Becoming Belle

by Nuala O'Connor

Osborn shouted, “Onward!” and galloped off after Wood, the sand of the track swirling up behind him.

  * * *

  —

  William sat up in bed and lifted his vesta case and cigarettes; instead of lighting up, he held the case in his palm, his thumb rubbing at the mermaid’s face there, as it always did in times of deep thought. Her features were worn away, which endeared her more to him rather than less. The mermaid was a familiar and he liked to contemplate her body: the flick of her scaled tail, the pronounced navel, the up-thrust of her breasts. He enjoyed always the way his flesh heated her silvered form. William lit a lucifer, took a drag and blew the smoke out in contemplative puffs. If you become a man by obeying your father, I’m already on a greasy path, he thought.

  “You stand in my way, Papa,” he said aloud.

  The earl had been mistrustful and challenging since William was a boy. Never with Katherine and Richard, his siblings, only with him. The less Father trusted William, the less he felt like being a model son. There was the business at Oxford—William had deliberately failed the exam—and now there was this other bother with the militia. Papa would not stop until he had found some place to put William, somewhere that would please Papa but that he, no doubt, would hate. Bloody Africa. Father had been there and swore that it had made a man of him. Ergo, William must also go there. Never mind that he had had no interest in the army in the first place. If William could only have Garbally now, he would make a good job of cultivating the estate and building it up. He loved the tenants and he loved the land, but there was a pall about the place since the Great Hunger had devastated Ireland. William felt he could make Garbally prosperous once more, as good as it had been under his grandfather’s stewardship. He would expand the farm and breed horses besides. He could see himself there, clearer than he could see himself anywhere.

  He lit another cigarette off the bottom of the first, enjoying the wheezy crackle as the ends met and relishing the jog to his lungs on the deep inhale. How wonderful it would be to detach from his father, though it was an impossible notion; he needed Papa like the veins need blood. He needed his money. And the earl was Garbally’s master until it passed to William.

  There had never been anything but unease between them though; Papa appeared to object to the very essence of William, whose solitary nature and dreaminess were a source of rage to the earl. His anger would thunder around his son—even Mama could not protect him.

  William had often spent from sunrise to sundown in the deepest recesses of Garbally Park, contentedly companionless, examining every inch of the land with forensic attention. He loved to walk and admire primroses and snowdrops, then gather them in bunches for Mama. The stealthy overnight arrival of a sea of bluebells in April was enough to make tears fall from his eyes. He liked to sketch autumn mushrooms rather than pluck them; he would curl one palm over their clammy caps to congratulate them on their eccentric perfection. Winter at Garbally was a rare sight: November fogs hung above the trees like wraiths and stole their leaves as they departed. The January snows brought serenity. Every excursion around Garbally ended with a gift for Mama: a feather or twig or blossom. If Papa was home, and not in London, he glowered and complained about William’s foolishness, despite Mama’s defense of her son. In spring William wept over lambs slaughtered on the estate farms, and Papa’s scorn was so absolute that William wondered if he might ever in his life find a way to please him.

  At school in England, the other boys called William “Bogman” and rolled their r’s extravagantly when he spoke. William’s large size and general silence fended them off, but he never felt part of the roil of boys and their endless hustle. He had never truly felt a part of anything until he met Isabel. She found him, seized him and seemed to accept him despite all his flaws. What a wonder that woman was to see anything in his gauche, sensitive self. He felt he had blossomed since meeting her; she was teaching him how to become the best man he was capable of being.

  How sweet that she wanted to be called Belle! That was his pet name for her before they ever met in person, when she was the unattainable goddess he visited, night after night for months, at the Empire. He would cajole Wood and Osborn to accompany him, and they were only too pleased to sit at the feet of the Sisters Bilton and halloo their praises. William had watched Belle’s performances in reverent silence, wondering if he would ever muster the pluck to speak to her after the show.

