Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  When the Richmonds had decided to go to the World’s Columbian Exposition and had asked her if she’d be willing to accompany them and watch the children, Belle had scarcely believed her ears. Was she willing? Lord have mercy, she was thrilled.

  This trip to the World’s Fair in Chicago, Illinois, was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to Belle, and it confirmed her in the opinion that she’d been wise to accept the position as nanny to the Richmond children. She might be breaking with family tradition, and she might have made her mother sad, but she knew good and well that if she’d stayed in Georgia, she never would have seen this fantastic Exposition. Or any other exposition, for that matter. Due to poverty and proud family tradition, the Monroes didn’t get out much.

  “Madam! I say, madam!”

  So lost in happy daydreams had Belle been that she nearly jumped out of her skin when a young man hurried up to her, shouting. Quick as a wink, she gathered Garrett and Amalie to her side and stood as tall as she could, brandishing her parasol.

  “Stay back!” she cried. “Oh, stay back! Villain!”

  The young man screeched to a halt and blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  Belle’s heart was pounding like thunder and the blood raced in her veins. Her mother had warned her about the evils abounding in the big city. Belle had heretofore believed Mrs. Monroe had been exaggerating. Yet, here, in the flesh, was a living example of just the sort of dastardly beast about whom she’d been warned. She thrust the point of her parasol at the assaulter. “Stand back! Stand back, I say!”

  The masher took a startled step back. “Say, wait a minute, lady, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Belle didn’t believe him for a minute. Even though he didn’t look like a masher—although what the typical masher looked like, Belle couldn’t have said—he clearly was one. Or, she amended conscientiously, if he wasn’t actively malignant, he must at least be deranged. No man of breeding and principle would shout at a complete stranger, and a lady to boot, the way this man had done.

  “What’s the matter, ma’am?” Garrett’s small voice smote her ear, and Belle stiffened her spine. It was her duty to protect the Richmonds’ children, and she aimed to do her duty.

  “This man tried to assault us, Garrett, but don’t fear. I shan’t let him hurt you.”

  “Assault you? Hurt you!” The young man’s eyes opened wide and he—Belle couldn’t think of a more polite word for it—goggled at the three of them. “I don’t want to hurt you, ma’am!”

  He sounded indignant, and Belle’s temper flared. “No? Then why did you rush up to us in that flagrant, boisterous manner?” She kept her parasol poised, just in case. She was beginning to think that she might have been the least little bit precipitate in her assumption that he was out to do her and the children harm, but she still decried his bad manners.

  “Good Lord, no! For Pete’s sake!” He still appeared indignant as he tugged his jacket into place and straightened his cravat.

  Belle frowned. In truth, he looked rather elegant. She tried to recall if her mother had ever mentioned elegantly clad mashers, and couldn’t. “I beg your pardon if I’ve wronged you, sir, but you startled me.” She glanced down at the children, who were looking on with interest. Amalie seemed worried. She put her finger in her mouth, a habit of which Belle had been trying to break her.

  The young man sucked in a deep breath of fair-scented air. “I ask your pardon, madam. I saw you and your charming children walking on the Midway and was very impressed.”

  Belle tilted her head to one side and lifted her chin. So the villain was a masher! She’d allowed her parasol point to drift south until it pointed at the walkway. At once she lifted it.

  The man put his hands up. “My intentions are honorable, ma’am! Honest! You can sheathe your weapon.” He eyed the parasol as if he’d like to wrench it from Belle’s hands and break it over his knee. “I only wanted to ask you a question. You and your charming children.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he were trying to hold on to his temper.

  This was ridiculous. Belle snapped, “I’m not accustomed to being accosted on a public thoroughfare by a madman, sir. If you have business, please state it, and let us be on our way. If you persist in this indelicate behavior, I shall have to call for help.” There. Let him do anything to her now.

