Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  “I’m sure your papa is right, Garrett,” said Belle. “But lots of people like to believe in fortune-telling, because they want to think they have some control over their lives. Or they want to prepare for what they think is coming.” She was getting confused. “Or something like that.”

  “It sounds like fun,” Amalie said after pondering the subject for a moment or two.

  Her mother laughed. “It does, rather, doesn’t it?”

  Even Garrett offered a reluctant, “Kind of.”

  “Oh, dear.” Belle laughed, too. “I didn’t mean to start anything.”

  “No,” said Gladys, grinning slyly, “you were hoping to stop something, weren’t you?”

  Before Belle could reply, Amalie cried, “Let’s go get our fortune’s told, Mama! Even if it’s not true, it might be fun.” Belle could have kissed the darling child for once more saving her from a ticklish situation. She glanced at Gladys, who glanced back, then shrugged.

  “Why not? As Amalie said, it might be fun.”

  “It might be.”

  “It only costs a nickel,” Garrett pointed out, reading the cost of a palm-reading on the sign tacked up beside the booth.

  Belle thought it must be nice to consider the throwing away of a nickel as nothing at all. Actually, now that she was employed, she could probably spare a nickel on nonsense, too, without feeling guilty about it. The notion tickled her.

  “Let’s go, then.” She put Amalie down. The child was small, but even a small bundle got heavy after a while. “I’ll be interested to see what the future has in store for Miss Amalie.”

  “Do you think she’ll say I’m going to get married and have babies like Mama?” Amalie skipped toward the booth.

  Belle was about to answer the little girl when a premonition assaulted her so suddenly, she didn’t even have time to consider it before darting after Amalie and grabbing her up in her arms once more. “Just a moment, sweetheart. Let me look inside first.”

  Quick as a wink, she thrust Amalie into her mother’s arms. Then, with her heart thudding, Belle put her hand on the door latch. Glancing over her shoulder, she tried to smile. “I’ll just go in first and see if Miss Finney is free. All right?”

  As soon as she opened the door, Belle knew her premonition had been correct. An appalling sight struck her. A huge man had Kate Finney pinned up against the wall of her booth, his hands circling the poor girl’s throat.

  “Tell me!” the man growled. A foul stench of whiskey and sweat permeated the room.

  Kate gurgled. Without thinking, much less speaking, Belle rushed up to the pair with her parasol raised. She presumed the poor girl couldn’t form words with the man’s hands pressing against her windpipe.

  “Stop it!” she shrieked. She brought the parasol down on the man’s head with all the force in her body.

  The man grunted, staggered backward, and released Kate, who sank to the floor. Belle didn’t hesitate for a second. Again she raised her parasol and bashed the man, this time on the side of his head, because she could get more force behind the blow. He staggered and grunted again.

  He was in the process of shaking his head, presumably trying to clear it of a whiskey-and-parasol-induced fuzz, when Kate slowly pushed herself up from the floor. She tried to say something, but Belle only heard a strangled gasp issue from her lips. She swung her parasol again, only to discover her last blow had broken the weapon. It flapped comically.

  “Drat it!” Belle cried.

  “You bitch!” the man, regaining some of his senses, roared. He lunged at Belle.

  Fiddlesticks. She didn’t have much time to think about anything except how to defend herself. With her parasol broken and flapping, she did the only thing she could think of on the spur of the moment. She used it like a lance. The broken shaft didn’t exactly stop the man’s progress, but when it stuck him in the belly, it must have hurt him a good deal.

  He let out a bellow of pain even as the impetus of his heavy body hitting the parasol shoved Belle back against the opposite wall of the booth. After that, Belle lost track of things. The gigantic man loomed like a monster in her vision for several seconds, then emitted a roar. To Belle, it looked as if his face contorted horribly for no more than a second—and then he was gone. Her back plastered against the booth’s wall, she found herself peering into the dead-white face of Kate Finney, who held a blood-stained crystal ball in both hands.

  The two women stared into each other’s wide, petrified eyes for Belle didn’t know how long before sounds of the world penetrated her staggered brain.

