Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  Win’s booth had been hung with examples of his work. Because she didn’t want to distract Mr. Asher from his work, primarily for fear he’d get mad at her if she did, she remained on her bench. She gazed with interest at the various photographs decorating the walls.

  She had to admit that these examples proclaimed Win Asher to be a very good photographer. He avowed himself to be an artist and, while Belle would have liked to find his reasoning faulty, she couldn’t. She noted with particular interest some “nature” shots. He must have used one of those new box cameras to capture some of the wildlife depicted therein. And that waterfall looked suspiciously like a photograph she’d seen of a Western waterfall in the Blissborough Gazette last spring. She remembered the picture well, because she’d cut it out of the newspaper and kept it, carefully preserving it between two pieces of cardboard until she could figure out how to frame it.

  It occurred to her that it might actually be this particular photograph that had been printed in the Gazette. From what she’d gathered from Win’s conversation, he sold his photos far and wide. She experienced a reluctant tug of awe that Win Asher, the man standing not ten yards away from her, should do work that appeared in so far-flung a place as Blissborough, Georgia. Small wonder he found his work both fulfilling and fascinating.

  With a sigh, she turned her attention from the wall photographs to the Richmonds. Wondering how long this would take really—Mr. Asher had said about an hour, but Belle had her doubts—she wished she’d brought a book along to keep her from being bored. She was in the middle of a rip-roaring story, King Solomon’s Mines, and would gladly have passed this time reading more of it.

  She hadn’t thought to bring the book along, more’s the pity, and she resigned herself to several hours of boredom.

  Much to her surprise, it didn’t take long for her interest to engage as she watched Win pose the Richmond family for a series of photographs. He worked effectively with the family. That bratty boy yesterday must have been an exception because with the Richmonds, who were reasonable folks with a sense of propriety even if they were from New York, he was patient and kind.

  When Amalie wriggled every time he attempted to shoot the pose, he knew exactly how to get her to sit still—and it wasn’t by stuffing gumdrops into her mouth as that awful woman had done the day before. Rather, he stood up straight, placed his fists on his hips, and gave her a mock scowl. “Miss Amalie, I’m going to have to thrash you if you don’t keep still. I’ve heard of moving pictures, but this camera—” He patted his camera, as if it were a favorite horse. “—doesn’t take them.”

  Amalie had laughed and behaved herself after that pungent comment. As she watched, Belle thought what a handsome family the Richmonds were. No one of them was strikingly handsome or beautiful alone, but as a family they looked content. Well-groomed, happy, pleased with themselves and their lives, they formed a perfect family unit. She wondered why Mr. Asher hadn’t chosen to use them in his cursed studies. Especially since the Richmonds enjoyed this sort of thing.

  She noted with fascination that Win didn’t have the Richmonds stand in the traditional stiff pose used by most portrait photographers.

  “Equipment is better nowadays,” he told them when Mr. Richmond inquired about this departure from convention. “Cameras are quicker. And you don’t want to look like a family of stuffed dolls, do you?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Mr. Richmond admitted.

  “I like to show people in realistic poses. Maybe have Mrs. Richmond sitting in a chair reading the children a book and you standing behind her, looking on.”

  At first Belle had been inclined to believe Win was wrong. Landscape scenes that look natural were all well and good, but a relaxed family grouping in a photograph didn’t fit her ideas of what photography was all about. However, the pose looked so real, and the Richmonds made such a fetching family the way Mr. Asher posed them, she discovered herself revising her opinion of the brash young photographer.

  She didn’t like having to revise her opinions. Doing so was becoming too common a habit with her these days, and the tendency was unsettling. Every once in a while Belle wondered if everything she’d ever believed in was a lie, and she considered this state of confusion a bad thing. It was probably only one more manifestation of the strangeness of the Northern life versus the Southern life. Of course, she preferred the latter, even if she sometimes wondered why.

  Oh, Lordy, there she went again: Questioning the values her parents had instilled in her. This was awful. She needed to get back to Georgia. No. She needed the money this job provided. That’s what she really needed.