  William lit the lamp, extinguished his cigarette and lunged over the coverlets to reach the jacket he had flung to the floor. In the inside pocket he located the cabinet card of Belle he had purchased before meeting her. It titillated him to think that now she was his. The likeness did not quite capture Belle’s beauty; Bassano was skilled, to be sure, but this time his art had not altogether succeeded. Belle looked glorious, of course, but there was a sulky set to her face that concealed her exquisiteness. This gladdened William because other men would have bought this card and he did not want them to know that it masked the modish yet refined nature that was his beloved’s true charm.

  He kissed Belle’s face and gazed on the curve of her form, took himself into his free hand and pumped slowly, slowly then faster and faster until he was pleasured. William released a fulsome sigh, leaned back against his pillow, the cabinet card still in his hand, and fell asleep.

  A HEART-TO-HEART

  William met Belle outside the Empire Theatre, after a swift rehearsal that was called to help Flo catch up with her dances; she never could learn them as easily as her sister. Belle was under the awning, absorbed in buttoning her gloves as William approached and it amused him that she would do such a thing on the street; Mama and his sister would blanch if they saw it, so concerned were they for all that spoke of propriety.

  “Miss Belle Bilton,” he called, when he was almost upon her.

  She looked up and smiled. “Viscount Dunlo, how extraordinary to happen upon each other here!” She laughed and held out her arm.

  William took it and shyly fingered the lace trim at her wrist as they began to walk. “How are you today, my dear?”

  “I am well, but weary a little of the city heat. Might I propose an outing to Richmond? We could sup at the Star and Garter Hotel. The pavilion is always so grand at this time of year, decked in those blowsy roses from the gardens. And the river walk is shaded.”

  “That would be delightful. But I’m, you see, a touch straitened, that is to say, I’m having some difficulties and, well, Papa has come down hard on me and I’m somewhat . . .”

  Belle slowed her step and looked up at him. “What has your papa done, William?”

  “Well, he refuses me use of the carriages for a spell and he has embarrassed me somewhat. My allowance, you know.”

  “William, are you trying to tell me you’re a little on the floor?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Belle stopped walking. “Are you stony, my love?”

  “Stony? No, not quite but Papa has concerns about me and, as good as his word, has withheld—”

  “Hush now, William.” Belle wanted to help him in every way she could. Love did not turn on who ‘owned’ money. William was not a thief or deceiver; he was not Weston. “You know I earn thirty pounds a week, William, don’t you?”

  “My, that’s rather a healthy sum.”

  “And it’s ours.” Belle enjoyed the approving pressure of his hand on her arm. She knew how it abashed most men to speak of money troubles, but it did not embarrass her. She earned it, she spent it. It was a joy to her to share it with William in his time of want. He was certainly no Alden Weston.

  Belle had William wave down a hansom and help her in. The driver opened his hatch and William called up, “The Star and Garter Hotel in Richmond.”

  * * *

  —

  The turrets and the canopied entrance of the hotel always lifted Belle’s stomach in sweet anticipation. She loved that the gay and the famou
s found succor at the Star and Garter, just as she did.

  “This was a favorite resort of Dickens, the author,” she said, as the hansom pulled up. “And, of course, Queen Victoria herself has dined here.”

  “And no wonder—the prices are fit for a monarch. What was it that newspaper wrote? ‘The Star and Garter is more like the mansion of a nobleman than a receptacle for the public.’”

  “I daresay the newsman was cowed by too much elegance; the gray of his Fleet Street den was on his mind and he didn’t like it.”

  William helped her down and they entered, choosing to go to the new coffee rooms over the pavilion. Belle ordered chicken baked in rice, onion custard, and raspberry-and-cream-filled cornucopias.

  “I shall have the same,” William said.

  They did not talk much until their luncheon arrived, but the aromas of the food seemed to release not just spittle but rivers of words.

