Just North of Bliss (22 page)

“My goodness.” Belle offered Mr. Richmond a
smile, but since his head was hidden behind the morning edition, he
didn’t see it.

“I want a pony,” said the little girl
wistfully.

“I want a
horse
,”
said her brother. He sounded scornful, as he generally did when
talking to or about his sister.

Belle smiled at both of them. She enjoyed
the children. Even Garrett, although she believed she’d prefer to
have girls than boys. Men always wanted boys, though, so she
guessed she’d be willing to produce a couple of boys for her
husband. If she ever found a husband.

The notion of marrying one of the young men
in Blissborough gave her a slight pain in her midsection that
matched the one in her head. Unless that was only her hunger
torturing her. It was difficult to tell with the cursed corset
strapped around her midsection like a portable jail cell.

A waiter came over to their table, looking
ever so genteel and proper. Waiters, in Belle’s experience, were
the most proper-appearing individuals in the northern states. She
waited until the Richmonds had given their orders before she gave
hers. She knew her place in this family’s life, even if she
sometimes acted as though she’d forgotten it. So did the Richmonds,
which didn’t help any.

“We could have a horse, couldn’t we, Pa?”
Garrett asked his father before George could retreat behind his
newspaper after giving his order.

The paper crackled as George gave it a shake
and lifted it to cover his face. “We’d need a stable in order to
have a horse,” his father pointed out, one eye peering at his son
around an edge of newsprint.

“Robert’s father bought
him
a horse,
and the Arbuthnots don’t have a stable.”

Belle saw Gladys look at the newspaper and
the newspaper tilt her way, and presumed the Richmonds were
exchanging a glance. She grinned inside. Child-rearing was a
ticklish business. Belle knew that Robert Arbuthnot’s father was
one of Mr. Richmond’s business rivals, although the two men were
supposed to be friends. This was one of the pitfalls of parenthood,
she reckoned.

It was Gladys who answered her child. “Just
because Robert’s parents bought him a horse, that doesn’t mean we
need to buy you one, Garrett. Robert’s horse lives in the country
on their summer estate. That arrangement wouldn’t do you much good,
if you wanted to ride your horse in Washington Square, would it? We
don’t have a summer home.”

“Why can’t we have a summer house in the
country? Everybody does!”

Would that it were true. Belle wouldn’t mind
having a summer home in the country. She’d be willing to live there
year-round actually.

“I don’t like the country.” Mrs. Richmond
spoke firmly. “Your father would be happy to oblige us if we wanted
one, but the country makes me sneeze.”

“Well, then, why can’t I have a horse in
town?” Garrett’s voice took on the sniveling quality of a child
thwarted. “We can use the carriage house. It’d be better than
riding those pokey old horses of Mr. Betteredge’s. Besides,
Robert’s father says it’s good for a boy to have a horse.”

Belle knew that Mr. Betteredge, who must be
ninety years old if he was a day, was the only person residing on
Washington Square who still kept a stable. The neighborhood was
grand, and in the old days all the residents had their own stables
and carriages. These days, however, New York City had grown so much
that keeping one’s own stable in the City was impractical and
wildly expensive.

Besides, cabs and carriages for hire were
plentiful, so most folks kept their horses, if still owned any, in
the country. It was a sensible way to live, in Belle’s considered
opinion, although the point was moot to her, since she couldn’t
even afford to keep a horse in Blissborough, much less in a the big
city.

Folding his newspaper with an aggrieved
sigh, George took over the argument. Leaning toward his son and
frowning—Belle suspected he regretted having to lay the newspaper
aside—he said, “If Robert’s father thought it was good to throw his
son off a bridge, would you want me to do that to you? Be your own
man, son. If you want to succeed in life, you need to break away
from the pack and do things on your own.”

Look who’s talking
, Belle mused in
mild vexation, although she knew the thought to be unjust. George
might be a stuffed shirt, but he was a comparably good-natured
one—when he bothered to remember there were other people in the
world.

