Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  Gladys nodded. Even Belle approved of this pronouncement. Garrett, as might have been expected, did not. “All I want’s a horse,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re making a big fuss about it.”

  “A horse,” his mother pointed out, “is a big fuss.”

  Their breakfast arrived, and Garrett gave up arguing in favor of eating.

  Belle sat next to Amalie, her favorite of the two children, probably because she was the more compliant and, it seemed to Belle, the more sensible. “I’m glad you enjoyed your visit with your friends, Amalie.”

  “It was fun.” Amalie poured syrup over some flapjacks and dug in.

  Belle was about to do likewise when her eye caught a picture on the folded newspaper Mr. Richmond had placed beside his breakfast plate. Her fork fell with a clatter from her benumbed fingers as she stared. “Oh, my God.” The words came out in a breathy whisper.

  “Belle!” cried Gladys. “Oh, what’s the matter?” She pushed herself away from the table and rose to her feet, her face a mask of alarm.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Monroe?” Amalie, too, sounded worried.

  “Good God, is she sick?” asked George around a mouthful of baked ham. He looked as if he considered such a possibility more of a nuisance than a tragedy.

  “Miss Monroe!” cried Garrett with what would have been gratifying trepidation, had Belle been in any condition to be gratified.

  She wasn’t. She was flabbergasted. Stunned. Shocked.

  With a pounce that startled her dining companions, she snatched up Mr. Richmond’s newspaper, much to that gentleman’s astonishment. Looking hard at what she’d thought she’d seen, she realized with horror that she’d been right. “Oh, my God.

  She’d seen it, all right. So had everybody else in the city of Chicago.

  Belle was furious.

  # # #

  Win gazed at the newspaper and smiled. He’d been gazing and smiling for what seemed like hours. H.L. May had done a bang-up job of the article he’d promised to write. And the photograph of Belle . . . Well . . . Win was more than pleased. He was ecstatic. Elated. Floating on air. He was sure he was a lot of other things, too, but he didn’t know the words for them.

  Damn, he was going to be rich. He was going to make Belle rich, too, bless her heart.

  He could hardly wait to show her the photograph and accompanying article. She was going to love it.

  Damn, but she was gorgeous there, on the front page of the Globe. Ethereal. Dazzling. Otherworldly. Yet, somehow, essentially one-hundred-and-ten-percent American. The pose was perfect. Belle was perfect He’d titled the photograph “Miss Liberty,” and to Win’s mind, it portrayed everything worthwhile in this country: Beauty, Freedom, Grace, Independence, Glory, Patriotism, and Love. H.L. had worked all of those words into his article, too, by damn.

  “God, I’m good,” Win muttered aloud. He dared speak aloud because there was no one in the booth with him. Win Asher didn’t suffer from false modesty, but he avoided overt braggadocio because people didn’t like braggarts.

  As he stared at the photograph of Belle, he couldn’t help but recall the interrupted embrace of the evening before. He didn’t know whether to thank Kate Finney or paddle her behind for bursting into his booth at that exact moment. Belle had felt as if she belonged in his arms.

  Obviously, he told himself here, in the privacy of his booth, he was good for her. All anyone had to do was take a gander at this photograph, if they doubted his word on that. Hell, he’d drawn her out of herself. He’d showed her true worth and inner—not to mention outer—beauty and essence, to the entire universe in this photograph.

  When they’d first met, she’d been a fussy little southerner with no more sense of the world outside her own little corner of it than a gnat. But he, Win Asher, had perceived, upon catching that first glimpse of her on the Midway, the inner Belle. He could hardly wait to tell the Richmonds about the deal he’d made with his agent to market the series of photographs featuring Belle and their kids, too. They’d be overjoyed. The Richmonds, unlike Belle, knew a good thing when they saw it.

  He heaved a huge sigh and went over to unlock his door. He’d been sitting in his booth gloating since early this morning, when he’d picked up a copy of the Globe from the kid down the block from his flat. Then, after a fleeting glance at his photograph, he’d bought the boy’s entire supply, much to the boy’s glee. Win was pretty damned gleeful himself.

