Just North of Bliss (14 page)

Men
, thought Belle with unaccustomed
cynicism.
Rulers of the Universe and kings of the world. In
their minds, at least
. Belle was no feminist revolutionary or
women’s suffrage marcher, but she sometimes got really sick of men
always wanting to make decisions for her.

Needless to say, she didn’t show her
displeasure. She merely smiled, set Amalie down again, wiped the
child’s cheeks of nonexistent tears, tidied Garrett up as much as
was possible, put on her own hat, and stood by, waiting for
everyone else to direct her day for her.

Chapter Seven

“It’s like this,” Win said after he’d
swallowed a bite of hamburger. “People keep interrupting me all day
long in the booth. If we could make some kind of arrangement so
that Miss Monroe and the children could sit for me in the evening,
we might have better luck. I’m sure the process would be less
time-consuming and frustrating for everyone.”

He anticipated hours of objection from
Belle, so he turned at her and smiled. “Miss Monroe can confirm
that I wasn’t even able to set up the lights today without constant
interruptions.” She tossed him a sour glance, but he knew good and
well she couldn’t deny his claim.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s so, although I
don’t believe it would be wise to visit your booth at night, Mr.
Asher.”

“Why not?” he asked, keeping his tone
reasonable. “I don’t have nearly as much business at night. I’ll
bring an easy chair from home so that if Mrs. Richmond comes along,
she’ll be comfortable while we’re working.”

It looked to him as thought Belle would have
liked to batter him with something hard and heavy, but she didn’t
say anything. Hell, why should she? He was being perfectly
reasonable.

Mrs. Richmond still appeared harassed. Win
guessed she didn’t ordinarily have to deal with her children
without Belle along. A snippet of respect for Belle and her ability
with children gave him pause for a moment. Then he decided that
respecting her didn’t mean anything but that the photographs he
planned would reflect her way with kids and, therefore, be even
more charming than he already envisioned they would be. He felt
better when that thought occurred to him, since it didn’t mean he
was beginning to
like
her.

She was too stiff-necked, prudish, silly,
and—well—Southern, for Win to like her. That silly accent of hers
was enough to drive a man mad, and her constantly harping about the
Civil War was just plain nuts.

“I think that would be fine, Mr. Asher,”
Gladys said at last, after gazing at her husband, children, and
Belle for several seconds. “Would you mind terribly, Belle?”

Peering at Belle from the corner of his eye,
Win knew she’d mind. Nevertheless, she said merely, “Um, no. I
don’t think so, thank you.” The murderous glance she cast at Win
patently denied her words.

That was hunky-dory with Win. He didn’t care
if she minded or not, as long as she cooperated. “We’ll start
tomorrow evening, if that’s all right with you folks.” Win believed
in grasping opportunities when they presented themselves. He didn’t
want Belle or the Richmonds to have time for second thoughts.

“Certainly.”

Now that he had a hamburger under his belt,
George looked much happier than he had before lunch. Win decided to
keep that interesting aspect of human psychology in mind. Perhaps
Belle would react more pleasantly to his scheme if he fed her now
and then.

# # #

As much as she hated to admit it to
herself—she’d never admit it to Win Asher—Belle didn’t really mind
posing with the children the next evening after supper. As he
requested Belle and Amalie and Garrett to assume various poses,
they did as he asked, and Belle’s sensibilities remained unruffled.
Win worked quickly, taking plate after plate in the manner of a
true professional. Well, Belle reflected, he
was
a
professional. It was fascinating to watch him work. He knew what he
was doing, for a certainty.

He posed Amalie and Garrett sitting on the
arms of an overstuffed easy chair as Belle ostensibly read to them,
and took a picture of it. Belle didn’t approve of children
reclining on the arms of chairs, but she had to admit it probably
made a fetching picture. He’d lugged the heavy chair up onto his
platform with more ease than grace, impressing Belle with his
physical strength.

He took a photograph of Belle showing Amalie
something in the distance, which pose entailed her standing in one
of his famous three-quarter poses with a hand around Amalie’s
shoulder and pointing. Belle deplored pointing, but she didn’t
object, sensing she would only appear ridiculous if she did.

