Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  Gladys gave up on her napkin and dug a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket. “It’s nothing, dear. It’s only that I had hoped that you and Mr. Asher would . . . Well, never mind, Belle. I’m glad you at least have this partnership, and I do hope it will prove profitable.”

  “I don’t want you to go away,” sobbed Amalie.

  Belle eyed the child with a pinch of disfavor, although she tried not to show it. As much as she adored Amalie, she deplored this overt emotionalism. If the girl didn’t watch herself, she’d end up like Belle’s mother and start swooning every other second.

  Good heavens, had she really entertained such a disloyal thought?

  Before she could decide one way or the other, a bell boy appeared at their breakfast table, carrying a yellow envelope on a tray. As soon as Belle spotted the boy, her heart squeezed. Not another telegram, please God.

  It didn’t please God. Rather, the boy headed straight at her, smiling broadly. He stopped in front of Belle. “Miss Monroe?”

  Belle sighed. “Yes. I am Miss Monroe.”

  The boy’s smile grew even larger. “I knew it! I saw your picture in the paper. You’re—” He blushed brightly. “You’re real beautiful, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Of course not.” Belle managed to produce a smallish smile. She wanted to scream. Handing the boy a coin hastily dug out of the reticule lying on her lap, she took the telegram. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Monroe. It’s real special, being able to talk to you, ma’am.” He turned and rushed away, his face glowing like a hot coal.

  As Belle watched him go, an odd numbness began to creep over her. Was this what her future held? Bell boys worshiping her as some kind of idol of femininity? The notion appalled her almost as much as it amused her. She? Rowena Belle Monroe?

  “How ridiculous,” she said under her breath.

  “It’s not, you know,” said Gladys.

  Belle’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re a lovely young woman, Belle. Mr. Asher is going to make you famous.”

  Belle stared at Gladys for a moment, aghast. Yet Gladys had spoken only what Belle already knew. She heaved a huge sigh. “You’re right, of course. I know that. I made my decision after taking all of that into consideration.”

  “What’s wrong with being famous?” Amalie wanted to know. She’d stopped crying, thank God, and now gazed at Belle with watery blue eyes.

  Gladys smiled gently. “Yes, Belle. What’s wrong with being a famous beauty? I’m sure most young women would love to have the opportunity, but most of them aren’t as well equipped to fill the role as you.”

  Pressing a hand to her rapidly heating cheek, Belle murmured, “Pshaw. But as to what’s wrong with it . . . well, my family is terribly opposed to it for one thing.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “How come?” asked Amalie.

  Blast the child. How could she not understand what seemed so clear to Belle. Almost clear to Belle. Maybe. She shook her head once in an effort to clear it. “It’s not, um, proper to put oneself forward like that, Amalie.” Since Amalie appeared as confused as she’d been before this explanation, Belle hastened on. “Um, it’s also unwise to advertise oneself to the world. Why, all sorts of miscreants and so forth might feel free to make unwelcome overtures if they think I’m a public property. So to speak.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Gladys sighed.

  “I guess.” Amalie didn’t believe it; Belle could tell.

  “Getting back to the why’s of the matter,” Belle said desperately, “I’m willing to endure it all for the sake of money.” All at once, she felt like Judas Iscariot.

  But the comparison was not only foolish, it was totally unrealistic. Not to mention sacrilegious. Belle wasn’t betraying her Savior, she was trying to help herself and her family, Dagnabbit!

  That being the case, she gave herself a hard mental shake, picked up the yellow envelope, and ripped it open. Frowning, she gazed at its contents. “Ha.”

  “What is it, Belle? Is it bad news?”

  “It’s as I expected,” Belle said, resigned but vexed. “My family wasn’t pleased by my move to New York. They’re claiming to be wretched now that I’m making some money by modeling.”

  Gladys appeared understandably puzzled. “Um . . . Why?”

  Belle reread the telegram. Another photograph today. Belle, why? Hurt. Crushed. Disappointed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Love, Mother.

