Just North of Bliss (2 page)

This mother, however, hadn’t allowed the boy
to suffer such an indignity. Offhand, Win couldn’t recall ever
espying a woman so perfectly perfect for the role of American
Mother. Her own gown was made of blue-and-white sprig muslin, and
she carried a parasol which she used to shade the children. Her own
shining chestnut curls were capped with a broad-brimmed straw
bonnet with a blue ribbon drawn over the crown and tied under her
shapely chin. Win stared, agog.

There she was, walking along his own very
Midway. The true American beauty: Mother, wife, daughter, sister,
lover, nurturer. She was perfect. Utterly perfect.

Win had to swallow when she leaned over,
smiled sweetly at the little girl at her side, and pointed out
something of interest. Both children smiled and looked. The little
girl giggled. The woman, angelic in her flawless radiance, clapped
a hand to her straw hat when a breeze lifted its brim, thereby
exposing another half-inch or so of her perfect alabaster
forehead.

“Mr. Asher!” came the imperious voice of Mr.
Wiggles’ mother from behind him.

Again Win waved her to silence. Her heard
her give a humph of irritation, and he didn’t care.

He had to capture that icon of unsurpassed
American motherhood on film. It didn’t matter that Win had no idea
on earth who the woman was. It didn’t matter that Mr. Wiggles’
mother was steaming and blowing behind him. Let her steam and blow.
She was about as far from the angelic perfection of that vision and
her children as the hell was from heaven.

Win darted away from the door and rushed
over to the woman and her cherubic children.

# # #

“It is darling, isn’t it, Amalie?”

“Can I show it to Mama, Miss Monroe? Do you
think she’ll get it for me?”

Belle laughed. She adored her charges,
Garrett and Amalie Richmond, even if, after all these months in the
Richmonds’ employ, their twangy Yankee accents still rattled her
occasionally. They were sweet children. Never mind that they had
been born in New York City to Yankee parents. That wasn’t their
fault and couldn’t be held against them.

Although Belle would never admit it to
anyone aloud, she was beginning to wonder if all of her family’s
fears and strictures against the North were entirely justified.
Not, of course, that the North had any business in telling the
glorious South how to run its business. And it was purely wicked to
have invaded her homeland. Still . . .

In her own mind, Belle sometimes had trouble
justifying the evils of slavery in order to support the agrarian
South’s former way of life. That rebellious notion was one other
thing she’d never dared discuss with her family.

Then there was this business of genteel
poverty. Belle loved her family with an undying and almost reverent
devotion. She was not, however, as enamored of poverty, genteel or
otherwise, as they all seemed to be. And, while she could and did
listen with rapt attention to stories of the vanished grandeur and
fabulous, not to say ostentatious, wealth of her deceased
forebears, she’d decided long since that she didn’t aim to languish
in regret for the bygone era of her family’s days as rich tobacco
planters.

Belle considered herself a sensible young
lady. In her sensible opinion, it was better to make something of
the life into which a body had been born than to pine over a
civilization that was, sad to say, gone forever and had been for
decades.

She’d even been willing to remain firm in
the face of her family’s objections to her obtaining employment
when she’d graduated from the Young Ladies’ College of Eastern
Virginia. As she’d told them all—very politely—as long as she had
this education, she might as well use it.

Her mother had fainted when she’d told her
she was moving to New York City. When, after Belle had waved a
vinaigrette under her nose and Mrs. Monroe had revived, she’d
proceeded to cry for three solid days. This overt demonstration of
her mother’s worry and woe had hurt Belle and made her feel guilty,
but she hadn’t felt guilty enough to change her plans.

When she’d arrived in New York City almost a
year ago, she’d instantly harbored fears that her mother had been
right, and that no proper southern lady had any business in the
raucous, noisy, crowded, smelly, and completely overwhelming cities
of the North. The clamor, rudeness, fast pace, and nasal twangs
still jarred her sensibilities on a daily basis. Belle had,
however, discovered the joys that could be attained from receiving
a regular paycheck.

