Just North of Bliss (7 page)

She was not, however, a rebel at heart, and
she accepted her place in the world and in American society with
resignation, if not with appreciation. Naturally, she said
nothing.

“That’s fine, George. I also want Amalie to
visit the Children’s Building. I understand there’s a wonderful
exhibit of dolls and newfangled animated musical toys and so
forth.”

Win nodded. “There is.”

Belle squinted at him, wondering why he’d
bothered to look at the newfangled animated musical toys. As if
reading her thoughts, he gave her a lopsided, amused grin and said,
“I photographed the display for the
Globe
.”

In return, she gave him a regal nod. “I
see.”

“And I want to see all the new kitchen aids,
too,” Gladys said. Belle noticed an acquisitive gleam in her
eyes.

So did Mr. Richmond. “Try not to get too
many ideas, Gladys,” he admonished. He said it jovially, however,
and Belle deduced he wouldn’t mind furnishing his grand home in New
York City with all the latest and greatest kitchen devices his wife
cared to purchase.

“Don’t worry, dear. I won’t break the bank.”
Gladys laughed.

Belle watched the interchange with a tiny
ache in her heart. Quite often she wondered what it would be like
to have money. Sufficient money. Lots of money. With another
smallish pang, she guessed she’d never know.

“We’ll catch up with you at five,” Mr.
Richmond said, removing his expensive gold watch from his vest
pocket and squinting at it.

“Don’t you dare go to the Columbus exhibit
without us.” Mrs. Richmond shook her finger at her husband in mock
warning.

“We won’t.” Mr. Richmond glanced at Win.
“Perhaps Mr. Asher will join us for dinner.”

This suggestion didn’t appeal to Belle, but
she had no say in the matter and kept a serene countenance. Might
as well, for such was the way of the world, and women in her
situation in life had best learn the art of blank-faced acceptance.
If they didn’t, they’d get fired. Belle realized she was grinding
her teeth again and ceased the useless occupation.

In spite of her inner turmoil, the afternoon
passed pleasantly. Belle felt much more comfortable in the absence
of Mr. Asher’s company, although she couldn’t seem to stop thinking
about him. Still and all, she and Mrs. Richmond had already
established a congenial relationship, and they both enjoyed looking
through the rose garden. The weather was warm and the wind had
kicked up.

Amalie lost her bonnet once and had to run
after it. Belle bought her a pretty pink ribbon with which to tie
it down. The small gesture gave her pleasure out of proportion to
the deed itself. Nevertheless, this was one of the few times in her
life that she’d been able to buy something frivolous for no better
reason than that she wanted to.

Her mood elevated slightly after that,
although she still couldn’t rid her mind’s eye of images of Mr. Win
Asher. She wondered if she were coming down with some kind of
malady. Sometimes when she took sick, she was subject to morbid
fancies. Not that the image her brain concocted of Mr. Archer was
morbid. Far from it. She told herself to concentrate on the
Exposition and stop thinking so hard. She wasn’t any good at
thinking, having had so little practice.

The three ladies had a wonderful time
inspecting all the exhibits in the Women’s Department. “Oh, Belle,
you look just like the statue of that Greek goddess over
there.”

Belle looked and had to admit to a momentary
sense of pride. The statue to which Mrs. Richmond pointed was quite
lovely. Because she knew her pride did her no credit—after all, her
looks weren’t her fault, but were a gift from God, her parents, and
her other antecedents—she said only, “Oh, la, Mrs. Richmond. I
think you closely resemble the Goddess of—” Egad. She’d been about
to compare Mrs. Richmond to the Goddess of Fertility. That would
never do. She pretended to get something caught in her throat and
took refuge in a cough. “I beg your pardon.”

She was glad when Mrs. Richmond didn’t
recognize this subterfuge, but patted her on the back in the
time-honored and useless gesture intended to help clear a person’s
breathing passages. “Are you all right, Belle?

Belle felt guilty, which was natural as she
wasn’t accustomed to prevarication. “I’m fine, thank you. You’re
very good.”

“Pshaw.”

