Just North of Bliss (34 page)

“Yeah,” said Garrett, scowling at his
napkin. “Who wants to see a bunch of vegetables?”

“Garrett, really.” The way Gladys looked
from her sulky boy to Belle gave Belle the impression that Belle
expected her to object.

Oh, dear, had she been neglecting her duties
of late? Her brain scrambled to remember. She didn’t think so, but
. . . “That’s perfectly fine, Gladys. I’m sure the three of us will
have a grand time.” She smiled at Amalie, who smiled back, and at
Garrett, who still looked sulky. She sighed before she could stop
herself.

“Are you sure, dear? You’re not too tired?
I, ah, stayed up, but finally went to bed before you returned to
the hotel last night.”

Ah-ha. Gladys was worried about her virtue.
As well she might be, Belle thought glumly. She smiled more
brightly yet. “Mr. Asher brought me home after we’d concluded our
business.” She’d never say what kind of business. “I suppose it was
rather late.” She was surprised when Gladys laid a hand over
hers.

“Is everything all right, Belle? I mean
between you and Mr. Asher? I, ah, don’t mean to pry, but . . .”

Instinctively, Belle turned her hand over
and squeezed Gladys’s. Gladys was such a genuinely sweet person.
And Belle knew she only had her welfare at heart. Therefore, there
was no earthly excuse for her to have felt a flash of annoyance at
Gladys’s question. “You’re too good to me, Gladys. Everything is
fine.” Deciding it would soothe Gladys’s fears a trifle if she were
to admit to a part of last night’s adventures, Belle went on to
say, “Mr. Asher has offered me a partnership in his business, as a
matter of fact.”

Belle wasn’t surprised when Gladys gazed at
her blankly. “A, um, partnership? Um . . .”

“A fifty-fifty partnership,” Belle went on
to explain. “Evidently, he believes he can market photographs of me
and make us both a good deal of money.”

“I see.” Gladys still appeared puzzled.
Belle wasn’t surprised. “Um, does this mean you’ll be leaving us?”
the older woman asked at last.

“No!”

This spontaneous eruption came from Amalie,
and Belle’s guilt skyrocketed. She squeezed Gladys’s hand again and
reached for Amalie’s. It was sticky with jam, but Belle didn’t
mind. “Good heavens, no. Er, not immediately, I mean. It all
depends on whether or not Mr. Asher’s predictions for financial
success come to pass.”

“I don’t want you to go!” Amalie wailed.

Oh, land. Belle wasn’t up to this today. She
needed sleep, not tantrums from Amalie. “I won’t go, Amalie,” she
cooed, squashing an urge to slap the child’s bustle-padded
bottom.

“My goodness,” said Gladys. She no longer
appeared bemused. In fact, she smiled at Belle. “I do hope it works
out for you, dear. You deserve so much more than to have to work as
a nanny.”

Belle told herself that she ought to have
become accustomed to Gladys’s kindly disposition by this time, but
the dear woman’s words made tears pool in her eyes. She felt stupid
and mean and deceitful, although she probably had no reason for the
latter. She’d told the most important part of the truth as it might
affect the Richmonds. Her personal life was her own affair. So to
speak. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Gladys started snuffling in reaction to
Belle’s heightened emotions. Dabbing at her eyes with her napkin,
she said, “Nonsense, Belle. You’re a lovely young lady. And I feel
as if you’ve become part of the family.”

“Mr, too! What’s wrong with being a nanny?”
Amalie demanded. “We love you, Miss Monroe!” Tears dripped down her
cheeks, too.

“Hunh,” said Garrett.

Belle’s heart felt as if it were being rent
in two. “I love being with you two, Amalie,” she said thickly. “But
I have an unusual opportunity with Mr. Asher.”

“Oh!” wailed Gladys.

Belle’s attention swerved to her. She’d
never intended to cause this degree of upset in her employer.
“What’s the matter, Gladys?” Something occurred to her, and she
gripped the table. Good God, she didn’t know something awful about
Win that Belle didn’t, did she?

Gladys gave up on her napkin and dug a
handkerchief out of her skirt pocket. “It’s nothing, dear. It’s
only that I had hoped that you and Mr. Asher would . . . Well,
never mind, Belle. I’m glad you at least have this partnership, and
I do hope it will prove profitable.”

“I don’t want you to go away,” sobbed
Amalie.

