Just North of Bliss (37 page)

Belle could only stare. The mere thought of
getting into one of those monstrous, noisy, smelly machines, such
as she’d seen in the Transportation Building, made her feel
sickish.

But Win was becoming enraptured by his own
words. He shook his head in a gesture that Belle identified as awed
anticipation. “I can see it all, Belle. God, that would be great. I
can’t wait until they get to producing motorized carriages. What a
great day that will be for the transportation business. And for us,
the American public. I can feel the wind in my hair as I sit
here.”

“Can you?” All Belle felt was sick.

Win jumped up from his chair and started to
pace. “You bet! Why, if anyone ever starts to produce those babies,
you can bet I’ll be first in line to buy one. Just imagine it,
Belle.”

Belle imagined it; she imagined one of those
demonic machines crashing into cows and trees and ditches and
walls. With her in it. She shuddered.

Fortunately, Win didn’t notice or he’d have
said something cutting, she was sure. “Golly, Belle, we could motor
to the West! We could see California!”

“What’s in California?”

“Trees! Gold! Oranges! The ocean!”

“There’s an ocean to the east as well,” she
pointed out. “And all we have to do is take a short train ride to
get there.”

“Pooh! The automated, motorized horseless
carriage will be a boon to mankind.”

But not womankind. Belle almost said it
aloud, but caught herself in time. Rather, she said, “Oh.” She had
a faint recollection of one of her brothers harboring sentiments
similar to Win’s about motorized carriages. Was this what the
Twentieth Century would bring? Motorized carriages, smoke, noise,
and horrid, bloody crashes? Would America one day be covered with
the things? Like ants? Her heart quailed at the thought.

Because she truly did have a commitment with
the Richmonds that evening, Belle said, “I’d better finish reading
this thing. Not that it will do me much good, since I don’t
understand half of it.”

Win stopped pacing and returned to his
chair. His buoyant mood had collapsed when Belle brought up the
contract and he was compelled to stop thinking about motorcars.
“Right.”

Silence prevailed as Belle tried to read and
Win stared at her. He made her nervous, not a little because his
expression was so strange. He looked as if he were hurt, and there
was absolutely no reason for that. She was the one who’d been taken
advantage of.

Of course, if he loved her as she loved him,
that wouldn’t be so, and she might even have understood why her
attitude of coolness this evening had initiated a little
sensitivity. But she’d been a fool, and he’d been a Yankee, and the
notion of him possessing so much as a pinch of sensitivity would be
laughable if Belle believed she’d ever laugh again. She didn’t. Now
she had to bear the consequences of her foolishness.

The only good aspect of this scenario was
that she had come to a better understanding of her family. No
longer could they make her feel guilty for trying to better
herself. She regretted their pain, but they weren’t being fair, and
Belle knew it for a fact. She would honor and cherish them always,
and she would try her best to be a good daughter and sibling, but
she no longer felt compelled to abandon her career and return to
Blissborough. They weren’t being fair to her, and while she would
continue to try not to resent their attitude, she would not take
them to task for it. Rather, she would continue to do her job, send
money home, and hope that one day, they’d be able to forgive her
for breaking with family tradition.

After she read the last word of the
contract, not understanding one sentence out of ten, she said,
“This looks all right to me.” She prayed she wasn’t making another
monumental mistake. Another monumental mistake.

“I’ll get a pen.”

“Thank you.” She glanced over the document
once more, wishing she didn’t have to sign it. She wasn’t used to
signing things. Signing things seemed so masculine and official and
unladylike. Stiffening her spine, she reminded herself that she was
a business woman now and would have to start being hardheaded
someday. The sooner, the better.

“So, can you come here tomorrow night,
Belle? I want to get started on a series of photographs I’m sure
will make us a bundle.”

“Certainly.” A bundle was good, wasn’t it?
Even her family couldn’t whine too much if Belle sent them a big
hunk out of a bundle.

She took the pen Win produced and waited
until he’d uncorked the ink bottle. Then, as delicately as possible
so as not to get ink spots on her gown, she dipped the pen in the
bottle, sucked in a deep breath, and signed her name on the line
specified. Win watched with interest.

“Oh, that’s right. Your first name’s Rowena,
isn’t it? I’d forgotten.”

“Yes. I’ve always preferred to be called
Belle. My mother adored Sir Walter Scott’s book,
Ivanhoe
.”

“I had to read
Ivanhoe
when I was in Miss Cavendish’s class at
school. I thought Rowena was a peach.”

Looking on the desk for a piece of blotting
paper, Belle said with some acid in her tone, “I’m sure. Most men
do. Personally, I preferred Rebecca. At least she had some
spunk.”

“Spunk,” Win said thoughtfully, handing her
a tattered piece of blotting paper. “You know, Belle, I never would
have thought of you as someone who honored spunk in a woman.”

How typical of him, Belle thought bitterly.
He never gave her credit for anything. “I’m not at all surprised by
that.” She rose from the chair, determining that her duty here was
done.