Dutifully, she sent most of her earnings
home to Blissborough, knowing that her family needed the money. As
for herself, she kept a little pin money, but the kindhearted
Richmonds gave her room and board.

All in all, Belle had few complaints about
her life in the north. If she occasionally missed the refined
manners and soft speech of her Georgia home, she assuaged the ache
of homesickness by writing letters to her relations and in reading
the letters she received from home. She read a lot of books, too,
since the Richmonds were a literary family, and went to the public
library regularly.

Belle had known all her life that her
mother, a romantically inclined lady with a swooning disposition,
had named her after a character in Mr. Scott’s famous novel,
Ivanhoe
, but Belle hadn’t had an opportunity to read the
opus until recently. After having done so, she was more glad than
ever that, as a little girl, she’d decided to go by her middle
name.

When the Richmonds had decided to go to the
World’s Columbian Exposition and had asked her if she’d be willing
to accompany them and watch the children, Belle had scarcely
believed her ears. Was she willing? Lord have mercy, she was
thrilled.

This trip to the World’s Fair in Chicago,
Illinois, was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to
Belle, and it confirmed her in the opinion that she’d been wise to
accept the position as nanny to the Richmond children. She might be
breaking with family tradition, and she might have made her mother
sad, but she knew good and well that if she’d stayed in Georgia,
she never would have seen this fantastic Exposition. Or any other
exposition, for that matter. Due to poverty and proud family
tradition, the Monroes didn’t get out much.

“Madam! I say, madam!”

So lost in happy daydreams had Belle been
that she nearly jumped out of her skin when a young man hurried up
to her, shouting. Quick as a wink, she gathered Garrett and Amalie
to her side and stood as tall as she could, brandishing her
parasol.

“Stay back!” she cried. “Oh, stay back!
Villain!”

The young man screeched to a halt and
blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

Belle’s heart was pounding like thunder and
the blood raced in her veins. Her mother had warned her about the
evils abounding in the big city. Belle had heretofore believed Mrs.
Monroe had been exaggerating. Yet, here, in the flesh, was a living
example of just the sort of dastardly beast about whom she’d been
warned. She thrust the point of her parasol at the assaulter.
“Stand back! Stand back, I say!”

The masher took a startled step back. “Say,
wait a minute, lady, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Belle didn’t believe him for a minute. Even
though he didn’t look like a masher—although what the typical
masher looked like, Belle couldn’t have said—he clearly was one.
Or, she amended conscientiously, if he wasn’t actively malignant,
he must at least be deranged. No man of breeding and principle
would shout at a complete stranger, and a lady to boot, the way
this man had done.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” Garrett’s small
voice smote her ear, and Belle stiffened her spine. It was her duty
to protect the Richmonds’ children, and she aimed to do her
duty.

“This man tried to assault us, Garrett, but
don’t fear. I shan’t let him hurt you.”

“Assault you? Hurt you!” The young man’s
eyes opened wide and he—Belle couldn’t think of a more polite word
for it—goggled at the three of them. “I don’t want to hurt you,
ma’am!”

He sounded indignant, and Belle’s temper
flared. “No? Then why did you rush up to us in that flagrant,
boisterous manner?” She kept her parasol poised, just in case. She
was beginning to think that she might have been the least little
bit precipitate in her assumption that he was out to do her and the
children harm, but she still decried his bad manners.

“Good Lord, no! For Pete’s sake!” He still
appeared indignant as he tugged his jacket into place and
straightened his cravat.

Belle frowned. In truth, he looked rather
elegant. She tried to recall if her mother had ever mentioned
elegantly clad mashers, and couldn’t. “I beg your pardon if I’ve
wronged you, sir, but you startled me.” She glanced down at the
children, who were looking on with interest. Amalie seemed worried.
She put her finger in her mouth, a habit of which Belle had been
trying to break her.

The young man sucked in a deep breath of
fair-scented air. “I ask your pardon, madam. I saw you and your
charming children walking on the Midway and was very
impressed.”

