Belle of the Ball

by Pam McCutcheon

  Miss Keithley burst into laughter. “Caught,” she admitted, and Belle looked relieved. “But tell me, had you planned on assisting Belle in all phases of her transformation?”

  He hadn’t planned anything as yet, but the hopeful expression on Belle’s face prompted him to say, “If I took on the task, of course I would.”

  “He did offer to take me to the garden party,” Belle said in his defense.

  He had acted like a cad, and here she was defending him to her friend. So Belle numbered kindness amongst her virtues—another plus in her favor. But why did she keep staring at his mouth?

  “And have you decided to take on the task?” Miss Keithley persisted.

  “There’s no need, now that you have her in hand,” Kit demurred.

  The woman smiled. “Nicely phrased, but there’s something to be said for having a man’s opinion, especially since it is a man she wishes to impress.”

  Belle blushed even more furiously. So that was the way of it, eh? No wonder she wanted to change her appearance. Kit felt himself relax and realized he had subconsciously feared Belle Sullivan had set her cap for him. How absurd. This independent young American was no doubt smitten with a hardworking local and would have no use for a man who depended upon money from home to survive.

  He reassessed the situation. He could use the money, and if Miss Keithley acted as chaperone, there was no further impediment to assisting Belle. None, that was, but his own reluctance to act as Pygmalian to her Galatea. He waffled. Should he . . . ?

  “So,” Madame Aglaia called from across the room, “are we decided upon the polonaise then?”

  Surely she jested. “Oh, no,” Kit said, crossing the room to take the sketch out of the dressmaker’s hands. “That won’t suit you at all, Miss Sullivan. And it is a little out of date, don’t you think? With your slender figure, the slim princess style would be much more the thing.”

  Miss Keithley smiled. “Exactly what I was saying.” And so Kit Stanhope found himself drawn into a conversation on dresses, fabrics, and frills. Strangely enough, he enjoyed himself. He found himself in full accord with Miss Keithley and Madame Aglaia on what would suit Belle, and it was rather fun to watch Belle blossom with animation and confidence under the attention as they all made sure to point out her assets.

  Soon they had selected several suits and evening dresses that would complement her complexion and were all vastly pleased with themselves and with Madame Aglaia’s designs.

  “I should have the first two dresses ready in a week,” the dressmaker assured them. Then, staring thoughtfully at Belle, she added, “Perhaps I could suggest a new hairstyle to accompany your new wardrobe?”

  Belle touched her hair tentatively. Though she had tried to corral it in the spiral bun many women favored, it seemed her curls did not accept confinement gracefully, for they escaped wherever possible, bouncing out randomly in wiry springs. The result, Kit admitted, was a bit of a mess.

  “I don’t know what to do with it,” Belle admitted.

  “Have you tried a hair wash of rosemary and vinegar?” Miss Keithley asked.

  “No, I just wash it with soap. . . . Do you think it would help?”

  “Yes, I’ll give you the recipe.”

  Not to be outdone, Kit said, “Oh, quite. It should help tame those wild curls of yours. And, perhaps a new cut. . . ?”

  “Yes,” Miss Keithley agreed. “Just the thing.”

  Madame Aglaia smiled. “I have a bit of skill in that area myself, if I might offer my services?”

  Having been very pleased with Madame Aglaia’s choices thus far, they all agreed.

  As they made arrangements to meet at Madame Aglaia’s in a week to observe Miss Sullivan’s transformation, Kit had to laugh at himself. Somehow, he had committed himself to helping Belle achieve her transformation without even realizing how it had come about.

  I just hope I won’t regret it.

  Chapter Four

  In the coming days, Kit had further chance to reflect and decided that helping Belle wasn’t going to interfere with his search for an investment after all. Especially since he hadn’t had much success in finding one so far.

  The investments that had been recommended to him were either too risky, too long-term, or seemed suspect. He had heard that some Americans, contemptuous of the aristocracy, had taken advantage of his countrymen’s lack of knowledge of these wild lands and had swindled them. Without the proper connections or know-how, Kit feared the same would happen to him and didn’t want to take any chances.

