Just North of Bliss (6 page)

Mr. Richmond rubbed his chin. “I see.” He
looked at his wife, who returned his gaze and added a small shrug
for good measure. This form of communication was plainly unreadable
to Mr. Richmond, who said, “What do you think, Gladys?”

Sensing imminent capitulation, Win put in
hastily, “Don’t forget that you’ll be getting portraits of each of
you individually and at least a couple of family studies, as well.
I’ll throw those in as a gift, since I’m hoping to borrow your
children.” Recollecting the other important—indeed,
essential—member of his envisioned grouping, he added, “And your
children’s nanny.”

He tried to send a smile Miss Monroe’s way,
but she deflected it quite tidily with a frozen frown. He didn’t
know what she was so peeved about, but he was sure he could bring
her around to his way of thinking eventually.

And if he couldn’t, it wouldn’t matter. If
he convinced the Richmonds to allow him the use of their children,
she’d go along with the scheme because she went with the kids. It
was her job, and she probably didn’t want to lose it. He wondered
if that might be considered a form of blackmail and decided it
didn’t matter. He had a vision in his mind’s eye, and he knew it
would be the making of his career if he could achieve it. Miss
Monroe could like it or lump it, but she’d do it.

Mrs. Richmond hesitated for a moment, then
said, “Well, it’s an interesting offer, George. It would certainly
be nice to have family portraits taken. I can almost see them on
the piano in the back parlor.”

Win’s innards shuddered, but the rest of him
didn’t. He reminded himself that it was often the artist’s lot in
life to be relegated to a piano in the back parlor.

“Don’t forget, too,” he shoved in smoothly,
“that I’m the best photographer in the greater Chicago area.
Otherwise, the fair directors wouldn’t have selected me to be the
official photographer of the World’s Columbian Exposition.” He
offered the Richmonds a smile meant to convey good humor as well as
honesty and pride in himself and his accomplishments. Dash it, he
was
the best.

He thought he heard a stifled sound from
Miss Monroe but when he glanced at her, she sat still, stony-faced
and upright. He hoped to God he’d be able to get her to unbend
during the photographic sessions. He was sure he could do it; he
had boundless confidence in himself.

Win was extremely happy and not at all
surprised when the Richmonds capitulated to his sales talk.

As for Belle, she couldn’t recall the last
time she’d been so embarrassed, furious, overlooked, and incensed.
She hadn’t uttered as horrid a sound as her initial
what
? at
Mr. Asher’s suggested plan since she’d been a child and Johnny
Meadows dropped a frog in her lap.

And then Mr. Asher had the nerve, the
unmitigated
gall
to ignore her completely and talk solely to
the Richmonds, as if her agreement to this precious scheme of his
didn’t matter a jot. And she was the most important part of it,
too, or he’d have been willing to photograph the children with
their real mother.

Bell would have liked to conk him over the
head with her parasol, but genteelly reared southern ladies didn’t
do such things. Anyhow, she’d missed her opportunity for doing
anything so useful back there on the Midway, when she’d mistaken
him for a masher.

He was no masher. He was something much
worse. He was a damned Yankee of the worst sort: Brash, rude,
unprincipled, and greedy.

When, as the Richmonds began to herd their
children out of the restaurant, a job they generally relegated to
Belle, and Mr. Asher hung back to talk to her, Belle decided she’d
lose nothing but a stomachache if she told him exactly what she
thought of him. He held her chair as she rose, and as soon as she
was upright, she rounded on him.

“Mr. Asher, you’re a brash, rude,
unprincipled, and greedy Yankee pig, and I’ve never been so
unconscionably ignored before in my life. You ought to be ashamed
of yourself!”

He had the effrontery to look first stunned,
and then amused. Taking her arm without waiting for her to indicate
such an attention would be appreciated, he guided her toward the
front door of the restaurant. “I’m sorry about that, Miss Monroe.
You’re right. But I figured you’d come with the kids and it was
more important for me to get the Richmonds to go for my idea than
to influence you.”

“Yes,” she said in freezing accents. “I
understand perfectly what your reasoning was. Unhand me if you
will, please.”