  “Oh, for Christ’s . . .” The young man, realizing he’d offended Belle with his blasphemy, retreated a pace, both physically and verbally. “That is to say, my name is Win Asher, Mr. Winslow G. Asher, ma’am, and I’m the official photographer for the World’s Columbian Exposition. When I saw you and your children—your charming children—walking on the Midway, it occurred to me that the three of you would make an enchanting photograph.”

  Belle stared at the young man and blinked. “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure she believed him.

  Plainly he sensed her doubt because he stood aside and, with a sweeping gesture, drew her attention to his photographic booth. Belle read the gilt sign hanging over the entrance: Asher’s. In smaller black print, beneath the name of the shop, were the words, Official Photographer of the World’s Columbian Exposition. A stout woman stood at the door frowning at him. Belle thought she detected sounds of a whining infant issuing from behind the woman. The noise was unpleasant, and she spared a moment to be glad neither of the Richmond children was inclined to whine.

  She cleared her throat. It didn’t help, since she couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “You see, I’m neither a madman nor a villain, madam. I am, in truth, a portrait artist. My medium is the camera and my canvas is film. I took one look at you and your children—”

  He paused, and Belle expected him to amend his sentence by adding a clause featuring the word charming, but he didn’t. “—I took one look at you and your children and immediately envisioned the three of you as a study.”

  “A study?” Whatever did that mean?

  He waved his arms in another extravagant gesture. Belle didn’t approve of such broad gestures. They were ungenteel and absolutely typical of the slovenly manner prevailing in the northern states.

  He nodded. “Yes. You see, as an artistic photographer, I like to do studies, that is to say, series of photographs. I took one look at you and your children—your—”

  “Yes,” Belle said impatiently. “I agree that they’re charming. Please continue.”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat this time. “The notion of doing a series of photographs featuring the three of you occurred to me when I saw you walking on the Midway.”

  “Ah. I see.” She frowned and glanced down at Garrett and Amalie. She was pleased that Amalie no longer sucked her finger. Garrett looked as if he wanted to get on with his day and quit yakking in the middle of the Midway. Belle understood his point of view.

  “I’m sorry I startled you,” the young man—she supposed she should begin thinking of him as Mr. Asher—said. “But I didn’t want you to get away before I had a chance to talk to you about my—my—vision.”

  Eyeing him from the corner of her eye, Belle thought she detected a hint of embarrassment in his demeanor, as if he wasn’t comfortable talking about visions. “I see.”

  “So, will you visit my shop and talk to me about it? Please? I have a customer in there, waiting for me.” He grimaced and added, “The dratted boy won’t sit still. Every time I get under the cloth, he starts to squirm. But I’ll try to finish up as soon as I can so we can discuss the idea of a study.”

  Amalie tugged on Belle’s hand. Smiling down at her, Belle saw a hint of eagerness in the clear blue eyes gazing up at her. “Do you want to have your photograph taken, Amalie?”

  “Oh, yes, please!” the little girl cried.

  Belle glanced at Garrett. “And you, Garrett? Do you think you’d like to have your likeness captured on film?”

  The little boy thought about it for a moment. “S’long as we get to see the rest of the fair,” he sa
id after a judicious pause.

  Mr. Asher laughed. “I’ll see to it that you get to see the rest of the fair, young man.”

  “I’ll see to it that he sees the rest of the fair, Mr. Asher.”

  “Of course.”

  Belle resented it when he rolled his eyes, as if he found her correction both superfluous and idiotic. “Let me show you to my temporary studio here at the Exposition,” he said, leading the way.

  Although she deplored the lax manners predominant in this part of the world, Belle merely sighed as he took off ahead of them. Sometimes she missed the gallantry of her southern homeland. On the other hand, she could use a rest. Her feet hurt from walking all day. She’d promised the Richmonds that she’d be on the Midway at lunchtime. She didn’t suppose it would matter if she awaited their arrival in a photographer’s booth.

  Besides, Belle was sure Mrs. Richmond would be thrilled that this photographer, who called himself a portrait artist, considered her children ideal for an entire series of photographs. If Belle ever had children, she knew she’d be proud if such a thing happened to them.