  Fiddlesticks. Belle didn’t know what she needed, unless it was a new brain. The one she had seemed to be perpetually muddled these days.

  On top of that, when she considered posing for this proposed series of photographs, this so-called “artistic” study of the so-called “Perfect American Woman,” she felt more like a fish out of water than she usually did. And, since she’d taken to feeling like a minnow in the midst of a herd of hungry cats on a daily basis, the sensation was uncomfortable at best. But that was one thing she had some say over. She would not pose alone for pictures taken by Mr. Asher, no matter how “artistic” his vision might be.

  Nevertheless, she sat still, back straight, hands folded in her lap, feet set precisely together, an continued to watch the process of photography unfold before her, and she wasn’t bored at all. Occasionally Mr. Asher would glance at her, but he didn’t say anything. Every time he looked, he appeared slightly unhappy, although Belle didn’t know why. She certainly hadn’t done anything untoward.

  She would never do anything untoward. The most outrageous thing she’d ever done in her life to date was move to New York. Granted, her move had been monumentally freakish, but Mr. Asher couldn’t know that. Nor could he know that her move had stunned her family and friends and frightened Belle nearly to death. She wasn’t over it yet, as a matter of fact, and she didn’t think she’d be doing anything else even remotely out of the ordinary any time soon.

  Except pose for photographs. In a way, these silly photographs were part of her job, though, and when Belle looked at them in that light, they didn’t seem so unusual and extraordinary.

  Win worked with the Richmonds for a little over an hour, just as he’d said he’d do, taking six plates altogether. Belle’s back never got tired, since it was so well-supported by her corset stays, but she did finally get up and move around from time to time, in spite of her fear that Mr. Asher would get mad at her for doing so. Doggone it, her bottom got sore when she sat on that hard bench for a long time. If he didn’t want people moving around when he made them wait, he ought to supply a softer bench cushion.

  She expelled a breath of relief when Win finally said, “That’s it for today, folks. I’ll develop these plates, and you can decide which ones you like best.”

  “Wonderful!” Mr. Richmond rubbed his hands together in the gesture Belle had come to expect from him when he was particularly pleased about something.

  She was glad the Richmonds were happy. She was also glad the session was over, because she was getting a trifle bored just sitting and watching and getting up occasionally to gaze at Mr. Asher’s landscapes. They were quite lovely, but they remained photographs and didn’t vary. No birds sang, no squirrels chattered, no bears growled, no grass grew, and no flowers bloomed. They were, ultimately, boring if they were all one had to look at for an hour. She wanted to ride on the Ferris wheel and see the sights.

  “Say,” Win ventured casually as the family was gathering itself and its belongings together in order to take in the rest of the fair, “I don’t suppose you’d let me borrow your nanny for a couple of hours.”

  Belle, who had been helping Amalie on with her straw hat, and who was eagerly anticipating getting out into the fresh summer air, whirled around. “I beg your pardon?” She didn’t want to be borrowed! She wanted to see the fair!

  “Well . . .” Mrs. Ri
chmond glanced doubtfully at her husband.

  George shrugged. “If Belle doesn’t mind, I don’t suppose I do. What do you say, Miss Monroe?” He smiled at Belle in a way that let her know he expected her to cooperate with the nice photographer.

  Fiddlesticks. She didn’t want to cooperate with the photographer, whom she didn’t consider nice at all. But, she knew, she needed this job. However, she also considered her job to be caring for Amalie and Garrett, not posing for a blasted photographer. She decided to remind Mr. and Mrs. Richmond of the latter. “What about the children? It’s my job to take care of them.”

  Win looked peeved. Belle didn’t care.

  “But George,” Gladys said, “We want Belle to see the fair, too.”

  Belle could have wept with appreciation. She did so like Gladys Richmond.

  “Of course, of course,” the complacent Mr. Richmond said. “And we’ll be sure she does.” Giving Belle a wink that she didn’t accept with gratitude, he added, “And we’ll be sure to take her up on the Ferris wheel. But Mr. Asher needs her at the moment.” Transferring his attention from his wife to Win, he said, “How long did you say you’ll need her, Mr. Asher?”