  Perhaps he would have more luck with Patrick Sullivan. Everything he had heard about Belle’s father confirmed that he was honest to a fault and didn’t put up with shady dealings. And, true to her word, Belle had arranged a meeting for him with her father.

  Kit knocked on the door of the Sullivan house and was ushered into the hall. As he waited to be announced to the master of the house, he heard furtive whispers and turned around to see three red heads pop back around a corner. He smiled. It appeared he was being observed.

  “Miss Sullivan?” he said softly.

  Belle appeared suddenly, as if she had been propelled by unseen forces. Unseen, perhaps, but not unknown. As Belle blushed red enough to match her hair, Kit hid his smile and said, “I take it your sisters are the cause of your . . . precipitous arrival?”

  “Yes,” she said with a fulminating glance into the other room. She beckoned furiously for the others to join her and Charisma appeared looking rather sheepish, while Grace bounded in with a beaming smile, setting the umbrella stand rocking.

  As Charisma righted the umbrella stand, Kit smiled. Life was never dull around the Sullivan sisters.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked in an amused tone.

  “Oh, we just wanted to wish you luck with Papa,” Belle said breezily.

  He grinned. She might not have beauty but she certainly didn’t lack for cheek. “Thank you. Shall I need it?”

  The sisters glanced at each other uncertainly. “Perhaps,” Charisma conceded in her blunt way. “He doesn’t care much for remittance men.”

  Belle shushed her quickly, but Kit’s heart sank. Would this prove yet another failure?

  “Papa’s wonderful, really,” Grace assured him. “His bark is far worse than his bite.”

  To cover up his dismay, Kit pretended to look alarmed. “You mean to tell me he may bite?”

  Grace giggled, and even Belle and Charisma smiled.

  “No,” Belle assured him. “He hasn’t bitten anyone yet.” She paused, then added with a mischievous twinkle, “That we know of.”

  “You relieve my mind,” Kit said with an audible sigh. In more ways than one. It seemed that Belle and her sisters had forgiven him for his blunt speech, or had at least decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Could he hope they were beginning to trust him? Or that Belle, at least, would pardon him?

  Glancing at Belle’s hair, which seemed just as unruly as ever, he asked, “So, have you had an opportunity to try Miss Keithley’s hair-wash recipe yet?”

  Belle smiled ruefully. “Not yet. I thought I would try it right before Madame cuts my hair.”

  “I see. Well, I look forward to the transformation.” It had to help—nothing could be much worse than the unruly bush of her hair as it was now.

  “So do I,” Belle said so ingenuously that Kit didn’t suspect the barb that followed. “I’m tired of being homely. “

  Kit winced. Perhaps she wasn’t as understanding or trusting as he’d thought. “Will you ever forgive me for that thoughtless remark?”

  With a bold look. Belle said, “I might. If you make me beautiful.”

  “I shall do my utmost,” Kit promised, but had to admit privately that the task was a daunting one.

  As Belle nodded, Grace said, “It’s very kind of you to help Belle.”

  Charisma snorted. “Why shouldn’t he? He’s getting paid for it, isn’t he?”

  Too true, and Belle had already sent hi
m some cash on account after their encounter at the dressmaker’s. But right now, she looked as if she wanted to apologize for Charisma’s rudeness. No doubt she was reluctant to chastise her sister in front of an outsider.

  By now, Kit was getting used to Charisma’s ways and knew that behind that forthright exterior lurked a kind soul. Just look at the way she defended her sisters. And though others might find her rude, Kit thought her rather refreshing.

  “Miss Charisma is quite right,” he said, and was gratified to see surprise in their expressions. He bowed slightly in Belle’s direction. “I am getting paid for assisting Miss Sullivan . . . but it is also my pleasure. Seldom do business and pleasure mesh so well.”

  He wasn’t just being gallant. There was something exhilarating about having a hand in a person’s metamorphosis. Already, Belle seemed more outgoing. All she needed was to feel good about her appearance to give her the self-confidence she required to look beautiful in the eyes of others.

