Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  “Win!” the person cried. “I’m so glad you’re here, because—” She caught sight of Belle and smiled. She had an engaging smile, but Belle was too stunned by her appearance to fully appreciate it or to smile back. “Oh, hello there. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” Dismissing Belle with the smile and the words, she turned back to Win. “Can I borrow two bits, Win? I need to get my mother to the doctor. Madame Esmeralda locked the booth, so I can’t get at my handbag, and I need the money for cab fare.”

  It didn’t surprise Belle that Mr. Asher seemed to accept both the woman’s precipitate entry into his booth and her outlandish costume without a second thought. Or even a first one. “Sure, Kate. I’ve got a quarter here somewhere.” He dug in his pocket for a second and came out with a coin, which he proffered to the woman. Girl. Oh, dear. “How’s your mother doing?”

  Kate—Belle thought the name suited her, being short and sharp, as she was—lost her air of good cheer. “Not so well, I’m afraid. At least I got her away from that lousy bastard.”

  Belle couldn’t help herself. She gasped.

  Win didn’t. “Glad to hear it.” He even appeared to approve.

  “She’s living with me now. It’s not much, but it’s better than having her live in that sewer with my devil of a father.”

  Belle knew it was impolite to gape, but she couldn’t hold her gape in check. Never, in all of her nineteen years, had she heard a woman use a word like bastard or devil. Except in church. She was dumbfounded. Shocked. Aghast. Horrified. And a bunch of other words she couldn’t come up with at the moment.

  “I’m glad she’s with you now, anyhow. Take care of yourself, Kate. Don’t forget, it won’t help your mother if you get sick.”

  Kate gave Win a saucy grin and an even saucier wink. “Don’t you worry about me, Win. What with dancing for Little Egypt and telling fortunes, I’m making enough money to support Ma and me in style.” With a carefree wave, she left the booth as jauntily as she’d entered it.

  It was only when Win turned back to her that Belle realized her mouth was hanging open. She shut it instantly.

  Win jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Kate Finney. She’s one of the Egyptian dancers at night; fills in for Little Egypt. During the day she tells fortunes with Madame Esmeralda. Nice kid, but she’s had a rough life, and her mother’s been quite ill. Kate’s working like a demon to better herself and help her mother with doctor bills and so forth. I took some publicity pictures of her for the fair directors. You might have seen some of them in newspapers.”

  “I doubt it.” Belle’s mouth was dry. She cleared her throat.

  Win gave her a sharp stare. “What’s the matter, Miss Monroe? Don’t you approve of women working at unusual jobs in order to earn a living?”

  “Approve? Approve? Why, I—I—” No. Actually, Belle didn’t approve. She didn’t approve of dances like the one Little Egypt was reputed to do, and she didn’t approve of people who gulled other people into having their fortunes told. As if anyone could predict the future or fortune of another. Why, it was unchristian! And then there was that costume . . . Well, Belle still couldn’t find words appropriate for that costume.

  “Not everyone can be a nanny, you know.” Win waved his hand in a gesture meant to let her know she didn’t have to respond to the comment. Belle figured it was because he thought he knew she disapproved of Miss Kate Finney. Which he probably did, but he didn’t have to look so grouchy about it. She primmed her lips.

  She saw to the second when inspiration struck Mr. Win Asher, because his expression brightened and he spun around to face her. She jumped and hated herself for it.

  “Say! I have it!”

  “You do?” Her heart had begun beating like Archibald Sturges’s big bass drum on Sundays in the Blissborough town square when the brass band played.

  “I do.” He looked pleased with himself.

  Belle didn’t trust that look. “What?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I have a contract with an agent in Germany. Would you consent to sit for the pictures if I pay you a substantial fee and agree to sell them only through my agent in Germany?”

  “Germany.” Belle blinked, unsettled. “Germany?”

  “Certainly! Nobody in your life would ever see them if I sold them to Germany.”

  “I suppose not.” She swallowed heavily. “And the substantial sum?”

  Rather smugly, he said, “A hundred dollars.”

  Belle had never even dreamed of earning such a huge pile of money. And earning it for doing no more than posing for a few photographs seemed incredible. “A hundred dollars?” She swallowed again. “Good heavens.”

  “So?” Win’s dark eyes took on the engaging, pleading look of those of a hungry puppy.

  Something occurred to Belle. “These photographs will be proper, won’t they? I mean, I won’t have to—” She couldn’t say the words.

  Win threw up his arms. “For the love of Mike, what do you take me for? You’ll be fully clothed. I promise you. Jeez, Miss Monroe, these are supposed to be pictures of the Perfect American Woman. And I’m sure that woman wouldn’t walk around in public naked.”

  Feeling defensive, embarrassed, and oppressed, Belle said in an undertone, “I only wanted to make sure.”

  “Good God, Miss Monroe, do you think the directors of the World’s Columbian Exposition would have selected me to be their official photographer if I were a man of low moral character?” He frowned at her as if he considered her at least deficient in intellect, if not totally crazy.

  Belle gave up. The Richmonds didn’t have to know the photographs would be viewed only in Germany. And they’d be happy she’d agreed to sit for the shots. After hesitating for another moment or two—she wasn’t sure she altogether trusted this man—she capitulated. “Oh, very well.”