  Win shrugged. “An hour or two ought to do it. I want to see how much I’ll need to adjust light levels and so forth.”

  Belle had never heard of such a thing. If she didn’t know that Win had been chosen by the fair directors to be the Exposition’s official photographer and, therefore, a morally sound individual, she might have questioned his motives. She remained silent, knowing herself to be akin to a piece of furniture in the overall orchestration of the Richmonds’ life.

  At least Gladys cared about her feelings. “Would you mind, Belle, dear? We’ll come back to get you before we take luncheon.”

  “Having your picture taken is fun, Miss Monroe,” Amalie assured her.

  As if a five-year-old girl could assess such a thing. Belle knew she’d be wise to put the best face on things, so she pumped up a smile from somewhere and offered it to the Richmonds. “Of course, I don’t mind. As long as you don’t need me.”

  “We do need you,” Mrs. Richmond said stoutly before her husband could drop any more comments into the conversation. “At least I do.”

  “And me, too,” said Amalie.

  Garrett, being a boy and knowing that because of his gender he was a select entity and didn’t need anything, much less a nanny, kept mum. Belle wasn’t surprised, although she’d have liked to shake him.

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Richmond said soothingly. “We all need Miss Monroe.”

  Belle decided she’d like to shake him, too. “Very well,” she said in a prim voice. “I shall remain behind.”

  “We’re going to dine on hamburgers at noontime, Belle, and I’m sure you’ll want to participate. They’re new, you know.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” she told Gladys, who still appeared slightly uncertain about the wisdom of leaving the nanny behind as she went off with the rest of her family.

  Belle understood. She loved Gladys dearly, but the poor woman was hopeless when it came to disciplining her children. The decision had been taken out of her hands, however. Therefore, she turned, clasping said hands at her waist, and asked her torturer—that is to say, she asked the photographer—“Very well, Mr. Asher. What shall I do now?”

  Gladys gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, which surprised and gratified Belle, and hustled her children out of Win’s booth. Mr. Richmond smiled his thanks and took off after the rest of his family.

  Win grimaced at Belle, which prompted a frown in return. “First off, will you please try to relax? This isn’t going to be an arduous ordeal or anything. And the series I aim to shoot featuring you alone—”

  “I didn’t consent to that!” cried Belle, miffed.

  “Balderdash. Your employers want you to do them, so you’ll do them. Am I right?”

  Yes, blast it, in spite of knowing the Richmonds would allow her say-so over the solo pictures of herself, he was right. She’d pose for the dratted pictures because she wanted to please the Richmonds, whom she not only esteemed, but who were responsible for her current status as—well, no longer dirt poor, at any rate. Belle’s lips pinched together tightly.

  Pointing at her mouth, which made Belle take a startled step back, Win said, “See? That’s exactly what I mean. In order for us to work together, you’re either going to have to give up hating me or pretend to.”

  “I don’t hate you!” Belle was so shocked by this accusation that she unclasped her hands.

  “Could have fooled me,” Win grumbled. Shrugging out of his coat and yanking at his tie, presumably to get more comfortable, although the gesture alarmed Belle, who was accustomed to formal attire on businessmen, he went on, “I’m not really a bad person, Miss Monroe, and I have a reputation as a superior photographer to uphold.” He squinted at her. “But I get the feeling you’re not from around here. Perhaps out ways aren’t your ways.”

  “Stop being disingenuous, Mr. Asher,” she said, vexed again. “You know from my speech that I’m from the South.”

  “Right. Which state.”

  “Georgia.”

  “Hmmm.” For a moment, Belle could have sworn he was searching his brain for something nice to say about Georgia. If he mentioned the infamous Sherman, she might just have to give him a lesson in history. Apparently his attempt bumped against a wall, because he said, “Well, that doesn’t make any difference. You’re a lovely young woman, and this series of photographs I want to take of you will make you famous worldwide.”

  “I don’t want to be famous worldwide,” she said flatly. “The very notion repels my sensibilities.”