  “Beats me,” she said, handing the communication to Gladys.

  Gladys perused the telegram, and her forehead wrinkled. She gazed at Belle for a moment. “But I thought you sent most of your salary home to Georgia. I should think your family would be pleased that you’re helping and thank you for it, not send unkind telegrams berating you.”

  Win’s condemnation of her family rolled through Belle’s mind like a strip of film through a projecting device, as she’d seen in the Machinery Hall. He’d been absolutely right about them. Her lips pressed together tightly for a moment before she answered Gladys’s sensible question. “They don’t like it that my face is being publicly displayed.”

  “I guess I can understand that,” Gladys said, although she clearly didn’t understand anything of the sort.

  “That’s what they claim,” Belle went on, feeling acrimonious and bitter. “The truth is that they don’t like it that I’m making something of myself. They’d rather wallow in lost glory and poverty than help themselves, and they expect me to do likewise. If I don’t, I’m upsetting the status quo.”

  It didn’t surprise her when Gladys’s eyes opened wide. “Good heavens! I can’t imagine such a thing.”

  Of course, she couldn’t. She was a Yankee. She didn’t come from a family who revered its status as somebody else’s victims like some sort of holy writ. “Old family tradition,” she said briefly.

  Gladys blinked. “Oh.”

  “I don’t understand, Miss Monroe,” Amalie piped up.

  “You’re not supposed to butt into grown-up conversations,” Garrett said piously, ruining the effect of sainthood by shoving his sister.

  “Stop it!” Amalie cried, shoving back. Belle placed a judicious hand on each small shoulder and held the children in place.

  Smiling at Amalie, she told Garrett, “It’s all right, Garrett. Amalie is only concerned for my happiness.” Garrett wrinkled his nose and grimaced, which Belle figured was par for the course. She decided there was no communicating with a seven-year-old boy, so she turned her attention back to Amalie. “I don’t understand, either, Amalie. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “You’d think your family would be grateful for your assistance,” Gladys said as sternly as was possible for her. “They have no business sending mean-spirited telegrams to you.”

  “Using the money I send home to do so,” Belle supplemented.

  Gladys nodded firmly. “Exactly.” She gave Belle’s hand one last squeeze before picking up her own napkin and laying it on her lap. “I don’t mean to criticize, Belle, but I don’t think your family is being quite fair to you.”

  Belle heaved another sigh. “To tell you the truth, I don’t, either.” It had taken her a long time, but Belle was beginning to doubt her family’s soundness of heart. If anyone were to assist her in life, for instance, she’d thank the person, not condemn him.

  Naturally, she thought of Win. He was trying to assist her in life, and she couldn’t offhand perceive of thanking him for it. Actually, she’d sooner leap from the twenty-first floor of the Congress Hotel than thank him. For anything. She decided the two situations were entirely dissimilar and she needn’t worry about her lack of appreciation for Win at the moment. “Will Mr. Richmond be joining us for breakfast?” she asked in hopes of turning the conversation in another direction.

  “Yes.” Gladys’s sigh echoed Belle’s. “He went to the front desk to get his morning supply of newspapers. I don’t understand what gentlemen find so fascinating in the
business news.”

  “I don’t, either,” said Belle with a laugh. “I rather like reading about crimes, though. It’s probably wrong of me.”

  Gladys shot her a conspiratorial grin. “I do, too.” She sat up, gazing at the door as if something had captured her attention. “There’s George now. And he has. . . My goodness, is that Mr. Asher?”

  Belle wished she’d had time to prepare. Before she could stop herself, she’d turned and started to rise from her chair. Luckily, she caught herself up. Before she’d managed to make a complete idiot of herself, she sat again and tried to gather her wits together.

  But there he was! In the all-too-wonderful flesh. Win Asher, looking as neat as a pin in his summer suit and boiled shirt, chatting with George Richmond as if they were old friends. George appeared pleased, so Belle guessed Win was a welcome addition to the breakfast group.