“But—”

George didn’t give Garrett a chance to
further explain his desire for a horse. “Look, son, I know you
think it would be grand fun to have a horse or two, but if I ever
buy you an animal, it would have to be in the country, where it can
live a decent life, and since your mother can’t abide the country,
it’s most unlikely. Don’t forget, too, that if you ever
do
get a horse, you’re the one who’s going to take care of it. I
expect Mr. Arbuthnot has also hired stablemen and grooms to take
care of Robert’s horse, and that’s not what I want for my children.
I want them to develop a sense of responsibility.”

Gladys nodded. Even Belle approved of this
pronouncement. Garrett, as might have been expected, did not. “All
I want’s a horse,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re making a
big fuss about it.”

“A horse,” his mother pointed out,
“
is
a big fuss.”

Their breakfast arrived, and Garrett gave up
arguing in favor of eating.

Belle sat next to Amalie, her favorite of
the two children, probably because she was the more compliant and,
it seemed to Belle, the more sensible. “I’m glad you enjoyed your
visit with your friends, Amalie.”

“It was fun.” Amalie poured syrup over some
flapjacks and dug in.

Belle was about to do likewise when her eye
caught a picture on the folded newspaper Mr. Richmond had placed
beside his breakfast plate. Her fork fell with a clatter from her
benumbed fingers as she stared. “Oh, my God.” The words came out in
a breathy whisper.

“Belle!” cried Gladys. “Oh, what’s the
matter?” She pushed herself away from the table and rose to her
feet, her face a mask of alarm.

“What’s wrong, Miss Monroe?” Amalie, too,
sounded worried.

“Good God, is she sick?” asked George around
a mouthful of baked ham. He looked as if he considered such a
possibility more of a nuisance than a tragedy.

“Miss Monroe!” cried Garrett with what would
have been gratifying trepidation, had Belle been in any condition
to be gratified.

She wasn’t. She was flabbergasted. Stunned.
Shocked.

With a pounce that startled her dining
companions, she snatched up Mr. Richmond’s newspaper, much to that
gentleman’s astonishment. Looking hard at what she’d thought she’d
seen, she realized with horror that she’d been right. “Oh, my
God.

She’d seen it, all right. So had everybody
else in the city of Chicago.

Belle was furious.

# # #

Win gazed at the newspaper and smiled. He’d
been gazing and smiling for what seemed like hours. H.L. May had
done a bang-up job of the article he’d promised to write. And the
photograph of Belle . . . Well . . . Win was more than pleased. He
was ecstatic. Elated. Floating on air. He was sure he was a lot of
other things, too, but he didn’t know the words for them.

Damn, he was going to be rich. He was going
to make Belle rich, too, bless her heart.

He could hardly wait to show her the
photograph and accompanying article. She was going to love it.

Damn, but she was gorgeous there, on the
front page of the
Globe
. Ethereal.
Dazzling. Otherworldly. Yet, somehow, essentially
one-hundred-and-ten-percent American. The pose was perfect.
Belle
was perfect He’d titled the photograph “Miss Liberty,”
and to Win’s mind, it portrayed everything worthwhile in this
country: Beauty, Freedom, Grace, Independence, Glory, Patriotism,
and Love. H.L. had worked all of those words into his article, too,
by damn.

“God, I’m good,” Win muttered aloud. He
dared speak aloud because there was no one in the booth with him.
Win Asher didn’t suffer from false modesty, but he avoided overt
braggadocio because people didn’t like braggarts.

As he stared at the photograph of Belle, he
couldn’t help but recall the interrupted embrace of the evening
before. He didn’t know whether to thank Kate Finney or paddle her
behind for bursting into his booth at that exact moment. Belle had
felt as if she belonged in his arms.

Obviously, he told himself here, in the
privacy of his booth, he was good for her. All anyone had to do was
take a gander at this photograph, if they doubted his word on that.
Hell, he’d drawn her out of herself. He’d showed her true worth and
inner—not to mention outer—beauty and essence, to the entire
universe in this photograph.

When they’d first met, she’d been a fussy
little southerner with no more sense of the world outside her own
little corner of it than a gnat. But he, Win Asher, had perceived,
upon catching that first glimpse of her on the Midway, the inner
Belle. He could hardly wait to tell the Richmonds about the deal
he’d made with his agent to market the series of photographs
featuring Belle and their kids, too. They’d be overjoyed. The
Richmonds, unlike Belle, knew a good thing when they saw it.