He took a photograph of Belle welcoming
Garrett home from a baseball game. Win had mussed Garrett’s hair
and had the boy pull out his shirt tails, rumpled his shirt, handed
him a bat and a ball, and even smudged his face with soot. Garrett
didn’t mind, which didn’t surprise Belle since she knew little boys
preferred being dirty heathens whenever they could get away with
it. What did surprise her was that Gladys didn’t object. Since Win
had taken the precaution of supplying his booth with a wash stand,
basin, and pitcher, along with a piece of soap, a washcloth, and a
towel, Belle decided she wouldn’t object, either.

Besides, Garrett looked adorable with his
bat slung over his shoulder and his clothes in disarray, holding
out a baseball to his supposed mother, Belle, and grinning. Win had
also thought to supply the lad with a baseball cap, which Garrett
wore at a rakish angle over one ear, so the pose looked
authentic.

“Do you have a whole supply of costume
pieces, Mr. Asher?” she asked at one point.

Still working with his equipment, Win didn’t
even glance at her when he replied. “Have to. It’s my job.”

“Hmmm.” It didn’t escape Belle’s attention
that he was a well put-together young man. She almost wished she
hadn’t noticed. But the truth was the truth, and the truth about
Win Asher was that he didn’t have the portly bulges that, say,
George Richmond displayed. No indeed. Win was fit and trim and
muscular, and Belle appreciated the result, although she didn’t
want to.

He’d shed his coat, loosened his cravat,
discarded his celluloid collar, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and
unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt in deference to the
heat and humidity. Belle tried to find it in her heart to deplore
this display of nonchalance, but she couldn’t. She was accustomed
to heat and humidity, being from Georgia, but she’d been surprised
to find the same conditions prevailing, to a lesser degree, in
Chicago. She always dressed for the summertime in lightweight
frocks and didn’t guess she had any right to criticizing Win for
trying to achieve some level of comfort. At least he didn’t have to
contend with corsets.

Corsets were a particularly cumbersome and
uncomfortable accouterment to a lady’s wardrobe in sticky weather,
but Belle had never, not even once, considered abandoning her own.
Corsets were proper. They were
de rigueur
. They were like
hats: you couldn’t go outdoors without one. Even if they did give
one a rash on particularly sultry days.

Therefore, when after several shots taken
with her and the children, Win made a request, she didn’t
understand him at first. “Miss Monroe, you’re not going to like
this next pose, but I fear you’re going to have to loosen your
stays or take ‘em off completely, because you’re going to be
tucking your cherubs in for the night in this next photograph, and
you’re going to have to be able to bend over.”

Blinking at Win in confusion, she said, “Um,
I beg your pardon?” The man couldn’t have said
stays
. Could he? She had a sinking feeling in her
tummy that he could have, and had.

Gladys, who had been watching with
fascination from the padded bench under the window and munching on
popcorn out of a striped paper sack, said, “Do you have a place
where she can change, Mr. Asher?”

“Sure.” He pointed to the curtained-off
portion of his booth. “That’s my dressing room.” He grinned, Belle
presumed because he considered it something of a joke.

She didn’t see any humor in the situation.
After glancing down at Garrett and Amalie, who were having a
wonderful time striking odd and outlandish poses for the fun of it,
she said uncertainly, “Um, I didn’t agree to disrobe for any
photographs, Mr. Asher.”

“I’m not asking you to disrobe!” he
exclaimed, as if she’d said something scandalous. “I’m asking you
to undo your stays and step into a wrapper I bought especially for
this purpose.” He slammed his fists on his lean hips and glared at
her. “We’ve already established that you can’t bend over unless you
do as I ask. You’re not going to cause trouble about this tiny
little request, are you?”

Snatching a handkerchief out of his back
pocket, he wiped his brow. Only then did Belle realize that he was
perspiring heavily, as if he were under great strain or had been
working hard. Until this moment, she hadn’t considered how deep
concentration on a photographic problem might be considered
work.

Belle didn’t want to start an argument with
him, at least not with the children and Gladys present. She cast a
beseeching glance at Gladys, who shrugged. “I’m here, Belle. I
don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Why would you worry about anything, Miss
Monroe?” Amalie, who had twisted herself up like a pretzel,
asked.