  “William,” Belle said, “I don’t feel that money, or the lack of it, should be a point of controversy between us.” Belle wanted no more upsets in her dealings with men. Everything would be open with William, it would be better that way. “Au contraire, I wish that you and I will always be frank about such matters.”

  “Darling Belle. You’re such a generous spirit.” William laid down his cutlery. “How can I thank you for easing my distress over this predicament with my father?”

  Belle forked a sliver of chicken between her lips, chewed it and looked at him. “By uniting with me, William. By being true and steadfast. That’s what I am asking for—that you remain dedicated to me, to us. I’ve been let down in the past. Be loyal, William.” All young men had debts, Belle knew, that did not bother her. But she would demand William’s allegiance; she could not manage another inconstant, untrustworthy man.

  “I can certainly be steadfast and loyal, Belle; nothing would give me more pleasure. I should explain to you about Papa, my dear. He’s a good man, an upright man, and he is, ah, perhaps a little chagrined these days by my spending habits. By the money I owe. Wood and Osborn are hard to rein in once we’re out and about and, you know, a fellow must be seen to keep up. They style me Jack Thriftless from time to time.” He grinned but he was subdued. “My reliance on family money is, I know, becoming old-fashioned. Men take jobs these days, in factories and in the city, all sorts of men. But my heart lies in Garbally and I’m determined to manage the land there, when my time comes. That corner of Ballinasloe will be my life’s work.”

  “It’s wonderful to have such a goal.” Belle pressed his arm. “But are you sorely in debt, William?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like it. Just a few pounds here and there, really. But Papa is rigorous about the family name and he doesn’t want anyone to know I’m, well, as he likes to say ‘a profligate.’ He exaggerates but, still, I don’t want to gall him.”

  “Might I relieve you from some of those arrears? Settle a bill or two for you?”

  “Belle, you will do no such thing.” He blushed. “The monies are trifling, I assure you, but, as a man of the highest honor, Papa is vexed by the business. It’s nothing I can’t put right. He’ll see reason soon.” William laughed and Belle smiled. “I rather thought you’d run a thousand miles when you found out.” His debts had not shamed him until now, but he wanted to make things proper for Belle; she was worth being upright for.

  “Perhaps, William, with someone else, I might have, but, you know, I’ve run my fill. It’s time for me to stop and settle. I want only to be cherished; I want an honest allegiance. Money is not of huge importance to me.” Money was important; but she needed William to know that because she could earn it easily, and help him with his debts if need be, that it would not come between them. Love was the greater thing now, love and loyalty, which William could offer.

  “You are noble, Belle. And diligent. You earn every scrap of money you own and I salute you for it.”

  “My work comes as naturally to me as breathing, William. It’s easy for me. I rehearse, I dance, I sing. I get paid.”

  He squirmed in his seat and leaned in. “I hold you in ever such high regard, Belle. You know this?”

  “Yes, William, I know it. And your ardent feelings are returned.”

  “You were made for love, Belle.”

  She looked at him shyly. “Made to love you, William.”

  They held each other’s gaze and William pressed her hand. He rattled his fingers over hers and tried to say out what was in his heart, the full burst of all it contained, but the waiter came and removed their luncheon plates, causing them to break apart. The waiter returned with the cornucopias and coffee. Belle and William giggled softly over the spurting cream and stared at each other. Both were sorry, yet a little glad, that they could not embrace, for there was a rare beauty in anticipation and, somehow, it pleased them more to wait.

  A BABY SHOW

  They look like oysters,” William said.

  “What makes you say that?” Belle stared at the babies sitting on their mothers’ laps in a neat row of chairs. Why had William brought her here of all places?

  “It’s because of the color of their skin. No, no, I have it—this is better: they look like angels on horseback. Look—the oyster is the baby, the bacon is the blanket.”

  “Not all of them are swaddled,” Belle said, eyeing a rotund girl in an emerald dress whose cheeks glistened like cherries. Had the mother rouged the child’s skin?

