Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  Win nodded as he contemplated the rest of his lamps. Tapping his chin, he pondered what, if anything, he wanted to do with them. He wasn’t sure he needed them, actually. It might be fun to take some shots of Belle outdoors. Now that he had a portable box camera, outdoor shots weren’t so difficult. “Right,” he said absently. “Sherman. Must have been rough.”

  She huffed. “You have no earthly idea, Mr. Asher!”

  That caught his attention, because it was shrill and vehement. He glanced at her to find her looking shrill and vehement, as well. He sighed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Monroe. I’m really paying attention. It’s only that I’m contemplating lighting at the moment.”

  “Of course.”

  Aha. He knew what he was going to do. Thanks to improvements in camera technology, indoor photography was easier than it used to be. With artistic arrangement of lights, it was possible to convey the impression of evening without using flash powder, which made everything as bright as day. Win thought the beautiful Belle would appear to great advantage in evening light. The notion appealed to him strongly, as a matter of fact.

  Or maybe it wasn’t so strange. Win was, after all, a virile young American male. He appreciated women. He even appreciated Belle, although he’d like her better if she kept her mouth shut. Tapping his chin some more, he thought about lighting for another moment or two, then grabbed one more tall electrical lamp and began lugging it across the room.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Monroe. Tell me more about Georgia. I’ve never been there.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said, as if she considered never having been to Georgia some kind of sin. “My home state was devastated by the vile Sherman and his thugs, Mr. Asher. My own family’s plantation was burned, although the beasts were kind enough to spare most of the house. Of course, they looted everything of value inside it.”

  He shook his head as he settled the lamp. He hated hearing these stories, although he knew them to be true. “I guess a lot of that sort of thing happened. I guess when men suffer from battle lust, they’re apt to do anything.”

  “Southern soldiers didn’t perpetrate those kinds of horrors,” Belle declared.

  Win slanted her a glance as he adjusted yet another lamp head. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Haven’t you ever read about Quantrill’s Raiders? Mosby’s Rangers? The Ku Klux Klan? Or Andersonville? Quantrill, Mosby, and the Kuklos were all southerners, and Andersonville Prison was right there in your own dear home state of Georgia.”

  He noticed that her lips primmed up considerably at those sharp reminders that people were people the world over, and that no one group held a patent either on sanctity or immorality. He’d have smiled, except he didn’t trust her not to thwart him if he did something so certain to provoke her.

  “There are, of course, exceptions to every rule.”

  “Right.” Win left his latest lamp and went to his camera, there to contemplate the entire set-up. Ideas for photographs of Belle had started rampaging through his head, and he could hardly wait to get started. “Exceptions.”

  Belle put on a martyred expression and cast her glance at the ceiling, as if she were being asked to endure unspecified but ghastly tortures. Wondering exactly how someone got to be like her, he stopped tapping his chin and said, “I suppose you grew up on stories about the suffering South and the evils of the North, huh?”

  Although Win had thought she was already as stiff as she could get, she fooled him. Amazing.

  “The South did suffer horrid depredations and villainies, for your information, and the North did perpetrate great evils on us.”

  “Right, right.” He ducked under his camera’s black curtain. “Hold still for a minute, will you? I want to focus this on you.”

  She did as he asked, although her expression was black enough to tar a road. “You have absolutely no idea what we suffered.”

  “I suspect you’re going to tell me,” Win murmured from underneath the black curtain.

  “You bet your boots I will.”

  It was the first time Win had heard her sound as if she wanted to do something. Her attitude actually kind of tickled him. As he fiddled with the focus, he chuckled. “What I don’t understand—and I’m sure you’ll tell me this, too—is why you people down South seem determined to refight the war all the time. It’s been over for almost thirty years. Don’t you think it’s about time you got over it and got on with your lives?”

  Her eyes opened wide—with anger, Win surmised. “I swear to goodness, Mr. Asher, you blasted Yankees have absolutely no idea what we suffered from your aggression! You speak of the Conflict as if it were a big joke, and it wasn’t!”

