Just North of Bliss (11 page)

“Say,” Win ventured casually as the family
was gathering itself and its belongings together in order to take
in the rest of the fair, “I don’t suppose you’d let me borrow your
nanny for a couple of hours.”

Belle, who had been helping Amalie on with
her straw hat, and who was eagerly anticipating getting out into
the fresh summer air, whirled around. “I beg your pardon?” She
didn’t want to be borrowed! She wanted to see the fair!

“Well . . .” Mrs. Richmond glanced
doubtfully at her husband.

George shrugged. “If Belle doesn’t mind, I
don’t suppose I do. What do you say, Miss Monroe?” He smiled at
Belle in a way that let her know he expected her to cooperate with
the nice photographer.

Fiddlesticks. She didn’t
want
to
cooperate with the photographer, whom she didn’t consider nice at
all. But, she knew, she needed this job. However, she also
considered her job to be caring for Amalie and Garrett, not posing
for a blasted photographer. She decided to remind Mr. and Mrs.
Richmond of the latter. “What about the children? It’s my job to
take care of them.”

Win looked peeved. Belle didn’t care.

“But George,” Gladys said, “We want Belle to
see the fair, too.”

Belle could have wept with appreciation. She
did so like Gladys Richmond.

“Of course, of course,” the complacent Mr.
Richmond said. “And we’ll be sure she does.” Giving Belle a wink
that she didn’t accept with gratitude, he added, “And we’ll be sure
to take her up on the Ferris wheel. But Mr. Asher needs her at the
moment.” Transferring his attention from his wife to Win, he said,
“How long did you say you’ll need her, Mr. Asher?”

Win shrugged. “An hour or two ought to do
it. I want to see how much I’ll need to adjust light levels and so
forth.”

Belle had never heard of such a thing. If
she didn’t know that Win had been chosen by the fair directors to
be the Exposition’s official photographer and, therefore, a morally
sound individual, she might have questioned his motives. She
remained silent, knowing herself to be akin to a piece of furniture
in the overall orchestration of the Richmonds’ life.

At least Gladys cared about her feelings.
“Would you mind, Belle, dear? We’ll come back to get you before we
take luncheon.”

“Having your picture taken is fun, Miss
Monroe,” Amalie assured her.

As if a five-year-old girl could assess such
a thing. Belle knew she’d be wise to put the best face on things,
so she pumped up a smile from somewhere and offered it to the
Richmonds. “Of course, I don’t mind. As long as you don’t need
me.”

“We do need you,” Mrs. Richmond said stoutly
before her husband could drop any more comments into the
conversation. “At least
I
do.”

“And me, too,” said Amalie.

Garrett, being a boy and knowing that
because of his gender he was a select entity and didn’t need
anything, much less a nanny, kept mum. Belle wasn’t surprised,
although she’d have liked to shake him.

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Richmond said
soothingly. “We all need Miss Monroe.”

Belle decided she’d like to shake him, too.
“Very well,” she said in a prim voice. “I shall remain behind.”

“We’re going to dine on hamburgers at
noontime, Belle, and I’m sure you’ll want to participate. They’re
new, you know.”

“I’ve heard of them,” she told Gladys, who
still appeared slightly uncertain about the wisdom of leaving the
nanny behind as she went off with the rest of her family.

Belle understood. She loved Gladys dearly,
but the poor woman was hopeless when it came to disciplining her
children. The decision had been taken out of her hands, however.
Therefore, she turned, clasping said hands at her waist, and asked
her torturer—that is to say, she asked the photographer—“Very well,
Mr. Asher. What shall I do now?”

Gladys gave her a quick kiss on the cheek,
which surprised and gratified Belle, and hustled her children out
of Win’s booth. Mr. Richmond smiled his thanks and took off after
the rest of his family.

Win grimaced at Belle, which prompted a
frown in return. “First off, will you please try to relax? This
isn’t going to be an arduous ordeal or anything. And the series I
aim to shoot featuring you alone—”

“I didn’t consent to that!” cried Belle,
miffed.

“Balderdash. Your employers want you to do
them, so you’ll do them. Am I right?”

Yes, blast it, in spite of knowing the
Richmonds would allow her say-so over the solo pictures of herself,
he was right. She’d pose for the dratted pictures because she
wanted to please the Richmonds, whom she not only esteemed, but who
were responsible for her current status as—well, no longer dirt
poor, at any rate. Belle’s lips pinched together tightly.

Pointing at her mouth, which made Belle take
a startled step back, Win said, “See? That’s exactly what I mean.
In order for us to work together, you’re either going to have to
give up hating me or pretend to.”

“I don’t hate you!” Belle was so shocked by
this accusation that she unclasped her hands.

“Could have fooled me,” Win grumbled.
Shrugging out of his coat and yanking at his tie, presumably to get
more comfortable, although the gesture alarmed Belle, who was
accustomed to formal attire on businessmen, he went on, “I’m not
really a bad person, Miss Monroe, and I have a reputation as a
superior photographer to uphold.” He squinted at her. “But I get
the feeling you’re not from around here. Perhaps out ways aren’t
your ways.”