She resented it when he cast his gaze
heavenward. “I’m not really all that terrible a person, Miss
Monroe. If I was a bit sly back there, it was because when I’m
attacked by an artistic vision, I get a little carried away
sometimes.”

“Ha.”

They caught up with the Richmonds at the
coat-check booth where Mr. Richmond was retrieving his walking
stick and hat and the ladies’ parasols. Mr. Asher, too, took his
hat from the lad behind the counter, flipping him a coin in a
nonchalant gesture that somehow symbolized to Belle the attitude of
perfect superiority Northerners were so prone to display.

She used this opportunity, as the gentlemen
retrieved their possessions, to reestablish her position at the
sides of her charges. She told herself to recollect at all times
that the care and well-being of Amalie and Garrett were her duty
and her responsibility. She’d given Mr. Asher a piece of her mind.
While it hadn’t been as satisfactory an experience as it might have
been if he’d been obliging enough be ashamed of himself, it was
time to get back to work.

Grinding her teeth, Belle wished she could
spend another hour or three berating Mr. Win Asher. And what kind
of name was Win, anyhow? Belle had never heard such a ridiculous
name. She’d like to tell him that, too, but wouldn’t.
She
was a lady. She might have fallen upon hard times, but she wouldn’t
lower herself to such a degree as ridiculing a person on account of
his name which, one presumed, wasn’t his fault.

It occurred to her that it was due to people
like Win Asher that she’d had to seek employment in the first
place. If it weren’t for the fact that her noble southern family
and neighbors had been forced into defending themselves against
Abraham Lincoln’s War, Belle’s family would still be planting
cotton and tobacco and living well in an unruined plantation in
Blissborough, Georgia. With slaves.

Fudge. Belle hated it when she remembered
the slaves.

Nevertheless, if Mr. Win Asher ever laid a
hand on her again, to guide her to the coat-check room or anywhere
else, she’d whack him with her parasol. As long as the Richmonds
weren’t around to see. Or the children. She didn’t want to set a
bad example for the children.

Mr. Asher didn’t give up his intrusive
behavior even after their group had left the restaurant. “Do you
mind if I tag along with your family for awhile, Mr. and Mrs.
Richmond? I’d like to get an idea of how the children and Miss
Monroe interact. It will help me understand how best to use them in
my study.”

Belle fumed while the Richmonds, whom she’d
always considered to be a superior form of Northern family until
today, looked at each other in the kind of mute conversation
married folks engaged in. She wished she could offer her opinion,
but she was merely the hired help. Every now and then, she
regretted her decision to move North and secure employment. Now,
for instance.

It was Mrs. Richmond who responded to the
photographer’s question. “I should think that would be nice, Mr.
Asher. Since you’re more familiar with the fair itself than we are,
perhaps you can show us the most intriguing places for the children
to visit.”

Win’s smile was broad and flashy, and it
gave Belle palpitations. Unless that was only leftover pique. She
felt better when she decided pique must be it. The thought of Mr.
Win Asher causing anything but irritation in her bosom was more
than she could healthily contemplate on a full stomach.

“I’d love to.” He knelt beside Garrett and
Amalie, a gesture Belle would have approved of in any other
gentleman since it betokened a certain ease with children. In Win
Asher, she not only didn’t appreciate it, she flat-out hated
it.

She watched, eyes narrowed, as he conversed
with her charges. She didn’t care for the way they responded to
him, which was with without anxiety and reeking with friendliness.
She wanted them to disapprove of him, as she did. But that was
silly. Children had no discrimination. It was a flaw which maturity
would cure.

“Say, you two, how’d you like to visit the
Wooded Island? There’s a reconstructed Colonial village there, and
you can see for yourselves how the Pilgrims lived.”

Garrett turned a bright, eager gaze to his
parents. “Oh, may we? That sounds like such fun!”

It did, actually. Belle would never say
so.

“I’d like to do that, too,” Amalie said. She
looked at Mr. Asher with wide blue eyes and a simpering smile.

Belle squinted at the little girl, wondering
if she were forming a child’s crush on the photographer. It would
be just her luck if the whole family fell under the wretched man’s
spell; the man who ignored her and didn’t care about her opinion,
and who only wanted to use her for his own aims. Belle felt
exploited and maltreated, and she didn’t like it.