  “Guess not,” he mumbled, still fiddling.

  “I should say not. Thousands of brave young man died, thousands of children were orphaned, thousands of people lost everything they owned.”

  “On both sides,” he reminded her.

  “Ha! There may have been a few such cases in the North, but even you must admit that most of the horrors were perpetrated in the south.”

  “Hmmm,” said Win. When Belle looked like she was going to hurl one of the lamps at him, he added hastily, “I’m willing to hear all about it, though. Truly, Miss Monroe, I’d be delighted to have a history lesson from a southerner’s point of view.”

  At that moment the door to Win’s booth opened. Wondering if Kate had come back to bum another two bits from him, Win slipped out from under the curtain. He was disappointed to discover a complete stranger in his booth. Because he knew he had to, he smiled at the newcomer. “Good morning, ma’am. May I help you?”

  He was even more disappointed when the woman turned out to be a customer. With an internal sigh, he turned to Belle. “Would you mind stepping down from the platform for a few minutes, Miss Monroe? I’ll be with you shortly.

  Belle stepped down from the platform, but she minded a good deal. Blast the man! He was absolutely infuriating.

  What was even worse was that Belle had often harbored feelings of resentment toward her family for doing exactly as Win accused her of doing: wallowing in old sorrows and not getting on with life. Now she harbored feelings of resentment toward Win Asher for daring to point out her family’s shortcomings.

  She wanted to berate him, loudly and long, for daring to air one of her most cherished and well-concealed secrets. She wouldn’t admit he’d hit a nerve, of course, but she’d be more than happy to deliver his so-called history lesson. She’d give him enough information about his stupid North to choke him. Unfortunately, she didn’t get the opportunity.

  The rest of the morning passed in a frustrating series of interrupted poses for Belle. Every time Win got her settled on the platform and she opened her mouth to impart some vivid history lessons to him, somebody else came in the booth and wanted him to take a photograph. By the time the Richmonds eventually showed up to collect Belle for luncheon, she was ready to scream, and Win looked harassed and unhappy.

  Amalie ran over to her. “Oh, Miss Monroe! You’ve got to go up on the Ferris wheel! It’s such fun!”

  Belle shot Win a scorching glance. “I’d love to, darling. I’m glad you had fun.” She lifted Amalie in her arms and gave her cheek a kiss. Darting a glance at Gladys Richmond, Belle deduced her job as nanny was safe for a while longer. Poor Gladys looked as though she’d been ridden hard through a deep creek and hung up wet.

  Wiping her perspiring forehead with a dainty embroidered handkerchief, Gladys confirmed Belle’s suspicions. “I swear, Belle, I don’t know how I managed before you came to work for us. I love my children dearly—” She shared a sweet smile between her children. “—but they’re a handful.”

  “Pshaw,” offered George Richmond. “They’re only high-spirited.”

  Gladys shot him a glare. “A lot you know about it. You’re not the one who has to discipline them or tell them they can’t have all the sweets they want, and that they aren’t supposed to pick up the organ-grinder’s monkey, and that they really aren’t su
pposed to be hanging out of the carriage on the Ferris wheel.”

  George’s complexion took on a brickish hue, and he glared at his wife. “Now, see here, Gladys. . .”

  Oh, dear. Belle didn’t like it when married couples argued. And the Richmonds were generally the most compatible of married people. Considering an interruption in this instance less impolite than necessary, she interrupted. “It’s a warm day,” she suggested gently, still holding Amalie in her arms. “I’m sure tempers are a little frayed. And you must be hungry after such an exciting morning.” She noticed Win watching them all, and lifted her chin slightly.

  “You can say that again,” grumbled Garrett.

  Belle realized for the first time that the usually voluble Garrett had been silent since coming into Win’s booth. Now he stood aside, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his formerly natty sailor suit, and gave every indication of being unusually crabby. He was also filthy dirty.

  “Goodness gracious, Garrett, what happened to you?”

