The Belles: A Novel

by Lacey N. Dunham

Overview

In this richly atmospheric, dark academia debut novel, a young woman with a secretive past will risk everything—including her life—to fit in.

Belles never tell...

It’s 1951 at the secluded Bellerton College, and Deena Williams is an outsider doing her best to blend in with her wealthy and perfectly groomed peers. Infamous for its strict rules as much as its prestige, attending Bellerton could give Deena the comfortable life she’s always dreamed of.

She quickly forms an alliance with the five other freshmen on her floor, and soon they are singled out by the president’s wife as the most promising girls of their class, who anoints them: The Belles. They walk the college’s halls in menacing unison, matching velvet ribbons in their hair. But no sisterhood comes without secrets, and the Belles are no exception. Playing cruel pranks on their dormitory housemother and embarking on boundary-shattering night games, the Belles test the limits of the campus rules.

But as Deena begins to piece together the sinister history of Bellerton, her own past threatens to come to light, forcing her to make a dangerous choice. A chilling and seductive coming-of-age story, The Belles is an excavation of the dark side of girlhood, the intricacies of privilege, and the unbridled desire to belong at any cost.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781668084861
Publisher:	Atria Books
Publication date:	09/09/2025
Pages:	304
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.30(d)

About the Author

Lacey N. Dunham is the author of The Belles. She has received support from the Elizabeth George Foundation, the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities, the Sewanee Writers Conference as a Tennessee Williams scholar, and Catapult as a merit scholar. Her writing has appeared in Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, and more. She lives in Washington, DC. Find out more at LaceyNDunham.com.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1: Deena

SHE had done it: traveled five hours through three Virginia counties to arrive at Bellerton College as someone different than who she had been yesterday, or this morning, or even an hour earlier. She’d had no idea what new life she was embarking on when she climbed into the cab at the Greyhound station and the driver loaded her brand-new Chic Miss suitcases into the trunk. Now, with golden light flooding the campus and the air thick with humidity, she was eager for it all to begin. She was ready to fulfill the promise of attending Bellerton as Miss Deena Evangeline Williams.

She held tightly on to her pocketbook, which contained her acceptance letter, detailing her room and dormitory assignment, and her last three dollars. She considered the stately trio of dormitories flanking the center of campus, where enormous oaks with leaves of the deepest green she had ever seen cast wide gulfs of shade over a lush quad. The mountains lay beyond, ominous. The three-story brick buildings had shutters flayed wide in defiance of the day’s heat. White columns held up porticos that jutted over porches painted a deep navy, dotted with white rockers. Deena imagined how lovely it would be to sit there, drinking sweet tea from a sweating glass pitcher with yellow lemon rinds floating at the top.

A shadow moved on the nearest porch, and a pale hand emerged from the gloam to grip the railing.

Someone was watching her.

“Hello?” Deena called.

She fumbled with her luggage, carrying it a few feet down the walkway before setting it down and calling out again.

A slim redhead appeared on the stone steps that led from the porch. The girl wore a tailored green-and-white seersucker dress, and her neck and earlobes were adorned with matching pearls. A wide-brimmed hat shaded her face.

“You’re in South Hall?” The girl’s honeyed voice sounded disbelieving. She carried herself with such self-assurance that Deena’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She at last stammered yes and reached for her bags.

“Darling, don’t worry,” the girl said in a pitying tone. “The help will take care of it.”

Her words summoned an older man, whom Deena hadn’t noticed standing nearby. He wore a porter’s uniform with a tight cap and gold-buttoned jacket. He was grandfatherly but deferential, and he must have been hot wearing all those dark colors, the jacket buttoned to his neck. Deena swayed uncomfortably when he took up her suitcases, which had been expensive. She had even paid extra to have them monogrammed with her new initials, and she didn’t want any scratches or dented corners.

“You can take those bags to—” The girl inclined her head at Deena. “What room?”

Deena retrieved the crumpled paper from her pocketbook. “Room 210.”

“Take these to 218 and leave them beside the bed.” Ignoring the man she’d just given orders to, she said to Deena, “That’s a better room. You’ll like it.”

“Is that allowed?” Deena didn’t know what to do with her empty hands—everything she owned was in the bags the man held. Nervously, she tucked her hair behind her ears, uncertain of everything, herself most of all.

“I’ll see that it’s sorted with all the right people. It will be our little secret.”

The man was waiting expectantly. The girl cocked her head at Deena as if she was a child. Deena looked at the man and said thank you, yet he remained in place. The quiet was broken by the sharp crack of the girl’s heels as she gracefully descended the stone steps, then unclasped her clutch. She reached in and passed the man a nickel tip.

He pocketed it and entered South Hall, where he could be heard clomping to the second floor.

“I see you’re new here,” the girl said, eyeing Deena up and down.

