Just North of Bliss (12 page)

“Approve? Approve? Why, I—I—” No. Actually,
Belle didn’t approve. She didn’t approve of dances like the one
Little Egypt was reputed to do, and she didn’t approve of people
who gulled other people into having their fortunes told. As if
anyone could predict the future or fortune of another. Why, it was
unchristian! And then there was that costume . . . Well, Belle
still couldn’t find words appropriate for that costume.

“Not everyone can be a nanny, you know.” Win
waved his hand in a gesture meant to let her know she didn’t have
to respond to the comment. Belle figured it was because he thought
he knew she disapproved of Miss Kate Finney. Which he probably did,
but he didn’t have to look so grouchy about it. She primmed her
lips.

She saw to the second when inspiration
struck Mr. Win Asher, because his expression brightened and he spun
around to face her. She jumped and hated herself for it.

“Say! I have it!”

“You do?” Her heart had begun beating like
Archibald Sturges’s big bass drum on Sundays in the Blissborough
town square when the brass band played.

“I do.” He looked pleased with himself.

Belle didn’t trust that look. “What?” she
asked doubtfully.

“I have a contract with an agent in Germany.
Would you consent to sit for the pictures if I pay you a
substantial fee and agree to sell them only through my agent in
Germany?”

“Germany.” Belle blinked, unsettled.
“Germany?”

“Certainly! Nobody in your life would ever
see them if I sold them to Germany.”

“I suppose not.” She swallowed heavily. “And
the substantial sum?”

Rather smugly, he said, “A hundred
dollars.”

Belle had never even dreamed of earning such
a huge pile of money. And earning it for doing no more than posing
for a few photographs seemed incredible. “A hundred dollars?” She
swallowed again. “Good heavens.”

“So?” Win’s dark eyes took on the engaging,
pleading look of those of a hungry puppy.

Something occurred to Belle. “These
photographs will be proper, won’t they? I mean, I won’t have to—”
She couldn’t say the words.

Win threw up his arms. “For the love of
Mike, what do you take me for? You’ll be fully clothed. I promise
you. Jeez, Miss Monroe, these are supposed to be pictures of the
Perfect American Woman. And I’m sure that woman wouldn’t walk
around in public naked.”

Feeling defensive, embarrassed, and
oppressed, Belle said in an undertone, “I only wanted to make
sure.”

“Good God, Miss Monroe, do you think the
directors of the World’s Columbian Exposition would have selected
me to be their official photographer if I were a man of low moral
character?” He frowned at her as if he considered her at least
deficient in intellect, if not totally crazy.

Belle gave up. The Richmonds didn’t have to
know the photographs would be viewed only in Germany. And they’d be
happy she’d agreed to sit for the shots. After hesitating for
another moment or two—she wasn’t sure she altogether trusted this
man—she capitulated. “Oh, very well.”

Ungracious, that, but Belle had a feeling
Win Asher didn’t give a rap about her mood, but only her
compliance.

Chapter Six

Belle was absolutely right about Win’s
concern for her state of social grace. She could have been the
spawn of Satan and cursed him from here to perdition and back
again, and he wouldn’t have cared. The only thing he cared about
was that she’d agreed to sit for him. A hundred bucks wasn’t much,
considering the stacks of money he expected to receive in royalties
once the world got a gander at the photographs he intended to
produce.

He’d had to obfuscate, but he didn’t care
about that, either. While it was true Win had an agent whose
headquarters were in Germany, Herr Schlichter handled the sale of
his work to publications all over Europe, the British Isles, and
the Middle East. Win suspected that with some fancy maneuvering,
he’d be able to get Schlichter to play middleman with his agent in
the good old U.S. of A., too, thereby technically complying with at
least some of Belle’s beliefs, but also gaining Win a huge
audience.

When viewed in that light, a hundred dollars
was a pittance. He probably ought to offer her more, but he’d wait.
If he let on how much he expected to earn from the photographs at
this time, she’d probably run off screaming.

