Just North of Bliss (13 page)

Win straightened so fast, he bumped his head
on the lamp and almost sent it toppling. He grabbed it in time to
prevent a catastrophe. The damned lights were expensive. “What?
Good God, no! It’s not America’s fault that some people can’t
support themselves. America offers opportunities to everyone! There
are lots of immigrants in Chicago, too, don’t forget, and I know
some of them have their troubles, but I’d be willing to bet most of
those would have trouble anywhere.”

“Mmmm.”

Again, he got the feeling she didn’t agree
with him, and he wondered if her being from the South had anything
to do with her attitude. Although he imagined he was stepping
straight into a puddle of trouble, he decided to ask. “I guess you
folks in the South suffered a lot of economic hardships after
the—the war.” He’d been going to say the
Civil
War, but caught himself in time.

“You guess that, do you?”

She sounded snooty and nasty, and her tone
nettled Win. “All right, I’ve read about it. Is that better?” He
twisted the lamp head slightly to the left and turned it on. Ah,
that was perfect.

“I suppose so.” She sniffed again. “Yes, we
in the South suffered terribly after the Conflict. Those of us in
Georgia were particularly hard hit by that dreadful fellow Sherman
and his marauding band of cutthroats, arsonists, and thieves.”

Win nodded as he contemplated the rest of
his lamps. Tapping his chin, he pondered what, if anything, he
wanted to do with them. He wasn’t sure he needed them, actually. It
might be fun to take some shots of Belle outdoors. Now that he had
a portable box camera, outdoor shots weren’t so difficult. “Right,”
he said absently. “Sherman. Must have been rough.”

She huffed. “You have no earthly idea, Mr.
Asher!”

That caught his attention, because it was
shrill and vehement. He glanced at her to find her looking shrill
and vehement, as well. He sighed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Monroe.
I’m really paying attention. It’s only that I’m contemplating
lighting at the moment.”

“Of course.”

Aha. He knew what he was going to do. Thanks
to improvements in camera technology, indoor photography was easier
than it used to be. With artistic arrangement of lights, it was
possible to convey the impression of evening without using flash
powder, which made everything as bright as day. Win thought the
beautiful Belle would appear to great advantage in evening light.
The notion appealed to him strongly, as a matter of fact.

Or maybe it wasn’t so strange. Win was,
after all, a virile young American male. He appreciated women. He
even appreciated Belle, although he’d like her better if she kept
her mouth shut. Tapping his chin some more, he thought about
lighting for another moment or two, then grabbed one more tall
electrical lamp and began lugging it across the room.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Monroe. Tell me
more about Georgia. I’ve never been there.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, as if she
considered never having been to Georgia some kind of sin. “My home
state was devastated by the vile Sherman and his thugs, Mr. Asher.
My own family’s plantation was burned, although the beasts were
kind enough to spare most of the house. Of course, they looted
everything of value inside it.”

He shook his head as he settled the lamp. He
hated hearing these stories, although he knew them to be true. “I
guess a lot of that sort of thing happened. I guess when men suffer
from battle lust, they’re apt to do anything.”

“Southern soldiers didn’t perpetrate those
kinds of horrors,” Belle declared.

Win slanted her a glance as he adjusted yet
another lamp head. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Haven’t you ever
read about Quantrill’s Raiders? Mosby’s Rangers? The Ku Klux Klan?
Or Andersonville? Quantrill, Mosby, and the Kuklos were all
southerners, and Andersonville Prison was right there in your own
dear home state of Georgia.”

He noticed that her lips primmed up
considerably at those sharp reminders that people were people the
world over, and that no one group held a patent either on sanctity
or immorality. He’d have smiled, except he didn’t trust her not to
thwart him if he did something so certain to provoke her.

“There are, of course, exceptions to every
rule.”

“Right.” Win left his latest lamp and went
to his camera, there to contemplate the entire set-up. Ideas for
photographs of Belle had started rampaging through his head, and he
could hardly wait to get started. “Exceptions.”