  “My goodness,” she said, trying to sound casual. “It is Mr. Asher.” She didn’t miss Gladys’s sharp look, and tried to deflect it with a bland expression on her own face. It was difficult to achieve. She felt the heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks even as she strove for serenity.

  “Look who’s come to visit with us at breakfast, Gladys,” George said jovially. Belle was glad he’d evidently had a restful night. Sometimes George wasn’t terribly jolly in the morning.

  “How do you do, Mr. Asher?” Gladys beamed at Win.

  Win beamed back. “I’m dandy, Mrs. Richmond. And you?”

  “I’m very well, thank you.”

  Taking Belle’s hand, Win bowed over it formally, not unlike a southern gentleman at a ball—Belle remembered the gesture well from her younger days. If he was going to make fun of her, she’d just have to . . .

  “Good morning, Belle. I hope I didn’t keep you up too late last evening. We had a lot of business to discuss.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Amalie broke into the slight aura of strain that had sprung up around the table. “Hello, Mr. Asher! You wanna go on the Ferris wheel with us today?”

  “Yeah,” said Garrett, for once sounding happy about something. “Can you?”

  Belle thought it was interesting that both children liked Win. Their approbation made her feel a tiny bit better.

  “I’d be delighted to join you on the Ferris wheel,” Win said, sounding almost as jovial as George had.

  “Please sit down and join us, Mr. Asher,” Gladys said, gesturing at an empty chair. “Belle has been telling us that you’re hoping to form a business partnership.”

  “Has she now?” Win directed a glittering smile at Belle, who gave him one back with interest.

  “Yes. I think it’s very enterprising of you both to go into business together.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Richmond. I’m glad you approve.”

  “Brilliant idea, old boy,” boomed George, clapping Win on the back. “Seize the opportunity, is my motto.”

  It was, was it? Belle’s gaze went from Win to George, and she wondered if that might not be Win’s motto, as well. Had he seduced her merely in order to cement a business opportunity? The thought was unpleasant, and she wasn’t certain how to discover the truth of the matter. She could ask Win, but he’d say no, even if he meant yes. He seemed to be a trace unscrupulous where his photography business was concerned.

  And if that wasn’t a depressing notion, she didn’t know what was. It took a good deal of effort for her to smile at the waiter, order a breakfast she hoped she could hold down, and to eat it as if her mind were at ease. It wasn’t. Blast Win Asher, anyhow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Win had felt sort of foolish, showing up at the Congress before eight in the morning, uninvited. He’s put on a fair show of nonchalance, but couldn’t conceal his joy when George Richmond greeted him as if he had every right to be barging in on his breakfast. Good old George. He was as thickheaded as he was thick-waisted, and Win blessed him for it.

  The truth of the matter was that he couldn’t settle down to anything at all until he’d seen Belle and assured himself that she was in reality—well—real. That she wasn’t just a figment of his artistic imagination. He knew he tended to be fanciful sometimes, but surely he couldn’t have fancied that wild romp on his chaise longue last night.

  When he walked into the restaurant and saw her, he knew his sanity remained intact. She seemed momentarily startled by his unexpected appearance, and that moment of uncertainty was all Win needed to assure himself that all was well in his universe. She’d agreed to go into business with him, too, so his continued acquaintance with her was a settled thing. Or it would be as soon as she signed a legal document binding her to him for the duration of their partnership.

  The notion of a legally binding contract had occurred to him sometime during his unsettled night. He hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about Belle and how to keep her. Oh, he knew he should marry her, and he’d ask her, but what if she surprised him and refused? One of the things he cherished about her was her unexpectedness. She might get some sort of southern-gentlewoman’s notion in her pretty head that her family would cut her off if she married a Yankee.

  When that notion occurred to him, Win’s heart had very nearly stopped beating. He couldn’t allow something like that to happen. He couldn’t allow her to escape. He couldn’t let her go. No way. Not now that he—ah—had found out how photogenic she was.