  “Belle! Good heavens! Belle!”

  Belle had to give her wits a series of imperious and increasingly fervent commands before they allowed her to turn her head. Gladys stood in the door of the booth, staring at the wreckage inside with terror writ large on her features. Garrett and Amalie stood beside their mother, stunned into immobility.

  Kate Finney and Belle both turned their gazes on the man lying on the floor, unconscious. Belle wished she could shoot him to make sure he stayed that way. Unfortunately, she had no gun. Even more unfortunately, such a beneficent deed would have been considered illegal by the authorities.

  She cleared her throat. “Um, Garrett, will you please run and fetch a Columbian Guardsman?” She was surprised to hear her voice, because it didn’t sound right. It sounded high and impersonal; not at all the voice of a woman who’d just bashed a man over the head with her parasol twice and then stabbed him in the stomach with the same instrument. She heard a soft thud, and looked down to see that she’d dropped her parasol, which bounced off the feet of the man sprawled in the booth.

  “Um . . . What?” Garrett’s gaze seemed fixed on the unconscious man. “What happened?”

  It was Gladys who came to her senses first. She rounded on her son. “Explanations can wait, Garrett Ernest Richmond. For once, do as you’ve been asked without arguing about it. Go get a Columbian Guardsman. Now! This instant!” She sped Garrett on his way with a smart slap on his rear end.

  Amalie leaped over the man and raced straight to Belle. Belle was barely in time to stop the child from plowing into her uncorseted midsection. She was still staring at Kate when she caught Amalie in her arms.

  At last Kate spoke. Lifting a hand to her throat, where vivid red marks declared the damage the man had inflicted, she said in something of a croak, “Thank you.” She tried to clear her throat and winced.

  In sympathy, Belle winced, too. “You’re welcome.” Because she was worried about the poor girl, she said, “Don’t try to talk. We’ll—we’ll—” She had no idea what they’d, so she stopped trying to make sense. Tea. She wished she had some hot, sweet tea to offer Kate.

  Stepping warily around the fallen body, Gladys went to Belle and laid her hands gently on her shoulders. “What in the name of mercy happened? Do you need help, Belle?”

  Belle shook her head. “No. Miss Finney’s the one who was hurt.” She hugged Amalie hard, grateful for something to hold on to. “That man was trying to—to strangle her.”

  “Good heavens!” The tender-hearted Gladys swerved around the body again, this time in the opposite direction. She reached out to grab Kate just before the girl could crumple to the floor in a faint. “He tried to strangle you? Who is he? Why did he do something so dreadful to you?”

  Belle, whose first impression of Kate Finney had been that she was as tough as nails and as sharp as tacks, was shocked when the girl subsided into Gladys’s arms and burst into tears. She was even more shocked when she heard Kate’s answer to Gladys’s question.

  “He’s my f-father,” Kate stuttered through her sobs. Gladys held her tightly and glanced with horrified eyes at Belle.

  Belle felt foolish when her own eyes began to leak. “Oh, my.” The conversation she’d overheard between Kate and Win Asher took on a clear and terrible meaning to her now. “Was he trying to find your mother?”

  Still sobbing as if her heart were breaking—which, Belle imagined, it probably was�
�Kate nodded. She croaked out a pathetic, “Yes. I wouldn’t tell him.”

  “Good Lord.” Gladys’s comment was a mere gasp of air.

  Win Asher and a Columbian Guardsman in a pristine military-type uniform and a huge walrus mustache arrived within seconds of each other. The Guardsman showed up first.

  “All right, what seems to be the matter here?” said he in a pristine and military sounding voice through his bushy mustache.

  “Kate!”

  Win, on the other hand, didn’t stand on ceremony. He leaped over the sprawled man, who was beginning to groan softly, and ripped Kate out of Gladys’s embrace. Pulling her into his own strong arms, he hugged her hard. “Good God, Kate, what did that son of a bitch do to you?”

  Even as she reviled herself as a despicable person, Belle felt a twinge of jealousy for Kate Finney. Gracious sakes, what kind of evil person was she, that she could feel jealous of a woman who’d almost been murdered by her own father? She tried not to think about it.