“I was going to say,” Belle lied, “that you
look very much like the Goddess of Nature.” She gestured to another
statue, which was pretty in its own right, although the face didn’t
do justice to Mrs. Richmond’s elegant features.

Fortunately for Belle, Amalie decided to
join the conversation. “Do I look like any of them, Miss
Monroe?”

Pleased with the distraction, Belle leaned
over as well as she could considering her corset stays, lifted
Amalie into her arms, and hugged her. The child was particularly
affectionate, and Belle loved her dearly. “My goodness, Miss
Amalie, you look like
all
of them!” she
declared in her best rendition of her native drawling speech. “But
I think you bear an amazing resemblance to the statue of the
grizzly bear over there.” She gave Amalie a little squeeze and
winked at Amalie’s mother, who laughed.

“Definitely,” agreed that good-humored lady.
“Or perhaps the prowling coyote over there.”

Belle didn’t disparage the fact that Mrs.
Richmond pointed with her forefinger at the statue to which she
referred, as she had pointed to the one she thought resembled
Belle. Belle was beginning to come to terms with the fact that the
manners of her childhood did not prevail in the heathen North, and
that ladies weren’t considered ungenteel if they descended to
finger-pointing. Such unrefined gestures as finger-pointing and
speaking loudly were not considered rude up here.

Belle sighed as a momentary pang of
loneliness assailed her. Looking around at the crowds inside the
Women’s Department, she told herself she was assuredly
not
without companions. That they were alien to her
very heart and soul shouldn’t be a consideration. She’d made a
sensible decision, and had best get used to it.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that
she could speak to her family, figuratively, that very night, in
the solitude of her bedroom on the twelfth floor of the brand-new
and magnificent Congress Hotel. Plus which, she’d taken the
precaution of bringing with her on this trip to the Windy City
several letters her family had sent to her before she’d left New
York. Belle was sure rereading those epistles would make her feel
more the thing.

If only Mr. Asher’s proposed photographs
didn’t loom so large in her mind, she was sure she’d feel quite
grand in fact.

“I can’t wait for dinner,” said Amalie from
the comfort of Belle’s arms. “I want to see Mr. Asher again. I like
him lots.”

If Belle didn’t know the child to be
innocent of evil intent, she might just have dropped her.

Chapter Four

Win passed an enjoyable afternoon with Mr.
Richmond and Garrett, although he hoped none of the fair directors
ever found out that he’d abandoned his booth to pursue personal
business. Since they’d named him official photographer of the
Columbian Exposition, they kept a sharper eye on him than they did
other concessionaires. He had faith in his ability to talk himself
out of any detectival questionings on the part of the directors,
however, so he didn’t worry over much.

Mr. Richmond was as stuffy and
self-satisfied as most men of his age and position in life and,
therefore, he bored Win a lot. But the day was clear and not too
windy, Garrett was an amiable and interested lad, and Win expected
to see Miss Belle Monroe at dinner that night.

Not to mention the fact that his
anticipation at being able to produce a truly spectacular piece of
art seemed to be within his grasp. Life was grand, and Win intended
to enjoy it all, even if he had to put up with boring businessmen
from time to time. It was the boring businessmen of the world who
had all the money, after all, and Win intended to finagle as much
of the green stuff out of them as he could.

The fair itself offered guaranteed interest
and entertainment. Even if a fellow didn’t bother to visit the
exhibits—a supposition too ridiculous to be contemplated—merely
watching the sights and spectators would keep him entertained for
hours on end. The very smell of the fair thrilled him. Win didn’t
think he was being fanciful when he told himself he could detect
the scent of excitement itself in the air.

“One of these days, you’ll have to sample a
hamburger, Garrett,” he told the little boy who, while he
considered himself too old to hold his father’s hand, was more than
willing to stay close to his adults. Win suspected he was a trifle
too overwhelmed by the teeming masses and the unique sights and
sounds to run off by himself.

Garrett tore his gaze away from the Arab
merchant who was dressed to the hilt in his native costume—Win
noted with amusement that Garrett seemed especially intrigued by
the huge curved scimitar sheathed at the man’s belt—and glanced up
at Win. Win grinned down at him, pleased to know his assumption
that the mention of food could distract a young boy’s attention
from anything had been proved correct.