  Belle smiled tentatively at him, but the housekeeper returned at that moment. Giving the girls an admonitory glance, she said, “Mr. Sullivan will see you now.”

  As the girls scurried away, with Belle giving him an encouraging smile over her shoulder, the housekeeper showed him into the library. The room was packed with richly-bound books exuding that wonderful fragrance of leather and pressed paper that reminded him of his own library at home. He even recognized some of the same titles.

  As Mr. Sullivan rose from the desk to shake his hand, Kit said, “I envy you your library. You have a marvelous collection.”

  The older man shrugged and glanced dismissively at the shelves. “’Twas the wife’s idea. I haven’t much use for book learnin’ meself.”

  As Sullivan said that with a challenging stare and the lilt of an Irish brogue, Kit remembered that Belle’s father was most definitely a self-made man. Damn—he’d put his foot in it already and the interview hadn’t even begun yet.

  “So,” Sullivan said, waving Kit to a seat. “Me daughter said ye was wishful t’see me?”

  “Yes, sir. I was hoping you might be able to steer me toward an appropriate investment.”

  Sullivan scowled. Ignoring Kit’s question, he said, “Aren’t ye the young whelp who insulted my girls?”

  Kit felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t realized the girls had told their parents of their humiliation. Obviously, Mr. Sullivan had no intention of helping him.

  Well, Kit wasn’t going to lie. “I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “But I didn’t insult all of them. Just . . . one.” And if the man had his mind made up, Kit certainly wouldn’t plead for understanding. Should he take his leave?

  “Well, at least yer honest,” Sullivan said, scratching his chin. “And I hear tell ye apologized for it, too.”

  The man’s approving look gave Kit renewed hope. “Yes, sir,” he said warily. Was this a test?

  “Good. I like a man who admits to his mistakes.” Sullivan fixed him with a steely stare. “But I’m not so sure I care for the men ye call friends.”

  “Latham and Winthrop?” Kit said mildly. “Oh, I wouldn’t call them friends, exactly.” And just what was Sullivan’s objection to such callow youths?

  “No, not those witless pups. I’m speakin’ of men such as John Daltrey. Folks around here say you spend a bit of time in his company.”

  Kit felt contempt curl his lip. “Not by choice. He’s no friend of mine. We were merely neighbors back in Sussex—grew up on neighboring estates.” No need to go into more than that.

  Sullivan nodded in understanding. “That’s all right, then. A man can’t always choose his neighbors.”

  Kit relaxed a bit. “True, though I often wish I could.”

  Sullivan leaned back in his chair and regarded Kit from under bushy eyebrows. “So, what was yer offense?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Kit asked in frigid accents.

  “Most men o’ yer stripe were kicked out of England for one transgression or another. What was yours?”

  “I made no transgression,” Kit said stiffly. Being booted out didn’t mean he was guilty.

  Sullivan nodded, but Kit wasn’t sure the man believed him.

  “So, what is it ye want of me?”

  “Well, sir, I have a bit of money.” Money he had squirreled away when he first arrived in this country, money that Daltrey knew nothing about. “I’d like to put it to good use, but I’ve no wish to be taken for a fool. Most men hereabouts say you’re an honest, discerning man, and I thought you might be able to suggest an investment.”

  “Hmmph. Most of yer compatriots waste their money on sport, women, and song.”

  Too true. But it was all they knew. The class and primogeniture system in England was so skewed, only the eldest son was taught estate management and had an established purpose in life. Since it was no longer possible to purchase army commissions, younger sons had little choice of honorable occupation other than the clergy. For those not so inclined, any taint of the shop or actually sullying one’s hands to make a living was frowned upon as not respectable. Hence, they occupied their time in the way they knew best—in dissipation.

  But Kit knew what Sullivan’s reaction would be to this, so he forbore to offer an excuse for his countrymen. “Some do waste their money that way,” he admitted.

  “But not yerself, eh?”

  “No, sir.” Not if he wanted to regain his good name at home.

  “Well, good. What have ye looked at?”