Deena flushed, embarrassed by her foible. The day was sweltering, the sidewalk in direct sun. She shielded her eyes, thinking she would have to buy a hat like the girl’s once her next deposit came through. They might even go shopping together, and the girl could show her the fashionable places. Deena smoothed her dark skirt and righted the crooked seam of her hosiery. Her short-sleeved blouse was crumpled from hours of bus travel prior to the taxi, and sweat dampened the fabric at her armpits. The redhead was so pristine that Deena could imagine the girl’s journey in contrast, riding in a large, air-conditioned white Ford with chrome teeth that gleamed viciously in the sun. Deena clutched her skirt, and tried not to feel like a drab, dirty speck beside this girl.

“It’s a Bellerton tradition to dress up the staff in these silly costumes on freshmen welcome day, to help us girls settle in. First impressions are last impressions, my mother always says.”

Deena wasn’t sure what to say, already nervous of the first impression she was making.

“I’m Ada May Delacourt.” The girl extended her hand delicately, palm down, fingers curled toward the ground. Deena grasped her powdery fingers with a quick shake. “My sister Caroline graduated from Bellerton class of 1949. She was crowned May Queen. That’s how I know about the ritual with the staff.”

“What’s the May Queen?” Deena asked, her voice dampened by the humidity. Ada May continued as if Deena hadn’t spoken.

“Your new room is a good size, middle of the hall, not too near the bathrooms.” Ada May dropped her voice. “They make us first years share bathrooms, like we’re in the army. My sister says it’s not so bad, as long as everyone on your floor is clean.”

Ada May smelled clean, of lye and a light perfume. Freckles dabbed her small nose, pleasant specks that made her appear refined. She was like a cat, Deena thought. One that would pounce when you thought it had been napping.

“Lovely to meet you.” Ada May brushed past Deena and sailed across the grassy quadrangle before Deena could say goodbye. Only after she was out of view did Deena realize that Ada May hadn’t asked for her name.

She was exactly the type of woman Grandmother had warned her about.

PERCHED ON HER BED AFTER unpacking, Deena considered how easy it had been to cross the threshold between her life before and the one she was just beginning. She tucked her room key on its string beneath her blouse and used the bathroom, where the light pulsed gray through the frosted windows, and she heard the rustle of distant whispered conversations. She was about to return to her room when a trio of cleaning women appeared on the stairs wearing crisp smocks the color of robin’s eggs. They immediately went to work. Two women ran dust rags over the doorframes and wainscoting, while the third mopped the wood floors. Their movements were quick and efficient, and languid strings of conversation passed between them.

Deena thrilled in seeing them. They reminded her of her grandmother—except Grandmother was white and these women were Black. But they held the same stiffness in the joints as they bent over, the same easy handling of mops and polishing cream. All her life, Grandmother had scrubbed the floors and toilets of other people, washed their linens and made their beds. Collected their secrets. You could know a person from the hairs on their pillow and what you pulled from the pockets of their dirty laundry on washday. Pay attention, her grandmother often said. Things that were of no consequence to those who paid you might become useful to you. And hadn’t she been right?

One of the women straightened and stretched her back, her movement labored, her joints cracking. Her gaze settled upon Deena, and she let out a choked shriek. Deena startled and rammed into the doorjamb, then dug her nails into her palms, worried she might say the wrong thing. The scent of lemon and bleach filled her nose. The oldest of the trio held up her hands.

“Miss, pardon us, miss. Alice is—” She bowed her head. “I mean we’re sorry to disturb you, miss.”

Deena understood what it could mean to become visible when you served others: accused of stealing jewelry or ruining a piece of delicate white tablecloth with careless ironing; subjected to fingers crawling over your body like you were a beautiful vase. An object meant for the pleasure of another. She understood because it was her mother’s story. It was her story. If her mother had not been a vase, Deena would not exist.

She remembered Grandmother gripping her five-year-old wrist the day of her mother’s funeral, her face bent to Deena’s.

“The most important rule of cleaning houses is to stay unseen. Never let yourself be visible without an invitation.” Deena would come to know her grandmother’s words by heart: Never leave a smudge on the drinking glasses or silver. Check the linens and bedsheets for stray hairs. “You don’t want nothing to show you was ever there. Me, I’m the quietest little ghost. No one sees me unless I want them to see me. Then, poof! There I am, neat and tidy in my uniform.”

Deena’s back throbbed from where she’d hit the doorjamb. The pain spoke to an inevitable bruise. She was about to wave them on and return to her dorm room, but then wondered how Ada May might respond.

The answer: firmly and without giving up any of her power. That’s what Bellerton girls did. Or so Deena had witnessed with the porter earlier. She would be kind about it; she would look the women in the eyes.

Deena drew herself taller and crossed her arms. “It’s all right,” she said sternly. “I forgive you.” The words sat heavy on her tongue.

The women took this as dismissal. They gave a stiff-kneed curtsey and took the back staircase to the first floor. Deena waited until she heard them leave, then descended the main stairs and paused at the bottom when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging in the entry.

Her face was a pale oval hovering in the glass, her features blurred and smudged in the dust, all except for her eyes. She stepped closer, drawn in by those eyes. If Deena hadn’t known the reflection was her own, she might have thought what she saw was an apparition. A spirit come to haunt her.

