Just North of Bliss (3 page)

“
I’ll
see to it that he sees the rest
of the fair, Mr. Asher.”

“Of course.”

Belle resented it when he rolled his eyes,
as if he found her correction both superfluous and idiotic. “Let me
show you to my temporary studio here at the Exposition,” he said,
leading the way.

Although she deplored the lax manners
predominant in this part of the world, Belle merely sighed as he
took off ahead of them. Sometimes she missed the gallantry of her
southern homeland. On the other hand, she could use a rest. Her
feet hurt from walking all day. She’d promised the Richmonds that
she’d be on the Midway at lunchtime. She didn’t suppose it would
matter if she awaited their arrival in a photographer’s booth.

Besides, Belle was sure Mrs. Richmond would
be thrilled that this photographer, who called himself a portrait
artist, considered her children ideal for an entire series of
photographs. If Belle ever had children, she knew she’d be proud if
such a thing happened to them.

The quartet was met at the door of the booth
by the stout lady, who was clearly furious. “I declare, Mr. Asher,
why ever did you dart out of your booth like that?”

Belle offered the matron a friendly smile,
but didn’t get one in return, so she guided Garrett and Amalie over
to where Mr. Asher had set a chintz-covered bench underneath the
front window.

With a sigh of relief, she sat. This was a
good spot, because she could keep her attention focused on the
Midway and see the Richmonds when they arrived to join their
children and Belle for luncheon and rest her feet at the same time.
Garrett and Amalie sat on either side of her. Both children stared
at the scene being enacted in the photographer’s booth. Belle only
listened, amused, as the stout woman lectured Mr. Asher on his
manners, morals, and business practices.

The poor man was being berated by all sorts
of women today. Belle figured it was probably no more than he
deserved.

Chapter Two

Belle found her attention wandering from the
Midway to the drama being enacted in the photographer’s booth
during the next several minutes. As much as she didn’t want to,
because she didn’t approve of Mr. Asher, who had frightened her and
her charges, she began to feel a reluctant sympathy for the man.
That terrible little boy refused to sit still. It looked to Belle
as if he were taking great joy in thwarting Mr. Asher’s attempts to
photograph him, in fact.

And the boy’s equally terrible mother was
feeding her infant’s tantrums with gumdrops and baby talk. Belle
didn’t approve of her almost as much as she didn’t approve of Mr.
Asher.

As she eyed the scene, her gaze shifting
from Mr. Asher to the boy to the boy’s mama, Belle spared a moment
to feel grateful that the Richmond children were such well-behaved
tots. Nearly all of the children Belle had known in Virginia, from
the classmates with whom she’d grown up to the children she saw
every day on the streets of Blissborough, had been taught right
from wrong, not to mention how to behave in public.

Not so the victorious North. Evidently,
their victory over her beloved South had gone to their heads, and
they’d dispensed with manners as an unnecessary burden. While Belle
had not found her move to New York as ghastly as she’d feared it
might be, she did miss manners. Children couldn’t be expected to
know manners unless they were taught. And, while the Richmonds and
certain other families had the time and inclination to teach their
children how to behave, both in public and in the bosoms of their
families, many others, like the mother of that dreadful child, had
not. As she frowned at the horrid mother of the horrid boy, she
despised the woman’s defense of behavior in her child which, to
Belle was clearly indefensible.

She almost applauded when Mr. Asher finally
gave up being polite and hollered at the little monster to shut up
and sit still. As the boy’s mother spluttered and fussed and her
face turned from a flushed pink to a brilliant red, Mr. Asher
darted under his black curtain and took the picture.

Garrett and Amalie, who had been looking out
the window in search of their parents, both burst into giggles when
the flash went off. Belle held out her hands to them, eager to be
of comfort if either child was frightened by the minor
explosion.

But the Richmond children weren’t scared. It
was the boy whose picture had been taken who broke out into bellows
of fright. Belle had to cover her ears. Fortunately, the worst of
the child’s shrieks paled into sobs of distress after a very few
moments. Belle heaved a sigh of relief and uncovered her ears.

“Why is that boy crying?” Amalie wanted to
know.

“I suppose because he was frightened of the
flash.” Belle noticed her tone of voice was hard and censorious,
and believed she ought to sweeten it up some.