“Stop being disingenuous, Mr. Asher,” she
said, vexed again. “You know from my speech that I’m from the
South.”

“Right. Which state.”

“Georgia.”

“Hmmm.” For a moment, Belle could have sworn
he was searching his brain for something nice to say about Georgia.
If he mentioned the infamous Sherman, she might just have to give
him a lesson in history. Apparently his attempt bumped against a
wall, because he said, “Well, that doesn’t make any difference.
You’re a lovely young woman, and this series of photographs I want
to take of you will make you famous worldwide.”

“I don’t want to be famous worldwide,” she
said flatly. “The very notion repels my sensibilities.”

“Your sensibilities?” Win gazed at her as if
she were a strange and unusual life form. His expression and his
attitude infuriated her.

“Yes. Just because you Northern fiends won a
victory in the Recent Unpleasantness, doesn’t mean your victims
need to change our ways. In Georgia, we value manners and
politeness and courtesy, unlike some of you from Chicago.” She
hoped she gave the word
Chicago
the proper emphasis. She
didn’t really dislike the town, which was rather pleasant,
actually, but she didn’t want Win to know it.

Win blinked at her. Ignoring the intent of
her little speech, he wrinkled his brow and said, “The Recent
Unpleasantness? What’s that?” Enlightenment struck, and he cried,
“Oh! I get it. You mean the Civil War.”

Everything inside Belle went rigid with ire.
“The War Between the States was
not
a
civil war, Mr. Asher. The South was attempting to protect its very
way of life, in case you didn’t know that. It was the War of
Northern Aggression. The North incited the Aggression, thus
instigating the bloodshed and horror.” She really, really hated it
when he rolled his eyes.

She resented his next words even more. “Say,
you’re not going to band together with a bunch of other southern
belles and start robbing trains, are you? I can see the headlines
now: ‘Jessica James and her Gang of Girls Shoots Sheriff and Steals
Stash.’” He laughed at his alliterative joke.

Belle didn’t think it was funny at all.
“Jesse James,” she said through seriously clenched teeth, “was from
Missouri.”

“Yeah, well, wherever he was from, he blamed
his criminal activities on us bad people from the North. It was a
pitiful excuse, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Belle ground out. She
held a like sentiment regarding the infamous James gang, but would
sooner die than tell Win so.

“All right, all right, whatever you say,
Miss Monroe. I don’t care. I know some folks love to refight the
war with every waking breath, but I don’t. It’s been over for
almost thirty years, and I wasn’t even born yet when it ended.”
After eyeing her up and down and making Belle feel like squirming
which, needless to say, she didn’t, he added, “Anyhow, my side won,
so I don’t have any quarrels with you people down there. All I want
to do is take these photographs.”

Belle was so angry by this time that if she
hadn’t been taught proper manners in her youth—for example, if
she’d been reared in Chicago or New York City—she might have
stamped her foot. She had been taught proper manners, however, and
she didn’t. Since there was already at hand an even better means of
thwarting Mr. Win, “My Side Won,” Asher, she didn’t despair.

“This discussion is neither here nor there,
and I personally don’t care what you call the War Between the
States. I don’t believe I care to have my likeness splashed about
in periodicals all over the world, Mr. Asher. I fear I’ll have to
refuse your offer.” She lifted her chin and sniffed, which was
allowable behavior on the part of proper southern ladies.

“Balderdash. The Richmonds want you to do
them.”

“That may well be so, but they’re too kind
to force me to do anything I find morally repugnant.”

His eyes opened wide, the veins in his neck
stood out, and his cheeks turned a dull, pulsing red. “Force you
into doing something you find morally repugnant? Photography?
Morally
repugnant
?”

Belle doubted that he could sound much more
stunned, offended, or outraged, but she didn’t get a chance to goad
him into proving her doubt correct. At that moment the door to his
booth burst open, and a young woman barged in. Belle selected the
word
barged
unconsciously since, although
she was too polite to say it aloud, she knew no other word that
could properly describe the young woman’s behavior.

Her costume was another matter entirely.
Belle could find no words at all in her vocabulary to do it
justice. She didn’t know those kinds of words. But the
woman—girl—Belle couldn’t decide how old she was, much less
what—looked positively outrageous. Clad in a voluminous,
multi-colored striped skirt topped by a blazing red blouse that was
entirely too low-cut, both of which were held up by a wide red
sash, and with strings and strings of painted wooden beads draped
around her neck, she looked like nothing Belle had ever seen
before. Not only that, but she was barefoot.
Barefoot
! And
with her toenails painted a revolting crimson shade. Belle had
never seen the like. When one added the garish yellow scarf holding
her dark curls away from her face, and the paint adorning her eyes,
cheeks, and lips—well, there just weren’t any words. Belle could
only stare. It was impolite, but sometimes these things couldn’t be
helped, even by a properly reared Southern lady.

“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?”