Belle put on a martyred expression and cast
her glance at the ceiling, as if she were being asked to endure
unspecified but ghastly tortures. Wondering exactly how someone got
to be like her, he stopped tapping his chin and said, “I suppose
you grew up on stories about the suffering South and the evils of
the North, huh?”

Although Win had thought she was already as
stiff as she could get, she fooled him. Amazing.

“The South
did
suffer horrid
depredations and villainies, for your information, and the North
did
perpetrate great evils on us.”

“Right, right.” He ducked under his camera’s
black curtain. “Hold still for a minute, will you? I want to focus
this on you.”

She did as he asked, although her expression
was black enough to tar a road. “You have absolutely no idea what
we suffered.”

“I suspect you’re going to tell me,” Win
murmured from underneath the black curtain.

“You bet your boots I will.”

It was the first time Win had heard her
sound as if she wanted to do something. Her attitude actually kind
of tickled him. As he fiddled with the focus, he chuckled. “What I
don’t understand—and I’m sure you’ll tell me this, too—is why you
people down South seem determined to refight the war all the time.
It’s been over for almost thirty years. Don’t you think it’s about
time you got over it and got on with your lives?”

Her eyes opened wide—with anger, Win
surmised. “I swear to goodness, Mr. Asher, you blasted Yankees have
absolutely
no
idea what we suffered from your aggression!
You speak of the Conflict as if it were a big joke, and it
wasn’t!”

“Guess not,” he mumbled, still fiddling.

“I should say not. Thousands of brave young
man died, thousands of children were orphaned, thousands of people
lost everything they owned.”

“On both sides,” he reminded her.

“Ha! There may have been a few such cases in
the North, but even you must admit that most of the horrors were
perpetrated in the south.”

“Hmmm,” said Win. When Belle looked like she
was going to hurl one of the lamps at him, he added hastily, “I’m
willing to hear all about it, though. Truly, Miss Monroe, I’d be
delighted to have a history lesson from a southerner’s point of
view.”

At that moment the door to Win’s booth
opened. Wondering if Kate had come back to bum another two bits
from him, Win slipped out from under the curtain. He was
disappointed to discover a complete stranger in his booth. Because
he knew he had to, he smiled at the newcomer. “Good morning, ma’am.
May I help you?”

He was even more disappointed when the woman
turned out to be a customer. With an internal sigh, he turned to
Belle. “Would you mind stepping down from the platform for a few
minutes, Miss Monroe? I’ll be with you shortly.

Belle stepped down from the platform, but
she minded a good deal. Blast the man! He was absolutely
infuriating.

What was even worse was that Belle had often
harbored feelings of resentment toward her family for doing exactly
as Win accused her of doing: wallowing in old sorrows and not
getting on with life. Now she harbored feelings of resentment
toward Win Asher for daring to point out her family’s
shortcomings.

She wanted to berate him, loudly and long,
for daring to air one of her most cherished and well-concealed
secrets. She wouldn’t admit he’d hit a nerve, of course, but she’d
be more than happy to deliver his so-called history lesson. She’d
give him enough information about his stupid North to choke him.
Unfortunately, she didn’t get the opportunity.

The rest of the morning passed in a
frustrating series of interrupted poses for Belle. Every time Win
got her settled on the platform and she opened her mouth to impart
some vivid history lessons to him, somebody else came in the booth
and wanted him to take a photograph. By the time the Richmonds
eventually showed up to collect Belle for luncheon, she was ready
to scream, and Win looked harassed and unhappy.

Amalie ran over to her. “Oh, Miss Monroe!
You’ve
got
to go up on the Ferris wheel! It’s such fun!”

Belle shot Win a scorching glance. “I’d love
to, darling. I’m glad you had fun.” She lifted Amalie in her arms
and gave her cheek a kiss. Darting a glance at Gladys Richmond,
Belle deduced her job as nanny was safe for a while longer. Poor
Gladys looked as though she’d been ridden hard through a deep creek
and hung up wet.

Wiping her perspiring forehead with a dainty
embroidered handkerchief, Gladys confirmed Belle’s suspicions. “I
swear, Belle, I don’t know how I managed before you came to work
for us. I love my children dearly—” She shared a sweet smile
between her children. “—but they’re a handful.”

