or a hat, bellissima?”

  “A hat, of course. Silly man. With a blue ostrich feather in the band. I saw such a one on Lady Adeliza, the Countess Clancarty, and it looked ever so nice.”

  “Countess Clancarty? Your Viscount William’s mama?”

  “My viscount?”

  “Isn’t he yours? Or do you belong to Wertheimer, that dashing Jew? Perhaps the Americano, Weston, hasn’t lost his hold on you? It’s hard to know who is who sometimes.”

  “Stop it,” Belle said. “Don’t speak to me of Weston—he wronged me too much to hear his name said lightly.”

  “Mea culpa. Forgive me.” Bassano tugged at one of her fringe curls.

  “So, Alexander, a Gainsborough. Shall I or shan’t I?”

  “Well, everything suits you, Isabel, so, yes, go buy a Gainsborough. Everything and, may I say, very little at all suits you, too. Splendidly, indeed.”

  Isabel giggled. Bassano loved to swoon over her and admire her lavishly. She was used to such appreciation now, but Bassano was never coy about it and that pleased her.

  He kissed her hand. “Go buy your feathered hat, Isabel.”

  “Belle, Alexander, say Belle.”

  “Belle, yes. Belle.”

  “Help me with my cape.”

  She stood still while Bassano draped the garment over her shoulders; the satin lining made her shiver from scalp to toe.

  “Someone walked over your grave just then,” Bassano said.

  “Don’t be so morbid, Alex.” Belle kissed his cheek and bade him farewell.

  * * *

  —

  The June air in London always hummed with heat and promise. Summer was already under way but, Belle thought, June was the month of highest possibility—anything might happen during the endless days when the song sparrow chimed his alleluia from every eave. The window-box roses of Oxford Street were shedding their puce gowns and they lay like a carpet under Belle’s feet as she walked toward Piccadilly. She wanted to stoop, grab the petals and throw them like confetti to celebrate their triumph over smuts and everyday pestilence. But there were too many passersby and what would they make of her petal tossing? Instead, she toed the fallen flowers with light kicks and watched them flutter before her.

  People all around were in a tearing rush: the scavengers and mud larks, dodging gulley holes on their way to the Thames; the cress and winkle sellers eager to lift their baskets to every nose. Today she felt large-hearted toward the city and everyone in it. Life was turning and she was sure to see William later, which ignited a glow of goodwill both inside and out.

  Belle entered the Pantheon, her most beloved bazaar—it still held on to the flavor of the theater it once was. She liked to walk in the upper gallery and gaze down on the stage of the main hall where every kind of gimcrack and knickknack was on display and the hordes throbbed. She ran up the stairs, then paused at the railing to take in the bustle of the jewelers and toy sellers below; she watched hawkers and strollers and luxuriated in the muddled din that rose to her ears. The brassy sound of a trumpet blasted up from one of the music stalls and, as the tune settled into itself, Belle’s feet itched to step in time. She turned instead to the row of stalls behind her and headed straight for Madame Gilbert’s.

  “I want a Gainsborough, Madame,” Belle said. “Enormous and with a blue ostrich feather. What do you say?”

  Madame smiled. “As you wish, Miss Bilton.” She waved her hand at a slipper chair and Belle sat. “Is this Gainsborough for the stage, ma chérie?”

  “Lord, no. I mean to wea
r it for all of London to see. Not just the guffs who come to the Empire.”

  Madame lifted a straw hat, leaving the wooden head it had sat on bald as a newborn.

  “Let me try this for size.” Belle tilted her head and Madame nested the hat on her hair and speared it with pins. “Très jolie,” she said. “Now, I shall visit the plume hunters this week to find the perfect feather for you, Miss Bilton. And I have a new cake of indigo with which to attain the right shade.”

  “Smashing,” Belle said. “I knew you would understand exactly what I wanted. You always do.”

  Belle liked Madame Gilbert; she was not the kind of milliner who peached on her customers, though she knew everything there was to know about them. Madame had a generous ear and a snug, discreet mouth. She had listened to Belle throughout the whole crisis with Weston and had encouraged her to take Wertheimer’s help when offered. Madame unpinned and shifted the hat, seeking the ideal jaunt for it. When she was satisfied, Belle paid a deposit on the Gainsborough and left. It felt good to be able to dress herself properly again.

  She thought again of Viscount Dunlo, of his lovely face, and her stomach frisked; even imagined from air he disarrayed her. William. Weston. Wertheimer. Each one of them a W. Is there some sign in that, some graspable meaning? Belle wondered. She rushed down the stairs to the Pantheon’s main hall to clear her mind. There she was drawn to the stalls of the Swiss and German toymakers; their baubles and trinkets were always a treat to pore over. Who could fail to delight in the whirligigs, tops and alphabet blocks, or the drumming animals who made music with the turn of a key? One monkey, in a red frock coat and yellow trousers, charmed Belle. The stallholder wound him up and Belle gazed at the animal’s determined, handsome face while he drummed merrily.

  “Wouldn’t you like to own him, miss?” the stallholder said.