  Garrett shuffled his feet. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, my foot,” Gladys said, sounding more high-pitched and piercing than usual. “He fell into the Grand Basin!”

  “Oh, dear.” Belle knew she shouldn’t want to laugh, because laughing at a child’s capers was the best way to turn the child into a monster. Therefore, she hid her smile under an expression of concern.

  Garrett kicked at the bench under the window. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Was too!” said his adoring sister.

  Garrett reached up and hit her. Amalie started crying, although he hadn’t hit her hard, she was still secure in Belle’s arms, and it didn’t sound as if her heart were wholeheartedly engaged. Rather, her tears bore the earmarks of a perfunctory performance, aimed at getting her brother into more trouble.

  With a sigh, Belle had the odd thought that she’d love to have children of her own one day and to be mediating their quarrels instead of those of the Richmond children. “Garrett, that’s not a nice thing to do. You should apologize to your sister.”

  When Belle saw Amalie smirk at Garrett, she added, “And Amalie, when your brother is attempting to explain something, it’s not your place to interfere with his explanation. If you believe it necessary to add something, you ought to do so later. A lady doesn’t add sarcastic commentary to someone else’s explanations.”

  She noticed Win looking at her oddly and turned so that she couldn’t see his face. What was wrong with the dratted man now? She wondered. He was most likely critical of her handling of the children. Belle decided he was probably one of those people who believed children should be given free reign when it came to self-expression, which she understood was called modern psychology. She sniffed. He hadn’t liked it much yesterday when that obnoxious boy was sitting for him and exhibiting his free expression.

  Amalie had foregone crying in favor of sulking. She did, however, say, “I’m sorry,” in a muffled voice.

  Belle eyed Garrett, silently challenging him to offer an apology to his sister. After heaving a huge sigh, as if he were only doing it under duress, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  Neither child sounded particularly repentant, but Belle knew that they’d come to understand the importance of proper manners someday. Glancing at the children’s parents, she wished she could offer the two of them a pointer or two as well. The Richmonds looked as if they’d just as soon go their separate ways for a couple of hours.

  This, she decided, is what comes of too much fraternizing as a family. It was much easier to get along with one’s relations when you weren’t constantly in each other’s company. For example, Belle was able to positively adore her family in Georgia now that she was living in New York. It seemed strange, but there it was.

  Win Asher ultimately broke through the tension in his little photography booth. “Say, folks, would you object if I went to lunch with you again today? I have a couple of suggestions about the series of photographs I’m going to take with your children and Miss Monroe.”

  As if he were grateful to have another grown man along to keep him company and add masculine support, George leaped at Win’s suggestion. He brightened and cried “Absolutely!” before Gladys or anyone else had a chance to think about Win’s question.

  Men, thought Belle with unaccustomed cynicism. Rulers of the Universe and kings of the world. In their minds, at least. Belle was no feminist revolutionary or women’s suffrage marcher, but she sometimes got really sick of men always wanting to make decisions for her.

  Needless to say, she didn’t show her displeasure. She merely smiled, set Amalie down again, wiped the child’s cheeks of nonexistent tears, tidied Garrett up as much as was possible, put on her own hat, and stood by, waiting for everyone else to direct her day for her.

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s like this,” Win said after he’d swallowed a bite of hamburger. “People keep interrupting me all day long in the booth. If we could make some kind of arrangement so that Miss Monroe and the children could sit for me in the evening, we might have better luck. I’m sure the process would be less time-consuming and frustrating for everyone.”

  He anticipated hours of objection from Belle, so he turned at her and smiled. “Miss Monroe can confirm that I wasn’t even able to set up the lights today without constant interruptions.” She tossed him a sour glance, but he knew good and well she couldn’t deny his claim.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s so, although I don’t believe it would be wise to visit your booth at night, Mr. Asher.”

  “Why not?” he asked, keeping his tone reasonable. “I don’t have nearly as much business at night. I’ll bring an easy chair from home so that if Mrs. Richmond comes along, she’ll be comfortable while we’re working.”