Amalie scowled. “That boy isn’t being very
good, is he?”

“No, he certainly is not.” Belle
sniffed.

“Aw, he’s a sissy,” declared Garrett.

Belle smiled at the boy, wanting to agree
with him, even as she attempted to moderate her feelings. She knew
it was her place to teach the little Richmonds how to get along
with others. “I expect he was startled by the flash, Garrett.”

Garrett huffed as though he thought the boy
ought to be able to have his photograph taken without crying about
it. Belle agreed, although she would never say so.

“Is that going to happen when Mr. Asher
takes out photographs?”

Belle noticed that Garrett looked more eager
than apprehensive. Unsurprising, in her opinion, since most of the
males of her acquaintance would gleefully dash headfirst into
danger if given the opportunity. “Indeed it is, Garrett.”

“Good. I want to see how he makes that
explosion.” Garrett settled back on the bench, less fidgety than
he’d been when they’d first entered the booth.

“It’s funny,” opined Amalie, who gazed at
the camera with interest. “Why’d it explode, Miss Monroe?”

“I believe it was the flash powder Mr. Asher
used that exploded, dear. The explosion creates enough light for
the camera to operate.” Belle hoped she was right about that. Since
she’d moved to New York, she’d discovered there were tons of things
she didn’t know. Oh, she was a whiz at reading, could write
ten-page epistles at the drop of a hat, could play the pianoforte
and sing, and knew enough math to keep the family books in order.
But proper southern ladies in Belle’s family weren’t expected to
have a vast knowledge of how the things of the world worked. Such
knowledge had been considered the province of the men in Belle’s
world.

“I want to have my photograph taken,” Amalie
said in a decided tone.

“That’s good dear, because Mr. Asher wants
to take your photograph.”

“I want to learn how to take photographs,”
declared Garrett.

Again, Belle wasn’t surprised. Little boys
were always interested in how things worked. Another reason Belle
enjoyed working for the Richmonds was that, except for their
abominable accents, tendency toward loud speech, and somewhat
forward social manners, the children conformed to Belle’s own ideas
of what the roles of boys and girls should be.

Garrett, for instance, was eager to explore
the workings of Mr. Asher’s camera, while Amalie wanted to have her
own likeness captured by the same instrument. Such attitudes were
well within Belle’s boundaries of social comfort. As long as she
remained in the care of her new family, she believed she could
cope. When thrust onto the mean streets of New York City, as when
she went on shopping expeditions to the fish market, the clothing
district, or the theater, Belle suffered internal spasms of
discomfort.

Fortunately, the World’s Columbian
Exposition was so far removed from anyone’s normal, everyday life
that Belle knew herself to be on a level with the rest of the
population of the United States, North or South. Nobody in the
entire world was accustomed to the excitement and novelty of this
fair.

“Mr. Asher, I’m stunned,
stunned
that
my child should be subjected to such vile treatment.”

Belle watched the bratty boy’s mother stomp
up to Mr. Asher and suddenly felt sorry for the photographer.
Although she would never, under normal circumstances, insert
herself into a conversation unless she was invited to do so, she
was in northern territory now and found herself reacting as if she
belonged there. She rose from the bench before the window. Leaning
over and patting Garrett’s shoulder and Amalie’s knee, she said,
“I’ll be right back, children. Stay right here for a little minute
and keep watching for your mama and papa.”

She didn’t wait around to hear the Richmond
children’s response to her command, but walked over to stand beside
Mr. Asher. Belle’s posture was excellent at all times, and she knew
she possessed a certain presence. Her entire childhood education
had centered around how she presented herself to the world.
Therefore, she was not surprised when the large woman stopped
yelling at Mr. Asher and stared at her, her eyes bulging, her
cheeks deepening to a ripe burgundy, and her several chins
quivering. The woman’s child still wailed in the background.

“If I may say so, ma’am, I believe you owe
Mr. Asher an apology. I’ve been watching your son deliberately
misbehave for a quarter of an hour now, and I believe Mr. Asher was
completely justified in telling the child to sit still and be
quiet.”