His conscience niggled at him a weeny bit
about this method of achieving his aims, but the concept of this
photographic study was too important to him, and Belle was too
perfect for the role, to quibble about technicalities. He’d deal
with her wrath later. Once the pictures were in newspapers and on
posters throughout the United States and her territories, Belle
wouldn’t be able to do anything but sue him, and Win imagined she
was too much of a lady—whatever in hell that was—to do anything so
unladylike.

He grinned inside when he realized that
Belle’s gentility was both his curse and his blessing. “Great!”
Borrowing a gesture from George Richmond, he rubbed his hands.

Belle still appeared doubtful. That was all
right with Win. He’d get her to pose in spite of herself.

She cleared her throat again. “So, what was
it you said about light levels?”

She had a pretty voice, even if it was
slow-moving and thick with Southern treacle. “If you’ll please just
go up on the platform and sit on the log, I’ll fiddle with the
lights.”

As if she hadn’t noticed them before, Belle
focused on the electric lights Win had installed in his booth. They
were all movable, albeit with difficulty, but he wasn’t going to
let anything deter him from fulfilling his artistic vision.

She surprised him by complying with his
request without a word of protest. He’d begun to anticipate her
fighting him tooth and nail every time he made the least little
suggestion.

As he’d expected of her, she smoothed her
skirt before she sat, and folded her hands in her lap. He
remembered with fond nostalgia the series of photographs he’d taken
of Kate Finney. There wasn’t a solitary thing about Kate that was
stiff or stuffy.

Not so Belle Monroe. She was as stiff as the
proverbial board, and as stuffy as his bench cushion. Win had no
idea how he was going to get that damned corset off her, although
he entertained a couple of pleasant fantasies, but he decided to
concentrate on the lights today. He’d worry about the corset later.
One thing at a time. He’d got her this far; he only had to use his
intelligence, a little charm, and his undoubted ingenuity on her,
and even so confirmed a prude as Belle Monroe wouldn’t be able to
resist for long. He hoped.

After contemplating her for a moment or two,
he left her on the log and walked over to his bank of electrical
lights. He decided he’d set up the tall overhead lamps first. They
were heavy, but he was strong. As he lugged the first one over to
the platform, Belle asked him a question.

“Um, I’m not altogether certain what you
plan to do, Mr. Asher. Would you please explain this series of
photographs to me?”

“Again?” He could have bitten his tongue
because the one word had sounded as if he were complaining.

But she only waved a hand in the air
gracefully and didn’t look as if she aimed to march off in a huff.
Thank God.

After clearing her throat, she went on. “I’m
not exactly sure how you expect to use me to portray the Perfect
American Woman.” She offered him a fleeting smile. “That’s a tall
order for little old me.”

When she put it that way, Win’s patience
reasserted itself. “Sure. Oomph.” He set the lamp down on the edge
of the platform and fussed with it until he thought its placement
might be correct. When he turned it on, light burst forth, and
Belle lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Sorry about the glare, Miss
Monroe. I’m sure you’ll get used to it in time.”

“Hmmm.”

Right. From the tone of her voice, she was
determined not to get used to it.
Patience
, he told himself. “Anyhow, I have a vision of
these photographs as a symbol of America today; the Modern America;
the America that’s become a leader in the world; the America that
now rivals Great Britain in power; the America that bred great men
like Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln and—”

“Ha!”

Whoops. Wrong example. Drat his mouth. He
had to keep in mind that this young woman was a relict of an
extinct society, and that she retained its antiquated attitudes and
mores. She was, in short, akin to an ambulatory fossil.

“Sorry,” he growled, peeved both with
himself and with her. He didn’t understand people who insisted on
living in the past. “But you have to admit that America has been
the birthplace of a whole lot of great men.”

“Robert E. Lee, for instance,” she said
crisply.

He opted not to rise to the bait. “Sure. He
was a great general. Or so I’ve heard.” Personally, Win had no use
for a man who’d fought to hold on to so evil a practice as slavery,
but he wasn’t going to get into that wrangle if he could help
it.

“And then,” he went on as he adjusted the
lamplight so that it illumined Belle’s face the way he wanted it
to, “there are the inventors. Robert Fulton. John Deere. Shoot, the
folks who created this Exposition, for that matter.”