She was, therefore, particularly silent as
the family and Mr. Asher strolled along toward one of the many
lakes enclosed in the Exposition’s grounds. When Amalie took Mr.
Asher’s hand and skipped along at his side, she began to feel like
an old used boot that nobody needed any longer.

“There’s a hunter’s cabin on the Wooded
Island that will probably interest you, Garrett,” Mr. Asher went
on, oblivious to Belle’s discomfort.

And why shouldn’t he be oblivious? Nobody
cared about the hired help. With a start, Belle realized she was
descending into a mood of gloom and dissatisfaction, and resolved
to buck up. Her beloved father used to say that a body could choose
to be happy or unhappy, generally giving examples to illustrate his
point.

Those verbal illustrations of her father’s
had meant a good deal to Belle, primarily because of her personal
family observations. Although she’d never ventured to voice her
opinion, she believed her mother enjoyed being unhappy, sort of the
way some people enjoyed ill health.

Her grandmother sprang to mind. Granny
reveled in detailing every one of her many aches and pains. It had
come as a great relief to Belle to learn that she didn’t have to
grow up unhappy and ill. Recalling her father’s advice, she
resolved not to sink into any pits of despair brought about by an
ill-mannered Yankee photographer.

Therefore, she straightened her shoulders,
took Amalie’s other hand, refused to look at Win Asher, and
quickened her step. Since the Richmonds had always included her in
their conversations before the advent of Mr. Asher, she decided to
assert herself again now. “I understand the Exposition houses an
interesting exhibition of relics from Columbus’s voyage of
discovery, too.”

Mr. Asher nodded, which struck Belle as
vaguely encouraging. “Yes, indeed. The entire fair was intended to
be a celebration of the 400
^th
anniversary of Columbus’s
discovery of America.”

“They’re a year late,” Garrett said,
laughing about it.

Mr. Asher flicked Garrett’s sailor cap down
the front of his face, and the little boy giggled as he
straightened it. “Yeah, yeah, smart guy,” the photographer said.
“They might have been a year late, but they did a superlative job
in getting the place together so quickly.”

“My goodness, I should say so,” said Mrs.
Richmond. Smiling at Belle, she added, “I insist that we visit the
Columbus exhibit. After all, if the fair is in honor of his
discovery, we ought at least to see it.”

“It’s fascinating,” Win said. “It astonishes
me that those tiny little ships actually made their way across the
ocean without sinking.”

Conversation perked right along after that,
and Belle didn’t feel so left out. She told herself that she’d
learned a valuable lesson. She could have allowed herself to sink
into a pit of perceived unworthiness, and it would have been her
own fault. On the spot, she decided to write to her father this
very evening and thank him for imparting such a valuable
lesson.

She did not, however, object when Mr.
Richmond, Mr. Asher, and Garrett took off on their own when the
ladies began touring the rose garden at one edge of the Wooded
Island. “I know you ladies will want to look at the Women’s
Department.” Mr. Richmond winked at his son and at Win. “We fellows
will find something else to do that we’re more interested in.”

Mrs. Richmond took mild exception. “Mrs.
Potter Palmer wrote a very interesting article for the
Times
, George. You said yourself that it was about
time the good works of women were recognized and honored.”

“True, true, Gladys. Don’t get into a
huff.”

“I’m not getting into a huff,” Mrs. Richmond
said huffily. “You men would be in a sorry state if you had to do
all the things we women do by yourselves.”

Win smiled, flashing those white teeth of
his and making Belle grind her own teeth together. “Mrs. Richmond
is absolutely right about that, Mr. Richmond. We must give the
ladies their due.”

“Indeed, you must,” said Gladys, relenting
enough to offer up a small smile.

“And the fair directors gave the noble
ladies an entire building for themselves,” Win added.

The men chuckled in a mellow, superior
manner that made Belle want to kick them both. Dad-blasted men
thought they ruled the world. Ruefully, she remembered that they
did. It wasn’t fair.

Even though she’d been steeped in southern
gentility, mild-mannered ladyhood, and the concept of ruling from
behind the throne, from the day of her birth, Belle still
occasionally wished women had more power to govern their own
actions and lives overtly. It was a pain in the neck always to be
forced to use subtle means to obtain one’s goals.