  His satisfaction only intensified when he set a cabinet-sized print of the newspaper photograph of Belle on an easel in his booth’s front window. As he watched the strollers who’d come to see the grand Columbian Exposition walk along, he was satisfied by how many of them spotted the picture, stopped walking, and changed direction so that they could peruse the print more closely. Many of them altered their morning plans after that and entered his booth. If this kept up, Win would have enough work to last him the rest of his life. And the world had only been privileged to view one of his artistic visions so far. He had dozens of ‘em.

  He itched to see Belle. To hell with her southern-belle-ness. He was going to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her as if yesterday’s kiss had been no more than a brotherly peck on the cheek. And he didn’t care if the whole world watched him do it. He was on a roll, damn it, and he aimed to take Belle with him!

  # # #

  “Hold that pose,” Win said, ducking under his black curtain. “Don’t move a millimeter.”

  The young woman on his platform giggled. “I don’t know what a millimeter is, so I don’t know if can move that much or not.”

  Right. Real funny. Win didn’t speak the words that had filtered through his head, since to do so would have angered the vain young lady at present posing for him. Actually, she was posing for herself. Win would never pose anyone in so artificial a stance if he were pleasing himself.

  But Belle’s picture in the newspaper was having the result he’d desired, and this young woman had hired him to take pictures of her. “For my fiancé,” she’d told him with a simper. Then she’d proceeded to dictate “romantic” poses to Win until he was ready to upchuck. Not literally.

  He detested this sort of thing, though. This young woman had about as much subtlety as a steam engine. She wasn’t like Belle. Belle’s whole appeal was subtle. Sure, she was pretty, but her allure ran deeper than that. Belle’s inner essence shone through her outer trappings. Not that her outer trappings weren’t lovely, too, but there was a lot more to her than her family and the Recent Unpleasantness and all that southern folderol.

  Realizing he was only confusing himself by trying to put words to Belle’s appeal, he yanked the chain on his camera, the flash powder caught, the explosion came, and the girl giggled. Maybe he’d just discovered the answer. Win could have predicted that sequence of events, actions, and reactions with this young woman. Not with Belle. With Belle, a fellow never knew what to expect. Well, besides a euphemism or two for the Civil War.

  He was smiling when he told the young woman, “I think that will do it, Miss Pierce.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Asher.” Miss Pierce simpered down from the platform, joining her mother. Mrs. Pierce, Win noted with distaste, was also a simperer.

  “Sure thing.” Deciding he had better things to do with his eyes than watch a couple of females simper, he emptied the flash tray and refilled it as the women gathered their parasols and handbags together. Where the devil was Belle?

  “And when did you say we should come back?”

  The younger Pierce sounded as if she hoped he’d tell her to stick around and watch him for the rest of the day. What was the matter with her, anyhow? According to her, she already had a fiancé. Surely, she didn’t need Win to pay court to her, too. Dammit, he wanted to shake the dust off his heels and desert his booth for the Columbian Exposition, taking Belle and his roll-film box Kodak with him. Hell, he’d even take the rest of the Richmonds along if they insisted.

  “Um—” he said, recalling that the young woman
had asked him a question. “—Friday, I guess. I can get a sheet of proofs prepared, and you can select the ones you want me to enlarge.” Guessing he had to turn around and be polite to his customers, he did so. The young woman was gazing at him as if he were lunch and she was starving. Her mama was almost as bad. Stepping behind his camera even though he didn’t really need to do anything else there, he said, “Thanks for stopping by, ladies. I hope you’ll enjoy the photographs.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Pierce, clutching her hands together at her bosom, “I’m sure we shall.”

  “Yes,” agreed her mother. “And Henry will so enjoy having a likeness of you to take with him on the train to his business meetings.”

  “Yes,” Miss Pierce said, sounding vague. “Henry.”

  Hoping to speed them on their way, Win said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Pierce. Miss Pierce. I’ll see you in another day or so.”

  Win guessed they couldn’t find any more excuses to stick around and torture him, because with another thousand or so useless words, they finally left him in peace. Where in the name of glory was Belle? Damn it, he needed her! He had to show her the Globe and gloat with her over the fabulous success of his first published picture of her.