“What’s a hamburger?”

“It’s a beef patty, cooked on a griddle and
served on a round bun. They put different condiments on the
bun—”

“What’s a condiment?”

“Pickles, onions, that sort of thing,” said
Mr. Richmond, who also seemed interested.

After glancing at what appeared to be Mr.
Richmond’s rapidly expanding waistline, Win wasn’t surprised by his
interest. Pretty soon Mr. Richmond would have to abandon his belt
for suspenders, unless Win missed his guess. He vowed that if he
ever got rich, settled down, married, and began producing children,
he wouldn’t allow himself to get fat. The likelihood of any of
those things happening, other than the getting rich part, seemed
remote at present.

“Perhaps we can do that tomorrow, Garrett,”
his father suggested. Win thought he heard the gentle smacking
sound of anticipatory lips. The lips were those of Mr.
Richmond.

As they strolled down the Street in Cairo, a
reproduction of a Seventeenth Century avenue in Egypt, Win watched
Garrett discover new foodstuffs, unusual fabrics, reproductions of
ancient Egyptian tomb engravings, paintings, amulets, jewelry, and
images. Once, he shocked himself with the thought that it would be
nice to show a child of his own this amazing spectacle. He tossed
the notion aside with something akin to panic.

His mood of maudlin sentimentality didn’t
last, thank God. Another one did, however. Every time Win’s gaze
lit upon an object, he envisioned Belle Monroe and the Richmond
children in the picture.

The woman was absolutely perfect.
Physically.

Her personality was something else again,
and Win hoped to heaven he’d be able to work with her successfully.
If she kept her mouth shut, it would be easier on his nerves. When
he concentrated on his project with her physical looks in mind, his
spirits lifted.

She had flawless skin, which was a definite
asset when it came to doing a photographic study. Her eyes were a
lustrous brown, framed by thick, dark lashes that curled up
naturally. These were not assets a professional photographer
encountered every day in his life. Her shining chestnut-colored
hair adorned a perfect oval of a face, too. Win could picture her
hair tumbling over her shoulders as she tucked her precious
cherubim in their cots for the night.

She should be wearing a voluminous night
dress at the time. It would be best if the night dress were gauzy
and rather sheer, but Win knew his public. They’d never go for the
ideal American mother being a sexual object, no matter how she got
to be a mother in the first place. Voluminous, therefore, could be
achieved. Gauzy, unfortunately, would have to be dispensed
with.

It was only when Win recalled her
honey-thick southern accent and her tendency to panic at the least
little thing—she’d damned near thumped him with her parasol this
morning, for the love of Pete—that doubts assailed him. But he knew
himself to be a smooth-talker. He was sure he’d get her to agree to
sit for the study. And if, like artists who used brushes and
canvases to compose their studies, he could persuade her to sit
still and shut up, he’d probably survive.

The only problem as Win saw it was that he’d
begun to envision another series of photographs. This series didn’t
involve children. They involved only Miss Belle Monroe and the
Columbian Exposition, with a few featuring Miss Monroe all by
herself, and Win’s mind’s eye distinctly featured the series
appearing in newspapers and magazines the world over.

Even though he knew himself to be a superb
salesman, he had trouble featuring Belle acquiescing to this
particular desire of his. She seemed the type who took delight in
thwarting the schemes of others. He had a gut feeling she’d only
agreed to the study with the kids because the Richmonds wanted her
to.

That night he joined the Richmonds for a
pleasant dinner at the most expensive restaurant at the Exposition.
After they’d all eaten their fill and Garrett and Amalie tried
valiantly to finish the ice cream they’d ordered for dessert, he
proposed the second series of photographs to Belle. Win’s deepest
misgivings about her were confirmed.

She stared at him, her beautiful
cinnamon-brown eyes gone as round as the moon outside. “I beg your
pardon?”

Win sighed. “I would like to do a series of
photographs of you alone, Miss Monroe. I’m sure you’ve seen
photographs of Miss Mabel Clyde.”

“I,” she said with a firmness that reminded
Win of boulders, mountains, cement, and other immovable objects,
“am not Miss Mabel Clyde.”