Belle tilted her head to one side and lifted
her chin. So the villain
was
a masher! She’d allowed her
parasol point to drift south until it pointed at the walkway. At
once she lifted it.

The man put his hands up. “My intentions are
honorable, ma’am! Honest! You can sheathe your weapon.” He eyed the
parasol as if he’d like to wrench it from Belle’s hands and break
it over his knee. “I only wanted to ask you a question. You and
your charming children.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out
slowly, as if he were trying to hold on to his temper.

This was ridiculous. Belle snapped, “I’m not
accustomed to being accosted on a public thoroughfare by a madman,
sir. If you have business, please state it, and let us be on our
way. If you persist in this indelicate behavior, I shall have to
call for help.” There. Let him do anything to her now.

“Oh, for Christ’s . . .” The young man,
realizing he’d offended Belle with his blasphemy, retreated a pace,
both physically and verbally. “That is to say, my name is Win
Asher, Mr. Winslow G. Asher, ma’am, and I’m the official
photographer for the World’s Columbian Exposition. When I saw you
and your children—your charming children—walking on the Midway, it
occurred to me that the three of you would make an enchanting
photograph.”

Belle stared at the young man and blinked.
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure she believed
him.

Plainly he sensed her doubt because he stood
aside and, with a sweeping gesture, drew her attention to his
photographic booth. Belle read the gilt sign hanging over the
entrance: Asher’s. In smaller black print, beneath the name of the
shop, were the words,
Official Photographer of the World’s
Columbian Exposition
. A stout woman stood at the door frowning
at him. Belle thought she detected sounds of a whining infant
issuing from behind the woman. The noise was unpleasant, and she
spared a moment to be glad neither of the Richmond children was
inclined to whine.

She cleared her throat. It didn’t help,
since she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You see, I’m neither a madman nor a
villain, madam. I am, in truth, a portrait artist. My medium is the
camera and my canvas is film. I took one look at you and your
children—”

He paused, and Belle expected him to amend
his sentence by adding a clause featuring the word charming, but he
didn’t. “—I took one look at you and your children and immediately
envisioned the three of you as a study.”

“A study?” Whatever did that mean?

He waved his arms in another extravagant
gesture. Belle didn’t approve of such broad gestures. They were
ungenteel and absolutely typical of the slovenly manner prevailing
in the northern states.

He nodded. “Yes. You see, as an artistic
photographer, I like to do studies, that is to say, series of
photographs. I took one look at you and your children—your—”

“Yes,” Belle said impatiently. “I agree that
they’re charming. Please continue.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat this time. “The
notion of doing a series of photographs featuring the three of you
occurred to me when I saw you walking on the Midway.”

“Ah. I see.” She frowned and glanced down at
Garrett and Amalie. She was pleased that Amalie no longer sucked
her finger. Garrett looked as if he wanted to get on with his day
and quit yakking in the middle of the Midway. Belle understood his
point of view.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” the young
man—she supposed she should begin thinking of him as Mr.
Asher—said. “But I didn’t want you to get away before I had a
chance to talk to you about my—my—vision.”

Eyeing him from the corner of her eye, Belle
thought she detected a hint of embarrassment in his demeanor, as if
he wasn’t comfortable talking about visions. “I see.”

“So, will you visit my shop and talk to me
about it? Please? I have a customer in there, waiting for me.” He
grimaced and added, “The dratted boy won’t sit still. Every time I
get under the cloth, he starts to squirm. But I’ll try to finish up
as soon as I can so we can discuss the idea of a study.”

Amalie tugged on Belle’s hand. Smiling down
at her, Belle saw a hint of eagerness in the clear blue eyes gazing
up at her. “Do you want to have your photograph taken, Amalie?”

“Oh, yes, please!” the little girl
cried.

Belle glanced at Garrett. “And you, Garrett?
Do you think you’d like to have your likeness captured on
film?”

The little boy thought about it for a
moment. “S’long as we get to see the rest of the fair,” he said
after a judicious pause.

Mr. Asher laughed. “I’ll see to it that you
get to see the rest of the fair, young man.”