  He didn’t have much longer to wait. No sooner had he breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind the mother and the daughter, than it was flung open again with a degree of panache Win hadn’t anticipated. He also hadn’t anticipated the sight of Belle, standing in the sunlight, her hand gripping the door frame, and looking like a Valkyrie about to behead an enemy. His smile of joyful welcome faded even before she started yelling at him.

  Belle couldn’t recall ever throwing a temper tantrum before. Temper tantrums were unladylike and, therefore, unheard of in her family. Ever since she’d seen that photograph of herself in the newspaper, however, she’d been mad enough to spit railroad spikes. Win Asher had lied to her. He’d told her that she’d only appear in Germany; yet here, only five or so days after they’d struck their bargain, her picture was plastered all over the front page of the Globe. That had infuriated her. In truth, however, even Win’s perfidy wouldn’t have been enough to prompt her into a temper tantrum.

  But when she’d seen the two women, one of whom was young and pretty, leaving Win’s booth and chatting animatedly, her temper began to strain at its bonds. The young one kept darting glances back at the booth, too. It was obvious to Belle that she’d just had a marvelous time, and something inside Belle churned, as if somebody had injected her with a caustic acid solution.

  Then, when she’d thrown the door to Win’s booth open and had seen Win Asher standing there, grinning like a devil and looking smug, she’d completely lost control of herself. “You lied to me!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. Her mother would have fainted to hear her. Belle herself almost fainted, since her corset didn’t really allow for enough air with which to yell effectively.

  Not even her corset could deter her today, though. She’d left Gladys and Amalie gaping after her a few yards from Win’s booth when she’d seen the women leaving it. At the moment, she neither knew nor cared if they’d followed after her. Actually, she’d forgotten they even existed.

  Win’s eyes opened wide. “Hey, wait a minute, Belle—”

  She didn’t wait a second, much less a minute. She slammed the door so hard, the structure rattled. Then, with her arm outstretched and her quivering finger pointing, Yankee-style, at Win, she marched up to him and poked him in the chest. Hard. “You lied to me, Win Asher. You told me those pictures would appear only in Germany.”

  He held his hands up, palms out, as if he were trying to fend off a fiend. Belle wished she were a fiend and could rip him into bloody strips.

  “Wait a minute, Belle. I didn’t—”

  “You did, too!” She couldn’t remember ever shrieking like this. She tried to suck in enough air to do it again, and couldn’t. Drat corsets!

  “Stop hollering at me, and—”

  “I’m not hollering!”

  “Right. Well, then—”

  Belle whirled around and stamped across the floor of the booth. It wasn’t a very large booth. It wasn’t nearly large enough to contain Belle’s ire, although it was plenty big enough for the air supply allowed by her stays. “You told me those photographs wouldn’t be sold in the United States, Win Asher. You said—”

  “I did not! Damn it, Belle, will you calm down and listen to me?”

  “No!” Another precipitate whirl was nearly Belle’s undoing. Her head started to swim from lack of oxygen and she plunked down, hard, on the padded bench under the front window. Hastily, she snatched a handkerchief from her pocket and mopped her brow, wishing she’d elected to postpone punishing herself via whalebone until another day.

  The door to the booth creaked cautiously open. Belle jerked her head around, prepared to scowl at whoever dared to invade Win’s booth before she’d vented her spleen.

  “Is everything all right, Belle?” Gladys, poking her head around the door jamb, appeared nervous.

  As well she might. Belle had never behaved so badly in front of the Richmonds before Win Asher infected her life. With an internal snarl of resentment, she deflated slightly, knowing she couldn’t continue to revile Win satisfactorily in front of Gladys and the children. She tried to take a deep breath, failed, swore silently, and said, “Yes.” Too curt. She tacked on, “Thank you.”

  Amalie, peeking around her mother’s skirt, said, “Are you sure, Miss Monroe? You look mad.”

