Just North of Bliss (4 page)

She and the Richmond children watched the
remains of the drama going forth before them in silence. The fat
woman marched over to her roaring child and picked him up. Belle
noted with disgust that she offered the offensive child another
sweet to make him keep quiet. Belle’s opinion was that a quick swat
on the monster’s rear end would probably straighten out the
problems in his head more quickly than bribes of sweets. She’d been
rebuffed once, however, and didn’t intend to offer any more
suggestions. These northerners had no sense at all when it came to
rearing children.

Well, except for the Richmonds, who were an
exceptionally sensible family and would fit right in if they chose
to move to Georgia. Except for their accents. And a tendency to be
rather noisy. And that trace of independence that often took Belle
aback when she encountered it in Mrs. Richmond. And Mr. Richmond
was, perhaps a trifle too hearty from time to time. Belle, having
grown up with peaceful drawls in men and dulcet tones in women,
still couldn’t reconcile herself to the harsh Yankee twang.

“The plates will be ready on Wednesday,
ma’am,” Mr. Asher said. “Will you be in then?”

The woman snorted. “I shall have to discuss
the matter with my husband, Mr. Asher. I’m not sure I care to do
business with a man who is cruel to children.” She plopped her
child, whom she’d been coddling and cooing to in baby talk, on the
floor. the boy squeaked in surprise, then renewed his bellows of
fury.

Again, Belle thought the judicious
application of a paddle would do more good than the woman’s tactic,
which was to hand him another sweet. “There, there, sweetums. Mama
will take you to get a hamburger. Will sweetums like that?”

Although the boy didn’t stop yelling, he
nodded. The woman cast one last disapproving glance at Mr. Asher
and marched out of his shop.

Belle wasn’t surprised when Mr. Asher pulled
a big handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his brow when the
door closed behind the mother and child. To Belle, who watched the
boy and his mother waddle up the Midway, the woman looked like a
battleship under full steam from the back, and her son reminded
Belle of a little round tugboat. She was glad to see the last of
them both. They epitomized everything Belle deplored about the
North.

After breathing deeply for a moment or two,
undoubtedly in an effort to recover from his recent unhappy
encounter, Mr. Asher turned and gave Belle and her charges an
extensive once-over. Belle lifted her chin. She didn’t care to be
scrutinized like a cut of beef, as if he were trying to decide how
best to roast, bake, or fricassee her.

He heaved a deep sigh. “I’m sorry about
that, ma’am. Some mothers have no notion about how to make their
children behave properly.”

His brilliant smile took some of the starch
out of Belle’s sails. She’d meant to be cold to him, since he’d
sent her packing after she’d rushed to his defense, but that smile
made the ice inside her melt and it set odd, warm tingles to
vibrating in her midsection. It also coaxed a smile from her.
“You’re right about that, Mr. Asher.”

“That kid was real bratty,” Garrett said,
adding his two cents without being asked. Belle didn’t think she’d
ever get used to the way children assumed they were welcome to
intrude into adult conversations as they did in the North.

“He sure was,” Mr. Asher said, grinning at
Garrett.

“Oh, look!” Amalie cried suddenly, startling
Belle. “There’s Mama!” She jumped down from the bench and raced to
the door.

“Amalie, wait just a moment!” Belle called
after her.

But Amalie was gone. Belle heard her shout,
“Mama! Papa!” as she grabbed Garrett’s hand and hurried after her.
Garrett held back, evidently more interested in pursuing the
fascinating subject of photography than in his parents, but Belle
persisted.

Win Asher stared after the trio, scratching
his head, and with a strange, sinking sensation in his middle. Had
that little girl cried out “Mama!” upon spying that well-dressed
couple on the Midway? Striding to the door and squinting at the
reunion that was taking place a few yards off, he uttered a soft,
“Damnation.”

He remained only slightly daunted, however.
Win Asher was accustomed to reaching out and taking what he wanted
from life and of wrestling it into submission if it didn’t oblige
him of its own accord. Therefore, he followed Belle and Garrett out
of his booth and up to the couple on the Midway.

“Papa,” Garrett was saying when Win
approached, “that nice Mr. Asher wants to take photographs of me
and Amalie!”