  The quartet was met at the door of the booth by the stout lady, who was clearly furious. “I declare, Mr. Asher, why ever did you dart out of your booth like that?”

  Belle offered the matron a friendly smile, but didn’t get one in return, so she guided Garrett and Amalie over to where Mr. Asher had set a chintz-covered bench underneath the front window.

  With a sigh of relief, she sat. This was a good spot, because she could keep her attention focused on the Midway and see the Richmonds when they arrived to join their children and Belle for luncheon and rest her feet at the same time. Garrett and Amalie sat on either side of her. Both children stared at the scene being enacted in the photographer’s booth. Belle only listened, amused, as the stout woman lectured Mr. Asher on his manners, morals, and business practices.

  The poor man was being berated by all sorts of women today. Belle figured it was probably no more than he deserved.

  Chapter Two

  Belle found her attention wandering from the Midway to the drama being enacted in the photographer’s booth during the next several minutes. As much as she didn’t want to, because she didn’t approve of Mr. Asher, who had frightened her and her charges, she began to feel a reluctant sympathy for the man. That terrible little boy refused to sit still. It looked to Belle as if he were taking great joy in thwarting Mr. Asher’s attempts to photograph him, in fact.

  And the boy’s equally terrible mother was feeding her infant’s tantrums with gumdrops and baby talk. Belle didn’t approve of her almost as much as she didn’t approve of Mr. Asher.

  As she eyed the scene, her gaze shifting from Mr. Asher to the boy to the boy’s mama, Belle spared a moment to feel grateful that the Richmond children were such well-behaved tots. Nearly all of the children Belle had known in Virginia, from the classmates with whom she’d grown up to the children she saw every day on the streets of Blissborough, had been taught right from wrong, not to mention how to behave in public.

  Not so the victorious North. Evidently, their victory over her beloved South had gone to their heads, and they’d dispensed with manners as an unnecessary burden. While Belle had not found her move to New York as ghastly as she’d feared it might be, she did miss manners. Children couldn’t be expected to know manners unless they were taught. And, while the Richmonds and certain other families had the time and inclination to teach their children how to behave, both in public and in the bosoms of their families, many others, like the mother of that dreadful child, had not. As she frowned at the horrid mother of the horrid boy, she despised the woman’s defense of behavior in her child which, to Belle was clearly indefensible.

  She almost applauded when Mr. Asher finally gave up being polite and hollered at the little monster to shut up and sit still. As the boy’s mother spluttered and fussed and her face turned from a flushed pink to a brilliant red, Mr. Asher darted under his black curtain and took the picture.

  Garrett and Amalie, who had been looking out the window in search of their parents, both burst into giggles when the flash went off. Belle held out her hands to them, eager to be of comfort if either child was frightened by the minor explosion.

  But the Richmond children weren’t scared. It was the boy whose picture had been taken who broke out into bellows of fright. Belle had to cover her ears. Fortunately, the worst of the child’s shrieks paled into sobs of distress after a very few moments. Belle heaved a sigh of relief and uncovered her ears.

  “Why is that boy crying?” Amalie wanted to know.

  “I suppose because he was frightened of the flash.” Belle noticed her tone of voice was hard and censorious, and believed she ought to sweeten it up some.

  Amalie scowled. “That boy isn’t being very good, is he?”

  “No, he certainly is not.” Belle sniffed.

  “Aw, he’s a sissy,” declared Garrett.

  Belle smiled at the boy, wanting to agree with him, even as she attempted to moderate her feelings. She knew it was her place to teach the little Richmonds how to get along with others. “I expect he was startled by the flash, Garrett.”

  Garrett huffed as though he thought the boy ought to be able to have his photograph taken without crying about it. Belle agreed, although she would never say so.

  “Is that going to happen when Mr. Asher takes out photographs?”