  Belle closed her eyes and tried to count to ten. Calmly. Failing that, she counted to ten in a rage and dared open her eyes again. “I’m fine, thank you, dear. I do need to discuss something with Mr. Asher, however.” Darting a glance at Win, who appeared to welcome the intrusion, she added through clenched teeth, “In private, darling.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Gladys didn’t look as though she believed her.

  Belle couldn’t find it in her heart to blame her, because she was lying through her teeth. Nevertheless, she said, “Certainly. I’m just fine. Thank you very much for your concern.” She tried to smile, but knew she achieved only a rather toothy grimace.

  “Well . . .” Gladys glanced from Belle to Win and back again.

  Belle prayed hard that Gladys would take the broad hint and fetch Amalie away. Belle wouldn’t need much time. She only wanted to yell at Win Asher for a little while longer. Maybe hit him once or twice.

  Finally, it was Win himself who ended the standoff. Belle tried to find it in her heart to be grateful, but she was so furious at him, she couldn’t.

  “Say, ladies,” he said, smiling at Amalie first, so she’d know he was including her in the word ladies. “I have an idea. Why don’t I give you this free pass, and you can witness the balloon ascension that’s going to be taking place at the Court of Honor in—” He snatched a gold watch out of his pocket and squinted at it. “—It’ll be going up in thirty minutes. I’ll bet you’d love to see that, wouldn’t you, Miss Amalie?”

  The little girl’s eyes sparkled. Belle watched, incensed. Dad blast it, she didn’t want Win to be nice to anybody! She wanted him to prove himself to be a thoroughgoing scoundrel. Maybe he reserved his scoundrelly behavior for her. She wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Oh! Can we, Mama?”

  Gladys hesitated. “Well, I guess . . .” She turned to Belle. “Will that be all right with you, Belle? I don’t want to leave you if you need my support.”

  Belle’s heart softened slightly—at least toward Gladys. It remained as hard as flint where Win was concerned. With a smile that felt more natural than her last one had, she said, “Oh, la, Gladys, please don’t hesitate on my account. I’m just fine and dandy, thank you.”

  She saw Win roll his eyes and wanted to heave the bench at him. Dratted corset.

  “Well . . . If you’re sure, Belle.”

  “I’m sure.” If Gladys and Amalie didn’t leave the booth soon, Belle’s smile was going to collapse, t
aking the rest of her face with it. The strain of maintaining a serene expression was killing her.

  “All right, then.”

  “Yay!” Amalie jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “And Garrett won’t get to see it!”

  Gladys eyed her offspring sourly, although she took Win’s pass with a pretty thank-you.

  At the moment, any member of the male sex would have had a hard time pleasing Belle, so she didn’t find any fault at all with Amalie’s reasoning.

  Win, Belle noted bitterly, grinned at the little girl and gave her a saucy wink. She’d like to blacken that eye of his, so he couldn’t wink at any other females. Like that one who’d just simpered out of his booth, for instance. Ooh, but Belle wished she could snatch that hussy bald!

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Asher.” Gladys held the balloon-ascension pass and turned to look at Belle. Her expression was doubtful, even though Belle was sitting primly with her hands folded in her lap.

  Belle knew she wouldn’t be able to control her ire for too much longer, so she forced herself to smile sweetly. “Have a wonderful time, you two. I’m sure it will be very exciting.”

  After hesitating for another couple of seconds—to Belle it seemed like hours—Gladys lifted her shoulders in a small shrug and smiled at her daughter. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  Amalie skipped off, holding her mother’s hand. As soon as the door shut, Belle popped up from the bench, her corset be hanged. Again she pointed her finger at Win. “You lousy, no-account liar! How dare you say you didn’t lie to me!”

  “Damnation, will you listen to reason, Belle? I said I have an agent in Germany. I didn’t say your pictures would only be shown in Germany.”

  She shook her head, more in consternation than in disbelief. Although she was in no mood to think, she did her best to recall the conversation they’d had about Germany. Dagnabbit, she couldn’t remember it clearly. She only recalled that she’d been comforted by the belief that her photographs would only appear in Germany. Sullenly, she said, “Well, I must have gotten that impression somewhere, Win Asher. If you didn’t lie to me, you deliberately misled me, and that’s just as bad.”