  Ungracious, that, but Belle had a feeling Win Asher didn’t give a rap about her mood, but only her compliance.

  Chapter Six

  Belle was absolutely right about Win’s concern for her state of social grace. She could have been the spawn of Satan and cursed him from here to perdition and back again, and he wouldn’t have cared. The only thing he cared about was that she’d agreed to sit for him. A hundred bucks wasn’t much, considering the stacks of money he expected to receive in royalties once the world got a gander at the photographs he intended to produce.

  He’d had to obfuscate, but he didn’t care about that, either. While it was true Win had an agent whose headquarters were in Germany, Herr Schlichter handled the sale of his work to publications all over Europe, the British Isles, and the Middle East. Win suspected that with some fancy maneuvering, he’d be able to get Schlichter to play middleman with his agent in the good old U.S. of A., too, thereby technically complying with at least some of Belle’s beliefs, but also gaining Win a huge audience.

  When viewed in that light, a hundred dollars was a pittance. He probably ought to offer her more, but he’d wait. If he let on how much he expected to earn from the photographs at this time, she’d probably run off screaming.

  His conscience niggled at him a weeny bit about this method of achieving his aims, but the concept of this photographic study was too important to him, and Belle was too perfect for the role, to quibble about technicalities. He’d deal with her wrath later. Once the pictures were in newspapers and on posters throughout the United States and her territories, Belle wouldn’t be able to do anything but sue him, and Win imagined she was too much of a lady—whatever in hell that was—to do anything so unladylike.

  He grinned inside when he realized that Belle’s gentility was both his curse and his blessing. “Great!” Borrowing a gesture from George Richmond, he rubbed his hands.

  Belle still appeared doubtful. That was all right with Win. He’d get her to pose in spite of herself.

  She cleared her throat again. “So, what was it you said about light levels?”

  She had a pretty voice, even if it was slow-moving and thick with Sout
hern treacle. “If you’ll please just go up on the platform and sit on the log, I’ll fiddle with the lights.”

  As if she hadn’t noticed them before, Belle focused on the electric lights Win had installed in his booth. They were all movable, albeit with difficulty, but he wasn’t going to let anything deter him from fulfilling his artistic vision.

  She surprised him by complying with his request without a word of protest. He’d begun to anticipate her fighting him tooth and nail every time he made the least little suggestion.

  As he’d expected of her, she smoothed her skirt before she sat, and folded her hands in her lap. He remembered with fond nostalgia the series of photographs he’d taken of Kate Finney. There wasn’t a solitary thing about Kate that was stiff or stuffy.

  Not so Belle Monroe. She was as stiff as the proverbial board, and as stuffy as his bench cushion. Win had no idea how he was going to get that damned corset off her, although he entertained a couple of pleasant fantasies, but he decided to concentrate on the lights today. He’d worry about the corset later. One thing at a time. He’d got her this far; he only had to use his intelligence, a little charm, and his undoubted ingenuity on her, and even so confirmed a prude as Belle Monroe wouldn’t be able to resist for long. He hoped.

  After contemplating her for a moment or two, he left her on the log and walked over to his bank of electrical lights. He decided he’d set up the tall overhead lamps first. They were heavy, but he was strong. As he lugged the first one over to the platform, Belle asked him a question.

  “Um, I’m not altogether certain what you plan to do, Mr. Asher. Would you please explain this series of photographs to me?”

  “Again?” He could have bitten his tongue because the one word had sounded as if he were complaining.

  But she only waved a hand in the air gracefully and didn’t look as if she aimed to march off in a huff. Thank God.

  After clearing her throat, she went on. “I’m not exactly sure how you expect to use me to portray the Perfect American Woman.” She offered him a fleeting smile. “That’s a tall order for little old me.”

  When she put it that way, Win’s patience reasserted itself. “Sure. Oomph.” He set the lamp down on the edge of the platform and fussed with it until he thought its placement might be correct. When he turned it on, light burst forth, and Belle lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Sorry about the glare, Miss Monroe. I’m sure you’ll get used to it in time.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Right. From the tone of her voice, she was determined not to get used to it. Patience, he told himself. “Anyhow, I have a vision of these photographs as a symbol of America today; the Modern America; the America that’s become a leader in the world; the America that now rivals Great Britain in power; the America that bred great men like Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln and—”

  “Ha!”

  Whoops. Wrong example. Drat his mouth. He had to keep in mind that this young woman was a relict of an extinct society, and that she retained its antiquated attitudes and mores. She was, in short, akin to an ambulatory fossil.

  “Sorry,” he growled, peeved both with himself and with her. He didn’t understand people who insisted on living in the past. “But you have to admit that America has been the birthplace of a whole lot of great men.”

  “Robert E. Lee, for instance,” she said crisply.

  He opted not to rise to the bait. “Sure. He was a great general. Or so I’ve heard.” Personally, Win had no use for a man who’d fought to hold on to so evil a practice as slavery, but he wasn’t going to get into that wrangle if he could help it.