  Belle noticed that Garrett looked more eager than apprehensive. Unsurprising, in her opinion, since most of the males of her acquaintance would gleefully dash headfirst into danger if given the opportunity. “Indeed it is, Garrett.”

  “Good. I want to see how he makes that explosion.” Garrett settled back on the bench, less fidgety than he’d been when they’d first entered the booth.

  “It’s funny,” opined Amalie, who gazed at the camera with interest. “Why’d it explode, Miss Monroe?”

  “I believe it was the flash powder Mr. Asher used that exploded, dear. The explosion creates enough light for the camera to operate.” Belle hoped she was right about that. Since she’d moved to New York, she’d discovered there were tons of things she didn’t know. Oh, she was a whiz at reading, could write ten-page epistles at the drop of a hat, could play the pianoforte and sing, and knew enough math to keep the family books in order. But proper southern ladies in Belle’s family weren’t expected to have a vast knowledge of how the things of the world worked. Such knowledge had been considered the province of the men in Belle’s world.

  “I want to have my photograph taken,” Amalie said in a decided tone.

  “That’s good dear, because Mr. Asher wants to take your photograph.”

  “I want to learn how to take photographs,” declared Garrett.

  Again, Belle wasn’t surprised. Little boys were always interested in how things worked. Another reason Belle enjoyed working for the Richmonds was that, except for their abominable accents, tendency toward loud speech, and somewhat forward social manners, the children conformed to Belle’s own ideas of what the roles of boys and girls should be.

  Garrett, for instance, was eager to explore the workings of Mr. Asher’s camera, while Amalie wanted to have her own likeness captured by the same instrument. Such attitudes were well within Belle’s boundaries of social comfort. As long as she remained in the care of her new family, she believed she could cope. When thrust onto the mean streets of New York City, as when she went on shopping expeditions to the fish market, the clothing district, or the theater, Belle suffered internal spasms of discomfort.

  Fortunately, the World’s Columbian Exposition was so far removed from anyone’s normal, everyday life that Belle knew herself to be on a level with the rest of the population of the United States, North or South. Nobody in the entire world was accustomed to the excitement and novelty of this fair.

  “Mr. Asher, I’m stunned, stunned that my child should be subjected to such vile treatment.”

  Belle watched the bratty boy’s mother stomp up
to Mr. Asher and suddenly felt sorry for the photographer. Although she would never, under normal circumstances, insert herself into a conversation unless she was invited to do so, she was in northern territory now and found herself reacting as if she belonged there. She rose from the bench before the window. Leaning over and patting Garrett’s shoulder and Amalie’s knee, she said, “I’ll be right back, children. Stay right here for a little minute and keep watching for your mama and papa.”

  She didn’t wait around to hear the Richmond children’s response to her command, but walked over to stand beside Mr. Asher. Belle’s posture was excellent at all times, and she knew she possessed a certain presence. Her entire childhood education had centered around how she presented herself to the world. Therefore, she was not surprised when the large woman stopped yelling at Mr. Asher and stared at her, her eyes bulging, her cheeks deepening to a ripe burgundy, and her several chins quivering. The woman’s child still wailed in the background.

  “If I may say so, ma’am, I believe you owe Mr. Asher an apology. I’ve been watching your son deliberately misbehave for a quarter of an hour now, and I believe Mr. Asher was completely justified in telling the child to sit still and be quiet.”

  Suddenly Belle’s insides went hot. Good gracious, was the North really affecting her this much? So much that she’d actually butt into a conversation that had nothing to do with her? Since that’s exactly what she’d just done, she guessed so. Belle hoped her parents would never learn about this.

  The boy’s mother stiffened up like one of her uncle Luther’s black-and-tan coon hounds catching a scent. Her enormous bosom pointed straight at Belle, which was rather disconcerting to Belle, who wasn’t accustomed to actively irritating other people. She felt shaky all at once, and her tongue went so dry it felt like a desert inside her mouth.

  “Young woman, I must say that I—”