Belle felt her cheeks get hot. “No reason,
dear,” she said under her breath.

“Mr. Asher’s nice, Miss Monroe,” Garrett
explained helpfully. He was, at present, striking a soldierly pose,
and trying his best to look noble. “He won’t do nothing bad to
you.”

“Anything,” Belle said automatically before
she realized the intent of Garrett’s speech.

“Garrett!” This time it was Gladys who
blushed.

Wholly embarrassed by this time, Belle said,
“Thank you, Garrett. I never thought for a minute that he
would.”

“Hmmm,” said Win, clearly unconvinced.

Feeling outnumbered and overwhelmed, Belle
capitulated with as much grace as she could drum up, which wasn’t
much. “Very well.” She sighed heavily. “The wrapper is back there?”
She jerked her chin toward the curtained portion his booth. She
might be willing to point for a job, but she wouldn’t deny her
breeding and do so for real.

He nodded. “Yes. And I felt like an idiot
buying the thing, too, by the way.” He sounded resentful. “I’m a
single man, after all. I’ve never bought ladies’ wear before. It
was embarrassing.”

“Not as embarrassing as this will be,” Belle
muttered as she stepped down from the platform and marched to the
curtain. It was the first time in her life she could relate,
however slightly, to those poor folks who’d been led to the
guillotine in tumbrils.

The curtain hooks made a scraping noise when
she yanked the curtain aside and looked around. Yes, indeedy. There
it was: A wrapper. Thrown onto a chaise longue which, Belle
presumed, people posed on from time to time. She was glad when she
picked the garment up and discovered that it was both voluminous
and of a thickly patterned fabric; she’d feared Win might have
selected a sheer item that she’d have had to refuse to wear. That
would have been even more embarrassing than having to listen to him
talk about stays and changing clothes.

Sighing heavily, she unbuttoned her
shirtwaist, glad she’d considered the evening’s agenda as she’d
dressed earlier in the day. She’d never have been able to get out
of a couple of the garments she wore on Sunday, for instance. Not
by herself.

With a frown, she considered her corset.
Hmmm. Generally speaking, Belle didn’t need assistance in dressing.
Knowing she’d have no family members handy to assist her when she
moved from Georgia to New York, she’d altered her clothes so that
she could don them and doff them by herself. However, she hadn’t
thought to bring a button hook along with her today. She jumped and
emitted a gasp of alarm when the curtain rod behind her made the
scraping sound indicative of the curtain being moved. Holding her
shirtwaist up to cover her bosom, she relaxed when she saw Gladys’s
face peeking at her from behind the curtain.

“It’s only I, Belle. I thought you might
need some help.”

“Thank you very much.” Belle breathed more
easily when she realized the kind woman had understood she might be
uncertain and uncomfortable and wanted to ease her discomfort. She
breathed even more easily when Gladys unlaced her corset at the
back and the garment fell away. Belle sucked in a huge breath and
murmured, “Ah.”

“I understand that tightly laced corsets can
be unhealthy, Belle,” Gladys said in a woman-to-woman voice she
might use to a friend. “Perhaps you oughtn’t lace yours so
tightly.”

Belle stared at her, and Gladys reddened
once more. “I’m not criticizing, dear. I’m only interested in your
health. I read about corsets in
McCall’s Magazine.
Health-conscious people are recommending we not lace them as
tightly as our mothers used to do.”

“Thank you.” Belle was pleased to note that
the chill she felt inside hadn’t leeched into her voice.

Gladys flapped a hand in the air. “Oh, dear,
I’ve offended you. I’m sorry, Belle. It’s none of my business how
you dress. And you always look neat and tidy and perfect. It’s only
that you might be able to breathe more easily if you didn’t lace
yourself so tightly.” She gave a short, artificial-sounding laugh.
“I understand that ladies who lace their corsets tightly are more
apt to faint than those who don’t. I should think caring for
children would require a good deal of breath.” Frowning slightly,
she added, “I thought I’d die yesterday when I had to keep Amalie
and Garrett under control for a whole morning.”