  “It’s my father,” Kate sobbed. “I wouldn’t tell him where Mama is.”

  “Good for you, Kate. But, damn it, how did the bastard get in here? I thought the gate keepers had been warned about him and were supposed to keep him out.”

  Belle saw Kate nod against Win’s shoulder. “But they’re so busy, Win. They can’t keep track of everybody who visits the Exposition.” Her voice was painfully ragged, as if it were scraping against the back of her wounded throat before it left her mouth. Belle wished she wouldn’t even try to speak.

  It was Kate who pushed herself away from Win before he let go of her. Again, Belle’s heart squished painfully. Again, she was disgusted with herself.

  The girl rubbed at her throat. Belle grimaced in sympathy. Carefully, she let Amalie down. “Do you need a doctor, Miss Finney? You probably ought to be seen by a doctor.”

  Win whirled around. “Good God, I didn’t know you were here!”

  He didn’t look as if he were pleased to see her, either. Belle’s lips pursed before she could stop them.

  Kate grabbed Win’s arm. “She saved my life, Win.” She looked at Belle, who saw tears swimming in her big brown eyes once more. “Thank you so much, Miss—Miss . . .”

  “Please,” said Belle, “call me Belle.” In spite of the emotions tumbling around inside her, she smiled at the girl.

  “Belle. You saved my life, Belle. Thank you so much.” Kate’s tears overflowed and trailed down her mottled cheeks.

  Win stared at Belle, who drew herself up straight and frowned at him. “She did what?”

  Chapter Nine

  The Chicago police department had been called for as soon as the Columbian Guard had ascertained that a crime had been committed. Two officers stood inside Madame Esmeralda’s booth, one of them taking notes. A physician who had been hired by the fair directors to take care of emergencies looked into Kate’s throat with the aid of a tongue depressor and a tiny little electrical light that fascinated Garrett. It was all his mother and Belle could do to keep him out of the doctor’s way.

  Win still couldn’t believe it. Never in his wildest imaginings—and he’d been having a few lately—had he envisioned Belle Monroe as a heroine. This aspect of her character threw Win’s assumptions about her all askew. He wasn’t sure what to make of her anymore.

  He and Belle occupied chairs that were generally used for people having their fortunes told by Kate or Madame Esmeralda. When he glanced at her, Belle had her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her cheeks had gone ashen pale, her hat had tipped slightly on her sleek dark hair, and she was chewing her bottom lip nervously.

  Shaking his head in wonder, he murmured, “I still can’t believe you bashed that bastard on the head with your parasol.” He had deliberately used the word bastard because he wanted to see Belle’s reaction.

  It wasn’t what he expected, which further jostled his opinion of her as a simpering southern belle with no brains, no sympathy, and no depth of character. Instead of rounding on him in a blaze of indignant fury, she turned her head and blinked at him, as if she’d forgotten he was there. He, who’d been thinking of her almost exclusively since taking her to her hotel room the night before, felt a nip of righteous indignation. Dash it, he might not be the world’s most perfect human male, but he wasn’t all that forgettable, was he?

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked politely.

  Win cast his gaze heavenward. “I said,” he said, “that I can’t believe you hit that bastard over the head with your parasol.”

  He got a reaction that time. She frowned. “And why not?”

  Still, it wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess because you seem like such a meek little lady. I didn’t expect you to have any spunk.”

  She sat up straighter. “Oh?”

  He didn’t know what was wrong with him today. Instead of apologizing and rephrasing his statement, as he should—indeed, he wanted to do—he sneered. “What’s the matter, Miss Monroe? Trouble with your ears?”

  “No, Mr. Asher,” she said after a moment or two of glaring at him as if she’d like to squish him like a bug or batter him with another, whole parasol. “I do not have trouble with my ears. You, clearly, have trouble with your manners.”

  Win guessed that told him. And deservedly. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Monroe. I didn’t mean to be such a boor. When I saw Kate with those red marks on her throat and that son of a—” He caught himself in time, and sucked in a big breath. “Well, it was a shock.”