Suddenly Belle’s insides went hot. Good
gracious, was the North really affecting her this much? So much
that she’d actually butt into a conversation that had nothing to do
with her? Since that’s exactly what she’d just done, she guessed
so. Belle hoped her parents would never learn about this.

The boy’s mother stiffened up like one of
her uncle Luther’s black-and-tan coon hounds catching a scent. Her
enormous bosom pointed straight at Belle, which was rather
disconcerting to Belle, who wasn’t accustomed to actively
irritating other people. She felt shaky all at once, and her tongue
went so dry it felt like a desert inside her mouth.

“Young woman, I must say that I—”

Mr. Asher interrupted. Belle didn’t approve,
although she was glad that he was leaping to her rescue. After all,
she’d leaped to his. Still, it always surprised her when a Yankee
did something right.

“Mrs. Wiggles, I’m very sorry—”

The large woman gasped, her eyes bulged
alarmingly, and her cheek color deepened to a plummy purple. Belle
experienced a spike of fear and worried that she’d antagonized the
woman into a fit of apoplexy.

“What did you call me, young man?” the woman
demanded.

Relief washed through Belle when she
realized she hadn’t been the cause of the woman’s increased
fury.

Mr. Asher shut his eyes for a second and
passed a hand over his brow. The boy whose photograph had been
taken evidently decided people weren’t paying enough attention to
him, because he resumed bellowing from in front of the pretty
backdrop Mr. Asher had set up. Belle frowned at the boy, hoping to
convey her disapprobation at his conduct, but his eyes were
squeezed shut, almost getting lost in his red, fleshy face. Belle
couldn’t recall ever seeing so unattractive a child and mother.
Small wonder Mr. Asher had been pleased when he’d seen the Richmond
children walking on the Midway.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” Mr. Asher began,
but the woman cut him off.

“I must say, Mr. Asher, that I expected a
more professional experience with the official photographer of the
World’s Columbian Exposition.”

The woman’s color began to recede, and
Belle’s fear that she aimed to drop dead in Mr. Asher’s booth
receded with it. For some reason beyond her ken, she again felt
compelled to jump to Mr. Asher’s defense. “Really, ma’am. I don’t
think you’re being fair. Your little boy was behaving in an
extremely naughty manner, and you were doing nothing to correct his
behavior.”

Belle almost wished she’d kept her mouth
shut when the woman rounded on her. Belle held her ground. She was
not a native of the great state of Georgia for nothing. She knew
her place in the world, and it was at the very top of the heap.

“How dare you!”

“Really, madam, I know most mothers consider
their offspring perfect, but I was watching, and your boy
misbehaved abominably. What’s more, he did it on purpose. Anyone
but you would acknowledge that.”

“I have never—”

Mr. Asher interrupted. Irked, Belle turned
to frown at him. So did the boy’s mother. “Ladies, please. I beg
your pardon for mispronouncing your name, ma’am. Will you please
wait by the window ma’am?”

He’d directed the last sentence to her,
Belle realized with a shock. Well! She never! Trust a Yankee to
treat a person who was trying to help him with such ingratitude.
She snapped, “Certainly,” and took herself off to the window with a
deliberate flounce.

“Do you think that lady’s crazy, Miss
Monroe?” Garrett asked in a grating whisper.

“I don’t know, Garrett,” Belle said stiffly.
She knew she should have said no, but she was too peeved at the
woman to do so.

“That boy’s sure ugly, isn’t he?”

Yes. He certainly was. “Garrett, please.
That’s an unkind thing to say.”

“But Garrett’s right,” Amalie piped up. “He
is awful ugly.”

Fudge. “Perhaps,” Belle granted, “but one
shouldn’t say such things, dear. They’re impolite and hurtful.”

“His hollering is hurtful, too,” Garrett
pointed out grimly.

True, true. Still, Belle knew that two
wrongs didn’t make a right, and she didn’t think it was her place
to encourage the Richmond children in their denigration of that
revolting mother and child. “Let’s demonstrate to him the proper
way to behave, shall we?”

Although Garrett rolled his eyes, which was
his customary reaction to Belle’s attempts to instill southern
manners into his northern soul, Amalie wriggled back on the bench
and folded her hands in her lap. Belle was ever so fond of Amalie.
She was fond of Garrett, too, but Amalie was the more compliant of
the two.