  It looked to him as thought Belle would have liked to batter him with something hard and heavy, but she didn’t say anything. Hell, why should she? He was being perfectly reasonable.

  Mrs. Richmond still appeared harassed. Win guessed she didn’t ordinarily have to deal with her children without Belle along. A snippet of respect for Belle and her ability with children gave him pause for a moment. Then he decided that respecting her didn’t mean anything but that the photographs he planned would reflect her way with kids and, therefore, be even more charming than he already envisioned they would be. He felt better when that thought occurred to him, since it didn’t mean he was beginning to like her.

  She was too stiff-necked, prudish, silly, and—well—Southern, for Win to like her. That silly accent of hers was enough to drive a man mad, and her constantly harping about the Civil War was just plain nuts.

  “I think that would be fine, Mr. Asher,” Gladys said at last, after gazing at her husband, children, and Belle for several seconds. “Would you mind terribly, Belle?”

  Peering at Belle from the corner of his eye, Win knew she’d mind. Nevertheless, she said merely, “Um, no. I don’t think so, thank you.” The murderous glance she cast at Win patently denied her words.

  That was hunky-dory with Win. He didn’t care if she minded or not, as long as she cooperated. “We’ll start tomorrow evening, if that’s all right with you folks.” Win believed in grasping opportunities when they presented themselves. He didn’t want Belle or the Richmonds to have time for second thoughts.

  “Certainly.”

  Now that he had a hamburger under his belt, George looked much happier than he had before lunch. Win decided to keep that interesting aspect of human psychology in mind. Perhaps Belle would react more pleasantly to his scheme if he fed her now and then.

  # # #

  As much as she hated to admit it to herself—she’d never admit it to Win Asher—Belle didn’t really mind posing with the children the next evening after supper. As he requested Belle and Amalie and Garrett to assume various poses, they did as he asked, and Belle’s sensibilities remained unruffled. Win worked quickly, taking plate after plate in the manner of a true professional. Well, Belle reflected, he was a professiona
l. It was fascinating to watch him work. He knew what he was doing, for a certainty.

  He posed Amalie and Garrett sitting on the arms of an overstuffed easy chair as Belle ostensibly read to them, and took a picture of it. Belle didn’t approve of children reclining on the arms of chairs, but she had to admit it probably made a fetching picture. He’d lugged the heavy chair up onto his platform with more ease than grace, impressing Belle with his physical strength.

  He took a photograph of Belle showing Amalie something in the distance, which pose entailed her standing in one of his famous three-quarter poses with a hand around Amalie’s shoulder and pointing. Belle deplored pointing, but she didn’t object, sensing she would only appear ridiculous if she did.

  He took a photograph of Belle welcoming Garrett home from a baseball game. Win had mussed Garrett’s hair and had the boy pull out his shirt tails, rumpled his shirt, handed him a bat and a ball, and even smudged his face with soot. Garrett didn’t mind, which didn’t surprise Belle since she knew little boys preferred being dirty heathens whenever they could get away with it. What did surprise her was that Gladys didn’t object. Since Win had taken the precaution of supplying his booth with a wash stand, basin, and pitcher, along with a piece of soap, a washcloth, and a towel, Belle decided she wouldn’t object, either.

  Besides, Garrett looked adorable with his bat slung over his shoulder and his clothes in disarray, holding out a baseball to his supposed mother, Belle, and grinning. Win had also thought to supply the lad with a baseball cap, which Garrett wore at a rakish angle over one ear, so the pose looked authentic.

  “Do you have a whole supply of costume pieces, Mr. Asher?” she asked at one point.

  Still working with his equipment, Win didn’t even glance at her when he replied. “Have to. It’s my job.”

  “Hmmm.” It didn’t escape Belle’s attention that he was a well put-together young man. She almost wished she hadn’t noticed. But the truth was the truth, and the truth about Win Asher was that he didn’t have the portly bulges that, say, George Richmond displayed. No indeed. Win was fit and trim and muscular, and Belle appreciated the result, although she didn’t want to.