  This was Belle’s surprise, the secret day out that William had promised: the Baby Show at the Highbury Barn Tavern. Belle fancied they might be going for a quiet walk in Finsbury Park when the cabriolet rolled toward Islington. Perhaps William had something he meant to ask her and he wished for a shielded spot. She had wondered what was in store when William told the driver to stop at Highbury. A baby show. Whatever possessed him?

  A man jostled behind them and began to shout, “I bid you, ladies and gentlemen, to feast your eyes on these babes.” It was the owner of the tavern, clearly delighting in the spectacle of the show. “Have you ever before seen such porky legs on an infant? Dine, if you will, on this little madam’s adipose encumbrances.”

  Belle brought to mind the bulky limbs of her own child. She glanced at William. When would she reveal the fact of little Isidor’s existence to him? It was difficult to find the appropriate moment. Every time she began to form the words “I have a son,” they went to clabber in her mouth.

  “Ladies and gents,” the tavern man called, “pray come look. Such arms on the girl! Such legs! You will never see the likes again, no doubt.”

  The young mother gleefully held up her green-clad baby; the child jiggled her legs and tried to stuff an enormous fist into her mouth. “Gnnnnhh,” she coodled.

  The man accosted William. “Take her in your arms, sir, and guess the weight.”

  Before Belle could object William was holding the berry-cheeked babe by the waist and bouncing her this way and that.

  “Be careful, William. I’m not sure that’s the best way to hold a baby.”

  “Belle, you cannot know much of handling infants.”

  She felt mildly affronted. I might know, she thought, if it had not been for Weston and for my own foolishness. I might know indeed if I could marry and raise a babe as it’s meant to be raised.

  William grappled with the child who wriggled and plunged so that it looked like she might escape his arms and hit the ground. No doubt her “adipose encumbrances” and large behind would prevent serious injury. Unless she fell on her head. Belle shuddered and held out her hands.

  “Give her to me, William,” she said. “Quickly.” Belle ached suddenly to take the girl and feel her pillowy weight. She thought of Isidor, quiescent in Sara’s arms. Was there something amiss with him that he did not squirm and wobble like this baby? Was he quiet only when Belle was present? She waved her hands to get William to hand over the child.

 
“It’s all right,” he said. “Holding her is rather jolly.”

  “You’re starting to look fatigued, William. Do let me take her.”

  “What say you, sir?” the tavern owner bellowed. “Is she twelve pounds, do you think?”

  “I couldn’t say.” William bounced the baby to test her weight.

  “She is not that and neither is she fourteen pounds. No, not a stone in weight. The child, this fine London lassie, is a full twenty pounds, sir, and she not half a year old!” The man grabbed the baby and stuffed her back in her mother’s arms. “Come. Look at this fellow!” he called. “What do you suppose they feed him on?”

  Belle followed the man’s eyes to an even larger baby. “Oil cake,” she murmured.

  “Bartlett’s Food for Cattle,” a woman’s voice called and the crowd laughed.

  The child’s mother was fat also and she sat, beaming at the onlookers, her fist wrapped around a pint of porter. Her expression seemed to say, Are you not charmed by me and my robust child? Are we not the picture of natural good health?

  “This colossus is thirty-three pounds of infantile flesh, if you can believe it, madam. Thirty-three pounds! The sight of this young man alone was worth your sixpence fee, I daresay.”

  Belle took William’s arm and steered him away from the babies and their grinning mothers.

  “What a hobbledehoy of a chap,” William said, looking back over his shoulder at the baby. “Will he ever learn to walk when he has to drag such brawn around with him?”

  “Don’t be unkind, William. He’s just a child—blameless. He didn’t ask to be put on show.” Belle pulled her arm from his. “He didn’t even ask to be born into this world.”

  “I said it in jest, my dear. No doubt he will lose the blubber when he is forking hay on his papa’s farm.”

  “There! You did it again. Can you not see that you are insulting an innocent? Oh, you are infuriating me.”