“Pshaw,” offered George Richmond. “They’re
only high-spirited.”

Gladys shot him a glare. “A lot you know
about it. You’re not the one who has to discipline them or tell
them they can’t have all the sweets they want, and that they aren’t
supposed to pick up the organ-grinder’s monkey, and that they
really aren’t supposed to be hanging out of the carriage on the
Ferris wheel.”

George’s complexion took on a brickish hue,
and he glared at his wife. “Now, see here, Gladys. . .”

Oh, dear. Belle didn’t like it when married
couples argued. And the Richmonds were generally the most
compatible of married people. Considering an interruption in this
instance less impolite than necessary, she interrupted. “It’s a
warm day,” she suggested gently, still holding Amalie in her arms.
“I’m sure tempers are a little frayed. And you must be hungry after
such an exciting morning.” She noticed Win watching them all, and
lifted her chin slightly.

“You can say that again,” grumbled
Garrett.

Belle realized for the first time that the
usually voluble Garrett had been silent since coming into Win’s
booth. Now he stood aside, his hands stuffed into the pockets of
his formerly natty sailor suit, and gave every indication of being
unusually crabby. He was also filthy dirty.

“Goodness gracious, Garrett, what happened
to you?”

Garrett shuffled his feet. “Nothing.”

“Nothing, my foot,” Gladys said, sounding
more high-pitched and piercing than usual. “He fell into the Grand
Basin!”

“Oh, dear.” Belle knew she shouldn’t want to
laugh, because laughing at a child’s capers was the best way to
turn the child into a monster. Therefore, she hid her smile under
an expression of concern.

Garrett kicked at the bench under the
window. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Was too!” said his adoring sister.

Garrett reached up and hit her. Amalie
started crying, although he hadn’t hit her hard, she was still
secure in Belle’s arms, and it didn’t sound as if her heart were
wholeheartedly engaged. Rather, her tears bore the earmarks of a
perfunctory performance, aimed at getting her brother into more
trouble.

With a sigh, Belle had the odd thought that
she’d love to have children of her own one day and to be mediating
their quarrels instead of those of the Richmond children. “Garrett,
that’s not a nice thing to do. You should apologize to your
sister.”

When Belle saw Amalie smirk at Garrett, she
added, “And Amalie, when your brother is attempting to explain
something, it’s not your place to interfere with his explanation.
If you believe it necessary to add something, you ought to do so
later. A lady doesn’t add sarcastic commentary to someone else’s
explanations.”

She noticed Win looking at her oddly and
turned so that she couldn’t see his face. What was wrong with the
dratted man now? She wondered. He was most likely critical of her
handling of the children. Belle decided he was probably one of
those people who believed children should be given free reign when
it came to self-expression, which she understood was called modern
psychology. She sniffed. He hadn’t liked it much yesterday when
that obnoxious boy was sitting for him and exhibiting
his
free expression.

Amalie had foregone crying in favor of
sulking. She did, however, say, “I’m sorry,” in a muffled
voice.

Belle eyed Garrett, silently challenging him
to offer an apology to his sister. After heaving a huge sigh, as if
he were only doing it under duress, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Neither child sounded particularly
repentant, but Belle knew that they’d come to understand the
importance of proper manners someday. Glancing at the children’s
parents, she wished she could offer the two of them a pointer or
two as well. The Richmonds looked as if they’d just as soon go
their separate ways for a couple of hours.

This, she decided, is what comes of too much
fraternizing as a family. It was much easier to get along with
one’s relations when you weren’t constantly in each other’s
company. For example, Belle was able to positively adore her family
in Georgia now that she was living in New York. It seemed strange,
but there it was.

Win Asher ultimately broke through the
tension in his little photography booth. “Say, folks, would you
object if I went to lunch with you again today? I have a couple of
suggestions about the series of photographs I’m going to take with
your children and Miss Monroe.”

As if he were grateful to have another grown
man along to keep him company and add masculine support, George
leaped at Win’s suggestion. He brightened and cried “Absolutely!”
before Gladys or anyone else had a chance to think about Win’s
question.