  “Yes,” Belle said in an icy voice. “I thought so, too, when I walked in and saw him on the process of murdering her.”

  Win shuddered. “God, it must have been awful.”

  She took an audible breath. Win wished he hadn’t been so mean to her. The truth of the matter was that he’d been practically flying with elation when he’d burst into Kate’s booth. His mood had crashed and burned instantly when he’d beheld the chaos therein, and it had been simmering in a broth of sulky ill-usage ever since.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’m really sorry. You performed a noble deed, and you ought to get a medal, not sass from me.” He didn’t expect her to forgive him, because she didn’t seem the type, although what that type was, he no longer knew for certain. Rather, he sort of expected her to give him a lecture on polite social behavior.

  She didn’t speak at all for a moment. Win watched her surreptitiously, since he didn’t think she’d want him to stare openly at her. She still held her hands together as if she were trying to get them to strangle each other. She took several deep breaths and let them out slowly, then turned her perfect, pallid face his way. “It must have been awful for you to find your—your friend in that condition, and for such a dreadful reason.” She shuddered. “I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have a father like that awful man.”

  “Me, neither.” When he compared his own father, a wealthy, jolly, benevolent, and well-respected medical doctor, to the specimen the police had hauled away in the paddy wagon, he could only be grateful for his own good fortune. “My father would no more lay a hand on my sister than he would fly to the moon.”

  “Indeed.”

  Win took that word to mean that she felt the same about her own parents. “Must be tough growing up with a drunken lout for a father. I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that.”

  “Yes.” Belle swallowed. She unclasped her hands only long enough to brush one under her eyes.

  Win wondered if she was crying. He peered at her more closely. “Say, Miss Monroe, it will be all right. Kate’s strong. She’s survived this long, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

  “Yes. I admire her.”

  “Yeah. So do I. You probably don’t know the whole story, but that father of hers deserted the family. He was gone more than he was there, and Kate said he mainly came home to steal money for drink, create trouble, and beat up her mother.”

  Belle gave another eloquent shudder. Win decided he needed
to take a photograph of her in that pose. He could title it “Beauty in Distress” or something.

  She didn’t glance at him. “It’s good of you to look in on her during the day. You must care for her a great deal.”

  Eh? What was that? Win wondered if there was some esoteric meaning hidden in Belle’s comment somewhere. He and Kate were buddies, of a sort, and he liked her, but that was all. He and she talked a lot together, because he wasn’t a judgmental fellow, and Kate appreciated him for not moralizing at her or lecturing her on how to better herself, a process she was doing quite well on her own. She also appreciated his honestly held opinion that she shouldn’t be held accountable for the foibles and evil deeds of her father. “Yes,” he said uncertainly. “Well, we’re friends, Kate and I.”

  “I see.”

  The doctor spoke, and both Win and Belle turned their attention in his direction. “You’ll have a sore throat for a few days, Miss Finney, but you’ll be all right. Here are some lozenges for you to suck on that might ease the pain. They contain horehound, which people often find soothing.”

  “Thank you.”

  Win was surprised when Belle winced at Kate’s voice, which was soft and scrapey. He felt like doing the same thing, but he hadn’t expected this degree of empathy from Belle. “You’re going to be fine, Kate,” he said, hoping to encourage the poor suffering girl. He felt mighty sorry for Kate Finney.

  She gave him a little wave and smiled. “Thanks, Win.” A cough rattled her small frame, and she grimaced in pain.

  Win grimaced in sympathy. So did Belle. Again, Win was surprised, although he was beginning to think he’d underestimated Miss Belle Monroe.

  The policeman said, “Thank you for your statement, Miss Finney. If you can think of anything else that might help us prosecute this case, please let us know.”

  “I will,” Kate said in her new voice. She popped one of the doctor’s lozenges into her mouth and sucked. They must have tasted bad, because she grimaced again.

  Win was startled when Belle surged from her chair. “I’ll just run and get you some water, Miss Finney.”