  Ever since the realization that he loved her had smitten him, he’d tried to drive it away. Love was ephemeral. Business was a solid fact. Love was chancy. Business was firm. Business was admirable, firm, and good. Love was scary as hell.

  Besides all that, and her family notwithstanding, Belle was an entrenched southerner. Win couldn’t imagine her agreeing to give up her Georgia roots and live in Chicago with him. She clung like a barnacle to that damned ungrateful family of hers. He feared that even if H.L. May, who had taken the train down to Georgia several days ago, dug up all sorts of bad things about her family, Belle wouldn’t desert them. She was too damned stubborn. Too damned good.

  He hated that. One of the reasons he loved her was that she saw things so clearly, even if her conclusions were antithetical to Win. Everything was black and white to his Belle. She harbored none of his anomalous feelings about good and evil. She knew what was what in her life, did his Belle. She never saw a ragged beggar on the street and wondered if his rags were his fault or the fault of an unkind society. She didn’t care; she saw only the beggar in his present state. She knew that her family’s current woes were a direct result of what his northern kin had done to the south thirty-some years ago.

  That particular notion was laughable to Win. He freely acknowledged that life was unfair, and that it burdened some folks more harshly than it did others. But Win didn’t cling to life’s unfairness as an excuse for current unpleasantnesses in his own life.

  Not Belle. She might be willing to kill a man for trying to hurt someone she esteemed, or even a complete stranger, like Kate Finney, but she was flat blind when it came to her family. She loved them blindly. She excused them blindly. She even allowed them to bully her from afar.

  Therefore, he’d decided to visit a lawyer friend after breakfast and have a contract drawn up. He hoped Belle could go with him, but he’d go alone if she had duties with the Richmonds.

  After he’d given his order to the waiter, he turned to her. “Say, Belle, are you free any time today?”

  She looked alarmed. “No. That is, Mrs. Richmond and I are taking the children to the Exposition, Win.”

  “Do you need Belle, Mr. Asher?” Gladys asked politely, although Win thought he detected a hint of avid interest in her eyes.

  He held up his hands. “I don’t want to interfere with her duties, Mrs. Richmond. I only wanted to chat with her about our business agreement.”

  “Oh?” Belle said, her tone sharp.

  “Oh?” Gladys’s voice conveyed only intrigue.

  “I thought it would be a good idea to go over a few points, is all,” he sa
id, trying to sound easygoing and casual.

  “What points?” Belle demanded.

  Win sighed. He’d obviously gone about this wrong. “Nothing significant. But I thought it might be a good idea to get everything down in black and white and sign on it.”

  “On paper, you mean?” Belle said.

  Win didn’t understand why she seemed to stiffen. “Yes. It’s probably best to have it on paper.”

  “Sound notion,” George said, nodding judiciously. “Very sound. Good business practice.”

  “I see,” said Belle.

  Win didn’t think it was a good sign that she seemed to have gone all frigid. “It’s for your protection more than mine,” he said, feeling desperate and misunderstood.

  “I see,” she repeated. She flapped her napkin once to open it and slapped it back down on her lap.

  That was a bad sign, too. “Say, Belle, it really is a good idea to sign business agreements in order to make them legally binding in every particular.”

  She gave him a smile that froze his blood. “I see. Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. Perhaps we can go over the papers this evening?”

  “Right.” Win wished he understood this woman. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she went and smashed his theories all to blazes.

  She didn’t speak to him again until they were through with breakfast and all headed out of the hotel to catch a cab to the Exposition. He itched with impatience. He needed to talk to her, to settle things, to find out what the hell was the matter now, to calm her down. To make love to her.

  Win passed a hand over his face in frustration and wondered why the poets waxed so euphoric over love. As far as he could tell, love was only a supreme pain in the neck.

  # # #

  Belle supposed it was as well that she’d discovered now that Win only considered her a business entity. If he hadn’t made his opinion of her perfectly clear this morning, she might have allowed herself to wonder if perhaps he actually cared for her.

  Idiot, she shrieked at herself. Fool. Moron. Benighted moonling.

  Love-sick woman.