“Mmmm,” said Belle.

At least she dropped her hand from her face
so Win could see it under the light. He decided not to push his
luck, but instead to talk about what he was doing at present.
Photography didn’t take sides in bygone conflicts, no matter what
its subjects did. “All right, Miss Monroe. These lights get hot
after a while, so I’ll turn this one off and set up another
one.”

She heaved a sigh. “Very well.”

“You don’t have to sound like Joan of Arc
being tied to the stake,” he grumbled, irked beyond reason. He’d
meant to keep his fat mouth shut so as not to set her hackles
up.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “This is
uncomfortable and boring, no matter what
you
think.”

He backed off at once. “I beg your pardon. I
know the process can be tedious, and I appreciate your willingness
to pose for me.” He nearly gagged on the words, but at least Belle
appeared slightly mollified.

She lifted her chin and sniffed, but Win
supposed he ought to be grateful she remained sitting and didn’t
leap off the log and storm out of his booth. His next thought
caught him by surprise, but he paid attention to it.

Perhaps he ought to be more understanding
with the creature, even if she did represent a culture he couldn’t
comprehend. Perhaps if he thought of her as if she were from a
foreign country—as if she were a Pygmy from the Belgian Congo, for
instance—he’d get along with her better.

After all, she was sitting for him instead
of enjoying the Exposition. Win supposed that was something he
should appreciate. And he did. Truly, he did. It was only that Miss
Monroe and he seemed to get along together like oil and water. Cats
and dogs. Fire and kindling. Fire and water, for that matter.

Nevertheless, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt
to be a trifle more conciliatory. As he lugged another lamp over
and set it behind Belle and to her left, he muttered, “I promise
you I’ll make this up to you, Miss Monroe. I’ll be sure you’ll see
the whole Columbian Exposition.”

“I shall see the Columbian Exposition
without your help, thank you.”

She sounded like a damned nun condemning a
sinner. If nuns did that sort of thing. As he lugged over another
lamp, he held his temper and tried another tack.

“Arruph!” He set the lamp down. “You see,
the series of photographs I aim to take of you and the Richmond
kids will exemplify and extol the American family.” He twisted the
lamp head into a position he thought might work and turned the lamp
on. “Nuts. This isn’t right.” He turned the lamp off, twisted the
head another inch or so, and turned it on again.

“If the Richmond children’s photographs are
going to fulfill your purpose in glorifying the American way of
life, I don’t see why you need a series of photographs with just me
in them.” Again, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “That’s
terribly bright, Mr. Asher.”

“Yeah, I know it is. Sorry.” He turned off
the lamp again and this time twisted the head downward. “It’s like
this, Miss Monroe . . .”

He decided to set up another light in a
corner of his booth so as to cast more of a shadowy effect on the
platform. With his back to Belle, he went on, “The Richmond
photographs—with you in them, of course—will depict the American
family as it is today: The beneficiaries of more than a century of
innovation, industry, and progress—sort of like this fair.”

“Mmmm.”

“Those photographs will convey the success
and happiness of Americans to the world.”

She gave him another “Mmmm,” and Win got the
feeling she wasn’t buying his image of America as happy and
successful. Damned southerners. It was their own fault if they
didn’t like the world the way it was; they never should have
developed a system that depended on slaves to begin with.

He opted not to go in to that sticky
problem. “But the pictures of you alone are meant to depict the
true beauty of America and the American spirit. It’s as if the
images of you will convey to the world—”

She interrupted. “They’ll convey whatever
that image is to Germany.”

Dammit, he really had to watch his step with
this fussy belle. “Right. Germany. Anyhow, they’ll convey to
Germany the full blossoming of American womanhood. You will be, to
Germany, the epitome of everything perfect and beautiful in the
United States of America. When people see this study, they’ll all
want to move over here.”

She pursed her lips. Win braced himself as
he turned on the light in the corner.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” she
muttered. “From what I’ve seen of foreigners in New York City, many
of them are poor and needy. Don’t you think you might be presenting
a lie?”