  “I’ve eliminated gambling and mining.”

  Sullivan raised his eyebrows at that. “Minin’ too dirty for ye?”

  “Too risky,” Kit corrected, but had to admit his father would most definitely find it too dirty and not at all respectable.

  “Aye,’tis that.” Sullivan scratched his chin again. “How about ranchin’?”

  It was the way many of his countrymen had tried. But how could he phrase this so as not to offend? “I’ve heard it’s difficult to find an honest seller.” That was putting it mildly. He’d heard horror stories of Englishmen being sold diseased cattle or worthless so-called grazing land. With no expertise in the area, Kit found it too chancy as well.

  But Sullivan just nodded and thought some more. “Well, now, the city’s growing. They’ll be needin’ more businesses and stores afore long, to keep up with the demand of the womenfolk fer all them fancy gewgaws and modern conveniences. A man who gets in on the ground floor of somethin’ like that might make himself a tidy fortune.”

  Kit shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, but I could never engage in trade.” His father would definitely not approve.

  As soon as he uttered the words, Kit wished he could take them back—he sounded so pompous. And, from the expression on Sullivan’s face, that was exactly how he saw it as well.

  “Well, young man, if yer afraid to get yer hands dirty, I don’t know how’ I can help you.”

  Kit could have kicked himself. But explaining would only make it worse. How could he tell this very honorable and well-regarded gentleman that the gentry considered his occupation and those of his friends beneath their notice?

  He took a stab at it anyway. “That wasn’t what I meant, I assure you. It’s just that my father—” How to put this without sounding condescending?

  “Yer father wouldn’t approve of his son hobnobbing with us lesser folk.”

  Now he’d insulted the man. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Never you mind,” Sullivan said with a shushing motion. “I’ve an idea that’s exactly what yer father would say. And, to tell ye the truth, it speaks well of ye that ye want to please him.”

  Needed to please him was more like it, but Kit let the man believe what he wanted. Instead of responding, he merely shrugged.

  Sullivan shook his head. “Ye have a puzzle there, son. I tell you what—I’ll think on it and let ye know if I come up with something respectable and not too uncertain.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kit said with si
ncerity and took his leave. Though he had hoped for more, at least it might not be a total loss. And one thing was for certain—he was leaving with a great deal more respect for Patrick Sullivan. Not only was the man honest, but he was shrewd and obviously cared for his family . . . which was more than Kit could say about his father or older brother.

  As he exited the library, Kit heard scurrying sounds, then a loud psst coming from the hall.

  With a smile, he peered into the hall, and just as he suspected, Belle was there, this time without her sisters. Belle certainly didn’t let convention dictate her actions. Oddly enough, he found it intriguing.

  “What did he say?” Belle asked.

  Kit glanced down at his hat and said dryly, “You mean you didn’t listen at the door?”

  Her face flamed, confirming his guess. “Well, yes, but I couldn’t hear everything.”

  Just what had she heard? And, more importantly, what had she inferred from it? In any case, Kit decided to satisfy her curiosity. She would no doubt learn all the details from her father anyway. “He promised to keep his eyes open for an investment for me.”

  “Good,” Belle said with another one of those odd looks at his mouth. “I’m sure he’ll find something. And if he doesn’t, I will.” she declared.

  Was that a promise or a threat? With the best grace he could, Kit thanked her and left the house. It seemed the only investment anyone had found for him was in spending his time on Belle Sullivan. Even that had yet to show any dividends—significant ones anyway.

  He twisted his mouth in a wry grin. But one thing was for sure—it had afforded him the only true amusement he’d found in this land so far.

  Belle could barely contain her excitement. Today was the day Kit and Alvina would make her beautiful. And she had a good start on it already. Yesterday afternoon, she had tried the rosemary and vinegar hair wash. Though it had smelled rather odd and made her hair feel even stranger, once it dried, it had left her hair very soft. And not only had it tamed her wiry curls, but it had slightly changed the color of her hair—for the better, she thought. Instead of a rusty red, it now appeared auburn, a much more acceptable color in her eyes.