“Amalie and me,” Belle correctly softly.

Garrett didn’t even roll his eyes, but
instantly repeated, “Amalie and me, I mean.”

Win assumed from the brief dialogue that
Garrett and the woman he had assumed to be his mother were
accustomed to such interchanges. From this, he gathered that the
woman was some sort of employee. A governess or nursemaid,
perhaps.

“Really, Garrett?” The woman Win now deduced
to be the mother of the two children had lifted her daughter in her
arms and smiled at her progeny. The father of the pair, a
wealthy-looking, self-satisfied sort of fellow of a type with which
Win was well acquainted, beamed down at his son and heir, then
glanced up to see Win walking over to the family.

The father disengaged himself from the
portrait of familial reconciliation and took a couple of steps
toward Win. He held out his hand. “How do you do—Mr. Asher, is it?
I understand from my son that you’ve been entertaining my
children.”

“I don’t know about the entertaining part,”
Win said with a laugh as he shook the man’s hand. “But, yes, my
name is Winslow Asher, and I’m the official photographer of the
World’s Columbian Exposition.” Win had fought long and hard and had
won the title over hundreds of other aspiring photographers. Thanks
to a good deal of brashness, loads of talent, and oodles of
self-promotion, he’d succeeded where the others had failed, and he
never let an occasion slide by without mentioning his status. He
aimed to make a lot of money with it.

“George Richmond,” the father said,
returning Win’s hearty handshake. “You’ve met my children, Garrett
and Amalie and, I presume, the children’s nanny, Miss Belle
Monroe.”

Belle sniffed. “We haven’t been properly
introduced.” She held out a small gloved hand. “How do you do, Mr.
Asher?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” He shook her hand and
wondered if she were the perfect embodiment of true American
womanhood after all. She seemed a little prissy at the moment.

“He wants to take photographs of us, Mama,”
Amalie said happily. “He thinks Garrett and me are charming.”

“Garrett and I,” Miss Monroe muttered, as if
she didn’t expect her correction to take hold and stick.

Nevertheless, Amalie parroted, “Garrett and
I, I mean.”

“Is that so?” said Mrs. Richmond.

She smiled with interest at Win, and Win
took heart. While she didn’t come anywhere close to the image he’d
created in his mind’s eye of the female subject in the series of
photographs he’d envisioned, he might be able to talk her around to
lending him her children. And her children’s nanny.

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Richmond.” Win gave her
one of his best professional smiles. “I’d love to talk to you about
it, if you’d care to come with me to my temporary photographic
studio.” He waved toward his booth.

Mrs. Richmond looked doubtfully from Win to
her husband. “Well, I don’t know. I’d love to have portraits taken
of my children, but. . .”

Mr. Richmond took over from there. “We’ve
just come from a concert conducted by Mr. John Philip Sousa, Mr.
Asher. It was a splendid concert. Then we took in the grand
inventions to be seen in the Machinery Hall.” He shook his head in
a gesture meant, Win imagined, to convey Mr. Richmond’s sense of
awe and admiration. “The American genius is well represented there,
let me tell you.”

“Indeed, it is,” Win concurred. “I’ve taken
many photographs of the exhibits in the Machinery Hall. You’ve
probably seen them in newspapers here and there.” Not to mention
periodicals, fair brochures, posters, books, and publicity flyers.
Win was
so
proud of himself and his own
brand of American ingenuity.

“I’m certain we’ve seen them,” Mr. Richmond
assured him. “We’re from New York City, and there have been many
photographs reproduced in the Times.”

Win didn’t even try to suppress a cocky
grin. “Yes, indeedy. I’ve sold several photographs to the
Times.”

“We were about to have luncheon at the
Mexican Cantina,” Mr. Richmond said. “Why don’t you join us, Mr.
Asher? Perhaps we can discuss the matter of photographs of our
children over luncheon.”

“Sounds great,” said Win. “Let me just lock
up.”

They’d been walking in a desultory manner
toward his booth. Win dashed inside and gabbed the jacket he’d
taken off while he’d struggled with Mr. Wiggles, shrugged it on,
and locked his door. “The Columbian Guards keep a vigilant eye on
all of the booths in the Fair, but I don’t want to take chances
with my expensive camera equipment.”