Belle eyed the child with a pinch of
disfavor, although she tried not to show it. As much as she adored
Amalie, she deplored this overt emotionalism. If the girl didn’t
watch herself, she’d end up like Belle’s mother and start swooning
every other second.

Good heavens, had she really entertained
such a disloyal thought?

Before she could decide one way or the
other, a bell boy appeared at their breakfast table, carrying a
yellow envelope on a tray. As soon as Belle spotted the boy, her
heart squeezed. Not another telegram, please God.

It didn’t please God. Rather, the boy headed
straight at her, smiling broadly. He stopped in front of Belle.
“Miss Monroe?”

Belle sighed. “Yes. I am Miss Monroe.”

The boy’s smile grew even larger. “I knew
it! I saw your picture in the paper. You’re—” He blushed brightly.
“You’re real beautiful, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Of course not.” Belle managed to produce a
smallish smile. She wanted to scream. Handing the boy a coin
hastily dug out of the reticule lying on her lap, she took the
telegram. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Miss Monroe. It’s real special,
being able to talk to you, ma’am.” He turned and rushed away, his
face glowing like a hot coal.

As Belle watched him go, an odd numbness
began to creep over her. Was this what her future held? Bell boys
worshiping her as some kind of idol of femininity? The notion
appalled her almost as much as it amused her. She? Rowena Belle
Monroe?

“How ridiculous,” she said under her
breath.

“It’s not, you know,” said Gladys.

Belle’s head snapped up. “I beg your
pardon?”

“You’re a lovely young woman, Belle. Mr.
Asher is going to make you famous.”

Belle stared at Gladys for a moment, aghast.
Yet Gladys had spoken only what Belle already knew. She heaved a
huge sigh. “You’re right, of course. I know that. I made my
decision after taking all of that into consideration.”

“What’s wrong with being famous?” Amalie
wanted to know. She’d stopped crying, thank God, and now gazed at
Belle with watery blue eyes.

Gladys smiled gently. “Yes, Belle. What’s
wrong with being a famous beauty? I’m sure most young women would
love to have the opportunity, but most of them aren’t as well
equipped to fill the role as you.”

Pressing a hand to her rapidly heating
cheek, Belle murmured, “Pshaw. But as to what’s wrong with it . . .
well, my family is terribly opposed to it for one thing.”

“Hmmm.”

“How come?” asked Amalie.

Blast the child. How could she not
understand what seemed so clear to Belle. Almost clear to Belle.
Maybe. She shook her head once in an effort to clear it. “It’s not,
um, proper to put oneself forward like that, Amalie.” Since Amalie
appeared as confused as she’d been before this explanation, Belle
hastened on. “Um, it’s also unwise to advertise oneself to the
world. Why, all sorts of miscreants and so forth might feel free to
make unwelcome overtures if they think I’m a public property. So to
speak.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Gladys sighed.

“I guess.” Amalie didn’t believe it; Belle
could tell.

“Getting back to the why’s of the matter,”
Belle said desperately, “I’m willing to endure it all for the sake
of money.” All at once, she felt like Judas Iscariot.

But the comparison was not only foolish, it
was totally unrealistic. Not to mention sacrilegious. Belle wasn’t
betraying her Savior, she was trying to help herself and her
family, Dagnabbit!

That being the case, she gave herself a hard
mental shake, picked up the yellow envelope, and ripped it open.
Frowning, she gazed at its contents. “Ha.”

“What is it, Belle? Is it bad news?”

“It’s as I expected,” Belle said, resigned
but vexed. “My family wasn’t pleased by my move to New York.
They’re claiming to be wretched now that I’m making some money by
modeling.”

Gladys appeared understandably puzzled. “Um
. . . Why?”

Belle reread the telegram.
Another
photograph today. Belle, why? Hurt. Crushed. Disappointed.
Embarrassed. Humiliated. Love, Mother.

“Beats me,” she said, handing the
communication to Gladys.

Gladys perused the telegram, and her
forehead wrinkled. She gazed at Belle for a moment. “But I thought
you sent most of your salary home to Georgia. I should think your
family would be pleased that you’re helping and thank you for it,
not send unkind telegrams berating you.”

Win’s condemnation of her family rolled
through Belle’s mind like a strip of film through a projecting
device, as she’d seen in the Machinery Hall. He’d been absolutely
right about them. Her lips pressed together tightly for a moment
before she answered Gladys’s sensible question. “They don’t like it
that my face is being publicly displayed.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Gladys
said, although she clearly didn’t understand anything of the
sort.