He heaved a huge sigh and went over to
unlock his door. He’d been sitting in his booth gloating since
early this morning, when he’d picked up a copy of the
Globe
from the kid down the block from his flat. Then, after a fleeting
glance at his photograph, he’d bought the boy’s entire supply, much
to the boy’s glee. Win was pretty damned gleeful himself.

His satisfaction only intensified when he
set a cabinet-sized print of the newspaper photograph of Belle on
an easel in his booth’s front window. As he watched the strollers
who’d come to see the grand Columbian Exposition walk along, he was
satisfied by how many of them spotted the picture, stopped walking,
and changed direction so that they could peruse the print more
closely. Many of them altered their morning plans after that and
entered his booth. If this kept up, Win would have enough work to
last him the rest of his life. And the world had only been
privileged to view one of his artistic visions so far. He had
dozens of ‘em.

He itched to see Belle. To hell with her
southern-belle-ness. He was going to sweep her up in his arms and
kiss her as if yesterday’s kiss had been no more than a brotherly
peck on the cheek. And he didn’t care if the whole world watched
him do it. He was on a roll, damn it, and he aimed to take Belle
with him!

# # #

“Hold that pose,” Win said, ducking under
his black curtain. “Don’t move a millimeter.”

The young woman on his platform giggled. “I
don’t know what a millimeter is, so I don’t know if can move that
much or not.”

Right. Real funny
. Win didn’t speak
the words that had filtered through his head, since to do so would
have angered the vain young lady at present posing for him.
Actually, she was posing for herself. Win would never pose anyone
in so artificial a stance if he were pleasing himself.

But Belle’s picture in the newspaper was
having the result he’d desired, and this young woman had hired him
to take pictures of her. “For my fiancé,” she’d told him with a
simper. Then she’d proceeded to dictate “romantic” poses to Win
until he was ready to upchuck. Not literally.

He detested this sort of thing, though. This
young woman had about as much subtlety as a steam engine. She
wasn’t like Belle. Belle’s whole appeal was subtle. Sure, she was
pretty, but her allure ran deeper than that. Belle’s inner essence
shone through her outer trappings. Not that her outer trappings
weren’t lovely, too, but there was a lot more to her than her
family and the Recent Unpleasantness and all that southern
folderol.

Realizing he was only confusing himself by
trying to put words to Belle’s appeal, he yanked the chain on his
camera, the flash powder caught, the explosion came, and the girl
giggled. Maybe he’d just discovered the answer. Win could have
predicted that sequence of events, actions, and reactions with this
young woman. Not with Belle. With Belle, a fellow never knew what
to expect. Well, besides a euphemism or two for the Civil War.

He was smiling when he told the young woman,
“I think that will do it, Miss Pierce.”

“Oh,
thank
you, Mr. Asher.” Miss
Pierce simpered down from the platform, joining her mother. Mrs.
Pierce, Win noted with distaste, was also a simperer.

“Sure thing.” Deciding he had better things
to do with his eyes than watch a couple of females simper, he
emptied the flash tray and refilled it as the women gathered their
parasols and handbags together. Where the devil was Belle?

“And when did you say we should come
back?”

The younger Pierce sounded as if she hoped
he’d tell her to stick around and watch him for the rest of the
day. What was the matter with her, anyhow? According to her, she
already had a fiancé. Surely, she didn’t need Win to pay court to
her, too. Dammit, he wanted to shake the dust off his heels and
desert his booth for the Columbian Exposition, taking Belle and his
roll-film box Kodak with him. Hell, he’d even take the rest of the
Richmonds along if they insisted.

“Um—” he said, recalling that the young
woman had asked him a question. “—Friday, I guess. I can get a
sheet of proofs prepared, and you can select the ones you want me
to enlarge.” Guessing he had to turn around and be polite to his
customers, he did so. The young woman was gazing at him as if he
were lunch and she was starving. Her mama was almost as bad.
Stepping behind his camera even though he didn’t really need to do
anything else there, he said, “Thanks for stopping by, ladies. I
hope you’ll enjoy the photographs.”