Editorial Reviews

Keeping secrets carries consequences in Dunham’s moody 1951-set debut...[and] a macabre discovery on campus in 2002 hint at impending fireworks. Fans of dark academia will find much to savor.” –Publishers Weekly

"Debut novelist Dunham juggles gothic elements including a nasty poetry professor, a drunken misery of a housemother, and glimpses of ghosts in the campus trees. Both a time capsule, and a ticking bomb, of womanhood repressed in service of societal conformity." -Kirkus Reviews

"Dunham delivers a deliciously fun take on dark academia with her deftly crafted novel that makes the most of its spooky, atmospheric 1950s setting and the stifling Stepford-like community of faculty and students that make up the book’s maleficent cast of characters.

Readers who fell for the unsettling charms of Shirley Jackson’s or Daphne du Maurier’s stylish, gothic-imbued brand of horror and anyone who loved the cliquish, killer cast of characters in Donna Tartt’s The Secret History will be enthralled with Dunham’s exemplary debut." -Library Journal (starred review)

“Dunham expertly plumbs the depths of female friendship, the intoxicating blend of losing yourself to something greater, and a need for belonging that can border on dangerous. The Belles is dark academia with gothic Yellowjackets vibes.” –Vera Kurian, author of Never Saw Me Coming

“As I read this novel, heart in throat, I couldn't decide what was more terrifying: Bellerton itself, dripping with darkness, or the Belles, the girls who are both the school's victims and its most fervent acolytes. A gothic tantalizing fever-dream of a novel about the nightmares of class, power, propriety, and, under certain circumstances, girlhood itself.” –Clare Beams, author of The Garden

“An impeccable campus noir. In Dunham’s dazzling debut, the girls of Bellerton college are ensorcelled by the ornate traditions they encounter when they arrive at the crumbling South Hall, but the secrets kept by the residents of that drafty dorm will prove fatal. A novel about the youthful, heady quest for sisterhood and the risk of considering a stranger family, The Belles is perfect for fans of Meagan Abbott and Rachel Hawkins.” –Katy Hays, New York Times bestselling author of The Cloisters

“A delightfully dark, Southern Gothic suspense. The Belles, as they call themselves, are the envy of their classmates, but with disappearances and accidents around every corner, what price will they pay to belong? With haunting prose, The Belles drew me in and kept me up late at night.” – Lauren Ling Brown, National Bestselling author of Society of Lies

"Lacey N. Dunham's The Belles is hauntingly seductive - Gothic Suspense at the top of its game! Both atmospheric and compelling, The Belles beckons you in from the first page, takes hold, and doesn't let go until the very last word. Completely engrossing! A beautifully written, tautly-plotted debut sure to captivate readers and leave them breathless." – Sophie Stava, author of Count My Lies

“Vicious and delicious, The Belles is one smart gobble of a novel. Dunham deftly explores the darkest perils of girlhood and the terrible lengths we go to in our desire to belong.” – Joanna Pearson, author of Bright and Tender Dark

"Seductively immersive and brilliantly gothic, The Belles beautifully mines the depths and complexities, the dangers and cruelties, of young womanhood within the confined and explosive space of a 1950's southern all-girls' school. Lacey N. Dunham is a writer not only of compelling story but of rich and unforgettable characters, a creeping, immersive setting, and continually stunning sentences." –Lynn Steger Strong, author of Flight and The Float Test

From the Publisher

2025-07-17
Freshmen at an exclusive Southern women’s college bond, and their swings between obedience and recklessness lead to long-term trauma.

Alumnae of Bellerton College should be able “to hold our own during conversations on both politics and literature, and we would also know how to arrange excellent charcuterie. We might be smarter than our husbands, but at Bellerton we would have learned the necessary tact to never point this out.” It’s 1951, and in the Old Dominion State, young women are expected to graduate with both B.A. and M.R.S. degrees, flaunting engagement rings even before mortarboards are donned. Deena Evangeline Williams knows this before she arrives at her room in South Hall. Despite her background—she was raised by her housecleaner grandmother—Deena hopes to learn her peers’ ways while she keeps a secret that might ruin her chances for a Bellerton-approved future. If this territory has been mined by other writers, it doesn’t matter much as debut novelist Dunham juggles gothic elements including a nasty poetry professor, a drunken misery of a housemother, and glimpses of ghosts in the campus trees. Queen Bee Ada May Delacourt; closeted Winifred (Fred) Scott and her bestie, Sheba Wyatt; Nell Lawton-Peters; and Prissy Nicholson from Texas at first hew so closely to the expectations of Mrs. Tibbert, the wife of the college’s president, that she declares them the Belles of their class. But small things start to go missing from the girls’ rooms and as they snipe at each other, they also discover how good it feels to be bad, brandishing their signature hair ribbons like battle standards and roaming the woods at night, damn the consequences. Deena begins to encounter the apparition of a 19th-century student, Mary Burden, and wonders why only she can see her; even if readers guess, they’ll already be under the spell of this isolated school. As the Belles prepare for their 50th reunion in 2002, their 21st-century lives offer bitter commentary on the real lessons they learned.

Both a time capsule, and a ticking bomb, of womanhood repressed in service of societal conformity.

Kirkus Reviews