“That’s what they claim,” Belle went on,
feeling acrimonious and bitter. “The truth is that they don’t like
it that I’m making something of myself. They’d rather wallow in
lost glory and poverty than help themselves, and they expect me to
do likewise. If I don’t, I’m upsetting the
status quo
.”

It didn’t surprise her when Gladys’s eyes
opened wide. “Good heavens! I can’t imagine such a thing.”

Of course, she couldn’t. She was a Yankee.
She didn’t come from a family who revered its status as somebody
else’s victims like some sort of holy writ. “Old family tradition,”
she said briefly.

Gladys blinked. “Oh.”

“I don’t understand, Miss Monroe,” Amalie
piped up.

“You’re not supposed to butt into grown-up
conversations,” Garrett said piously, ruining the effect of
sainthood by shoving his sister.

“Stop it!” Amalie cried, shoving back. Belle
placed a judicious hand on each small shoulder and held the
children in place.

Smiling at Amalie, she told Garrett, “It’s
all right, Garrett. Amalie is only concerned for my happiness.”
Garrett wrinkled his nose and grimaced, which Belle figured was par
for the course. She decided there was no communicating with a
seven-year-old boy, so she turned her attention back to Amalie. “I
don’t understand, either, Amalie. It doesn’t make any sense to
me.”

“You’d think your family would be grateful
for your assistance,” Gladys said as sternly as was possible for
her. “They have no business sending mean-spirited telegrams to
you.”

“Using the money I send home to do so,”
Belle supplemented.

Gladys nodded firmly. “Exactly.” She gave
Belle’s hand one last squeeze before picking up her own napkin and
laying it on her lap. “I don’t mean to criticize, Belle, but I
don’t think your family is being quite fair to you.”

Belle heaved another sigh. “To tell you the
truth, I don’t, either.” It had taken her a long time, but Belle
was beginning to doubt her family’s soundness of heart. If anyone
were to assist her in life, for instance, she’d thank the person,
not condemn him.

Naturally, she thought of Win. He was trying
to assist her in life, and she couldn’t offhand perceive of
thanking him for it. Actually, she’d sooner leap from the
twenty-first floor of the Congress Hotel than thank him. For
anything. She decided the two situations were entirely dissimilar
and she needn’t worry about her lack of appreciation for Win at the
moment. “Will Mr. Richmond be joining us for breakfast?” she asked
in hopes of turning the conversation in another direction.

“Yes.” Gladys’s sigh echoed Belle’s. “He
went to the front desk to get his morning supply of newspapers. I
don’t understand what gentlemen find so fascinating in the business
news.”

“I don’t, either,” said Belle with a laugh.
“I rather like reading about crimes, though. It’s probably wrong of
me.”

Gladys shot her a conspiratorial grin. “I
do, too.” She sat up, gazing at the door as if something had
captured her attention. “There’s George now. And he has. . . My
goodness, is that Mr. Asher?”

Belle wished she’d had time to prepare.
Before she could stop herself, she’d turned and started to rise
from her chair. Luckily, she caught herself up. Before she’d
managed to make a complete idiot of herself, she sat again and
tried to gather her wits together.

But there he was! In the all-too-wonderful
flesh. Win Asher, looking as neat as a pin in his summer suit and
boiled shirt, chatting with George Richmond as if they were old
friends. George appeared pleased, so Belle guessed Win was a
welcome addition to the breakfast group.

“My goodness,” she said, trying to sound
casual. “It
is
Mr. Asher.” She didn’t miss Gladys’s sharp
look, and tried to deflect it with a bland expression on her own
face. It was difficult to achieve. She felt the heat creep up her
neck and into her cheeks even as she strove for serenity.

“Look who’s come to visit with us at
breakfast, Gladys,” George said jovially. Belle was glad he’d
evidently had a restful night. Sometimes George wasn’t terribly
jolly in the morning.

“How do you do, Mr. Asher?” Gladys beamed at
Win.

Win beamed back. “I’m dandy, Mrs. Richmond.
And you?”

“I’m very well, thank you.”

Taking Belle’s hand, Win bowed over it
formally, not unlike a southern gentleman at a ball—Belle
remembered the gesture well from her younger days. If he was going
to make fun of her, she’d just have to . . .