  “And then,” he went on as he adjusted the lamplight so that it illumined Belle’s face the way he wanted it to, “there are the inventors. Robert Fulton. John Deere. Shoot, the folks who created this Exposition, for that matter.”

  “Mmmm,” said Belle.

  At least she dropped her hand from her face so Win could see it under the light. He decided not to push his luck, but instead to talk about what he was doing at present. Photography didn’t take sides in bygone conflicts, no matter what its subjects did. “All right, Miss Monroe. These lights get hot after a while, so I’ll turn this one off and set up another one.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Very well.”

  “You don’t have to sound like Joan of Arc being tied to the stake,” he grumbled, irked beyond reason. He’d meant to keep his fat mouth shut so as not to set her hackles up.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “This is uncomfortable and boring, no matter what you think.”

  He backed off at once. “I beg your pardon. I know the process can be tedious, and I appreciate your willingness to pose for me.” He nearly gagged on the words, but at least Belle appeared slightly mollified.

  She lifted her chin and sniffed, but Win supposed he ought to be grateful she remained sitting and didn’t leap off the log and storm out of his booth. His next thought caught him by surprise, but he paid attention to it.

  Perhaps he ought to be more understanding with the creature, even if she did represent a culture he couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps if he thought of her as if she were from a foreign country—as if she were a Pygmy from the Belgian Congo, for instance—he’d get along with her better.

  After all, she was sitting for him instead of enjoying the Exposition. Win supposed that was something he should appreciate. And he did. Truly, he did. It was only that Miss Monroe and he seemed to get along together like oil and water. Cats and dogs. Fire and kindling. Fire and water, for that matter.

  Nevertheless, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to be a trifle more conciliatory. As he lugged another lamp over and set it behind Belle and to her left, he muttered, “I promise you I’ll make this up to you, Miss Monroe. I’ll be sure you’ll see the whole Columbian Exposition.”

  “I shall see the Columbian Exposition without your help, thank you.”

  She sounded like a damned nun condemning a sinner. If nuns did that sort of thing. As he lugged over another lamp, he held his temper and tried another tack.

  “Arruph!” He set the lamp down. “You see, the series of photographs I aim to take of you and the Richmond kids will exemplify and extol the American family.” He twisted the lamp head into a position he thought might work and turned the lamp on. “Nuts. This isn’t right.” He turned the lamp off, twisted the head another inch or so, and turned it on again.

  “If the Richmond children’s photographs are going to fulfill your purpose in glorifying the American way of life, I don’t see why you need a series of photographs with just me in them.” Again, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “That’s terribly bright, Mr. Asher.”

  “Yeah, I know it is. Sorry.” He turned off the lamp again and this time twisted the head downward. “It’s like this, Miss Monroe . . .”

  He decided to set up another light in a corner of his booth so as to cast more of a shadowy effect on the platform. With his back to Belle, he went on, “The Richmond photographs—with you in them, of course—will depict the American family as it is today: The beneficiaries of more than a century of innovation, industry, and progress—sort of like this fair.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Those photographs will convey the success and happiness of Americans to the world.”

  She gave him another “Mmmm,” and Win got the feeling she wasn’t buying his image of America as happy and successful. Damned southerners. It was their own fault if they didn’t like the world the way it was; they never should have developed a system that depended on slaves to begin with.

  He opted not to go in to that sticky problem. “But the pictures of you alone are meant to depict the true beauty of America and the American spirit. It’s as if the images of you will convey to the world—”

  She interrupted. “They’ll convey whatever that image is to Germany.”

  Dammit, he really had to watch his step with this fussy belle. “Right. Germany. Anyhow, they’ll convey to Germany the full blossoming of American womanho
od. You will be, to Germany, the epitome of everything perfect and beautiful in the United States of America. When people see this study, they’ll all want to move over here.”

  She pursed her lips. Win braced himself as he turned on the light in the corner.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” she muttered. “From what I’ve seen of foreigners in New York City, many of them are poor and needy. Don’t you think you might be presenting a lie?”

  Win straightened so fast, he bumped his head on the lamp and almost sent it toppling. He grabbed it in time to prevent a catastrophe. The damned lights were expensive. “What? Good God, no! It’s not America’s fault that some people can’t support themselves. America offers opportunities to everyone! There are lots of immigrants in Chicago, too, don’t forget, and I know some of them have their troubles, but I’d be willing to bet most of those would have trouble anywhere.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Again, he got the feeling she didn’t agree with him, and he wondered if her being from the South had anything to do with her attitude. Although he imagined he was stepping straight into a puddle of trouble, he decided to ask. “I guess you folks in the South suffered a lot of economic hardships after the—the war.” He’d been going to say the Civil War, but caught himself in time.

  “You guess that, do you?”

  She sounded snooty and nasty, and her tone nettled Win. “All right, I’ve read about it. Is that better?” He twisted the lamp head slightly to the left and turned it on. Ah, that was perfect.

  “I suppose so.” She sniffed again. “Yes, we in the South suffered terribly after the Conflict. Those of us in Georgia were particularly hard hit by that dreadful fellow Sherman and his marauding band of cutthroats, arsonists, and thieves.”