“No, indeed,” concurred Mr. Richmond.

Mrs. Richmond set her daughter down on the
Midway and wiped her brow with a handkerchief pulled from her small
reticule. Miss Monroe, Win noticed, took Amalie’s hand as if she
wanted to make sure the child didn’t wander off. Personally, Win
didn’t imagine she had much to worry about in that regard. The
Richmond girl seemed complacent and obliging to him, and not at all
the type to get herself lost. The boy was another matter. In fact,
Garrett Richmond reminded Win of himself at that age, and he
decided it wouldn’t hurt to play up that angle.

With a wink, he said, “Want me to teach you
the rudiments of photography, Garrett?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” the boy cried. “Please!”

Win held out an arm, and Garrett obediently
hurried to his side. “If your mama and papa agree, I’ll be happy to
do that, Garrett. Photography is one of the marvels of our time.
Why, just imagine being able to capture images of real people and
real events for all time.”

“Yeah,” Garrett murmured in clear
wonderment. “Before cameras, I guess people had to draw stuff that
happened.”

Win chuckled. “I guess they did. And
people’s memories aren’t as accurate as cameras.”

“I suppose not.”

“If Sitting Bull had had had a camera at the
Little Big Horn, he could have taken a picture of Custer’s Last
Stand,” Amalie said brightly. “And then we’d really know what
happened instead of having to look at that picture the Indian
gentleman drew afterwards or watch it in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.”
She added pensively, “I loved the Wild West. I wish we could see it
again.”

“Amalie,” muttered Miss Monroe in a shocked
voice. “Really.”

Although he didn’t want to engender Miss
Monroe’s enmity, since he figured he might need her good will if
his plan was to succeed, Win couldn’t help but send her a slightly
sour glance. “But she
is
right, Miss Monroe. You must admit
it.”

The look she gave him back pretty much told
him to make her admit it if he dared. Win decided that, while a
tussle with the pretty Miss Monroe might be fun if she possessed a
more friendly disposition, he’d be better off dropping the subject
of Custer and Sitting Bull.

Fortunately for them both, Mr. Richmond
intervened at that point. If Win was correct about the gentleman,
he rarely paid attention to his family except when showing them off
or taking them to various interesting places. Win recognized the
breed. Mr. Richmond’s attitude was fairly universal in this last
great decade of the nineteenth century.

Win’s own family didn’t fit this mold of
patriarchal indifference. His own father was a physician, and Dr.
Asher paid a lot of affectionate attention to his children of both
sexes. Win loved him dearly for it. Both Win’s brother Carlton and
his sister Victoria were physicians, although it had taken a great
deal of applied pressure to get Victoria admitted to medical
school. She’d ultimately attained her doctorate in France, where
more enlightened attitudes toward female physicians prevailed. Win
himself had begun a course in medical training, but his interest in
photography had subsumed his interest in medicine during his second
year in medical school.

Although Win had accumulated enough reasons
to appreciate his mother and father before this episode in his
life, his profound appreciation of them was solidified when they
supported his decision to leave school and enter into photography
as a profession. It was perhaps more for his parents’ sake than his
own that he’d worked so hard to become successful in an enterprise
that must have looked like a chancy one, at best, to his parents
when he’d first started out.

Now, as he strode along the Midway Plaisance
and glanced around at all the marvels on display, he felt on top of
the world. Already his reputation as a splendid and artistic
photographer had spread. If he could talk the Richmonds into
letting him borrow their children and nanny for a series of
photographs, Win knew he’d become famous. He felt it in his gut,
and his gut had never yet lied to him.

He cast occasional glances at Miss Monroe as
he walked. She seemed more stiff than she’d been when he’d first
glimpsed her among the crowd of fair goers, and when she shot him a
glance once, she instantly averted her gaze. It was as if she
didn’t like him, which was stupid. She didn’t even know him. She
did seem to disapprove of him, however. Maybe she was still holding
his precipitate entry into her life against him. Maybe she was just
a fussy prude. That would be a disappointment, but Win could stand
it. He didn’t want her for herself; he wanted her for her face and
body. He wondered what her first name was.