  “Your sensibilities?” Win gazed at her as if she were a strange and unusual life form. His expression and his attitude infuriated her.

  “Yes. Just because you Northern fiends won a victory in the Recent Unpleasantness, doesn’t mean your victims need to change our ways. In Georgia, we value manners and politeness and courtesy, unlike some of you from Chicago.” She hoped she gave the word Chicago the proper emphasis. She didn’t really dislike the town, which was rather pleasant, actually, but she didn’t want Win to know it.

  Win blinked at her. Ignoring the intent of her little speech, he wrinkled his brow and said, “The Recent Unpleasantness? What’s that?” Enlightenment struck, and he cried, “Oh! I get it. You mean the Civil War.”

  Everything inside Belle went rigid with ire. “The War Between the States was not a civil war, Mr. Asher. The South was attempting to protect its very way of life, in case you didn’t know that. It was the War of Northern Aggression. The North incited the Aggression, thus instigating the bloodshed and horror.” She really, really hated it when he rolled his eyes.

  She resented his next words even more. “Say, you’re not going to band together with a bunch of other southern belles and start robbing trains, are you? I can see the headlines now: ‘Jessica James and her Gang of Girls Shoots Sheriff and Steals Stash.’” He laughed at his alliterative joke.

  Belle didn’t think it was funny at all. “Jesse James,” she said through seriously clenched teeth, “was from Missouri.”

  “Yeah, well, wherever he was from, he blamed his criminal activities on us bad people from the North. It was a pitiful excuse, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Belle ground out. She held a like sentiment regarding the infamous James gang, but would sooner die than tell Win so.

  “All right, all right, whatever you say, Miss Monroe. I don’t care. I know some folks love to refight the war with every waking breath, but I don’t. It’s been over for almost thirty years, and I wasn’t even born yet when it ended.” After eyeing her up and down and making Belle feel like squirming which, needless to say, she didn’t, he added, “Anyhow, my side won, so I don’t have any quarrels with you people down there. All I want to do is take these photographs.”

  Belle was so angry by this time that if she hadn’t been taught proper manners
in her youth—for example, if she’d been reared in Chicago or New York City—she might have stamped her foot. She had been taught proper manners, however, and she didn’t. Since there was already at hand an even better means of thwarting Mr. Win, “My Side Won,” Asher, she didn’t despair.

  “This discussion is neither here nor there, and I personally don’t care what you call the War Between the States. I don’t believe I care to have my likeness splashed about in periodicals all over the world, Mr. Asher. I fear I’ll have to refuse your offer.” She lifted her chin and sniffed, which was allowable behavior on the part of proper southern ladies.

  “Balderdash. The Richmonds want you to do them.”

  “That may well be so, but they’re too kind to force me to do anything I find morally repugnant.”

  His eyes opened wide, the veins in his neck stood out, and his cheeks turned a dull, pulsing red. “Force you into doing something you find morally repugnant? Photography? Morally repugnant?”

  Belle doubted that he could sound much more stunned, offended, or outraged, but she didn’t get a chance to goad him into proving her doubt correct. At that moment the door to his booth burst open, and a young woman barged in. Belle selected the word barged unconsciously since, although she was too polite to say it aloud, she knew no other word that could properly describe the young woman’s behavior.

  Her costume was another matter entirely. Belle could find no words at all in her vocabulary to do it justice. She didn’t know those kinds of words. But the woman—girl—Belle couldn’t decide how old she was, much less what—looked positively outrageous. Clad in a voluminous, multi-colored striped skirt topped by a blazing red blouse that was entirely too low-cut, both of which were held up by a wide red sash, and with strings and strings of painted wooden beads draped around her neck, she looked like nothing Belle had ever seen before. Not only that, but she was barefoot. Barefoot! And with her toenails painted a revolting crimson shade. Belle had never seen the like. When one added the garish yellow scarf holding her dark curls away from her face, and the paint adorning her eyes, cheeks, and lips—well, there just weren’t any words. Belle could only stare. It was impolite, but sometimes these things couldn’t be helped, even by a properly reared Southern lady.