Win rose, too, rather abruptly. “Say, Belle,
I didn’t mean that as an insult. It’s only that you project the
image of a serene southern gentlewoman. Or something. I don’t know
anything about southern gentlewomen. But honestly, a fellow doesn’t
look at you and think
spunk
. If you know what I mean.”

She eyed him, aiming for frost and achieving
only tepidity. “I’m sure.”

He grabbed her hand before she could slip
her kid gloves back on. She stiffened, his touch reminding her too
vividly of the extreme intimacy they’d shared in this very booth
the night before. Oh, law’s a mercy, she wished things were
different between them! She’d like to lie in his arms for the rest
of her life, if he could only love her.

“But you are spunky, Belle. In fact, you’re
better than spunky,” he said in a pleading tone. “You’re brave and
full of—of heart.”

She wasn’t sure she trusted him. In fact,
she was pretty sure she didn’t. After all, he’d made his priorities
painfully clear earlier this same day, when he’d spoken to her of
business contracts—on the very morning after they’d made love. In
order to maintain her resolve not to falter, she said, “I’m sure
that’s very kind of you. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

He dropped her hand. “Dash it, Belle, I wish
you’d tell me what’s wrong! It’s not fair, you not talking to me
about what’s bothering you.”

Right. Indignation swelled in Belle’s bosom.
In truth, her heart felt so full, she feared her pretty topaz
brooch might just pop off her gown. In spite of her rigid control,
some of her anger leaked out. “Stop trying to act so innocent, Win
Asher! You know very well that the only reason you pretended to
want me is so that I would go along with your business scheme.
Well, I went along with it! Now leave me alone!”

She saw Win gape at her as she slammed out
of his booth, and she hated him for it. The miserable wretch! The
fiend! The . . . “Oh, my land.”

As Win’s numb, “But Belle . . .” echoed in
her ear, Belle fumbled frantically in her small brown handbag for a
handkerchief. She felt like an idiot when she climbed aboard the
northbound trolley and headed back to the Congress, because she
couldn’t stop tears from leaking from her eyes. That evening, she
found it very difficult not to snap at Amalie and Garrett while
their parents enjoyed their theatrical evening.

It was all Win’s fault, and she hated him
for it. Almost as much as she loved him.

Chapter Nineteen

It took Win at least ten minutes to stop
gawking at the space Belle had occupied. Had she actually meant the
words she’d flung at him? Did she honestly believe he’d pretended
to want her? In order to make her sign that contract?

Good God, he’d been all but trembling with
desire from the moment he’d met her. It had been pure dumb luck
that at first he’d disliked her, or he’d have made a push to bed
her much earlier. Hell, he’d have gone so far as to marry her if
he’d had to!

That thought brought him up short, and his
brain ceased whirring like a broken engine part.

Good God in heaven, would he have gone so
far as to marry Belle Monroe just to get her into bed? What an
appalling notion.

But would it have been merely to get her
into bed? The truth of the matter was that Win wasn’t sure about
that; he was unsure about a lot of things lately. Truth to tell,
marriage to Belle didn’t sound nearly as frightening as it had only
days earlier. It actually sounded rather nice. Homey.
Comfortable.

Comfortable? Having Belle scold him for
calling the Civil War the Civil War and fussing about his manners
twenty-four hours a day for the rest of his life?

Clearly, he was losing his mind.

He sat with a thump on the padded bench he’d
so often seen Belle sit on. He missed her; that much was crystal
clear. She’d been gone from his booth for approximately six
minutes, and he missed her like thunder. Glancing at his desk, he
took heart.

At least she’d signed the contract. She
wouldn’t go away and leave him immediately. By the time she did
leave him, maybe he’d have gotten over her.

The sick, sinking feeling in his middle put
the lie to that happy thought. Win buried his face in his hands and
wished he were still a little boy and only had to think about
marbles, school work, avoiding spankings, and baseball.

# # #

Belle showed up at Win’s booth the next day
at seven in the evening, punctual and prepared. And she showed up
the next day and the next and the day after that, as well. She was
proud that she managed, with very few slips, not to let her
feelings show.

She’d lectured herself for hours at a time
about how to behave. She cherished a feeling that if she acted as
if she were a professional photographer’s model long enough,
eventually she’d end up feeling like one.

Win acted like a professional photographer,
too, which helped everything but her heart. Her heart felt as if
somebody had ripped it out of her chest cavity, stamped on it with
spiked boots, used it as a baseball for several innings, and then
pierced it with poisoned darts. She’d jump out of the highest
carriage on the Ferris wheel before she’d allow her agony to show
in Win’s presence.

“All right, Belle, now turn so that your
back’s about three-quarters aimed at me, and do that thing with
your head at about a quarter turn.”

It sounded complicated, but by this time
Belle understood Win’s directions. One time he’d told her to pick
up a book, hold it in front of her, and then look off into the
distance. She hadn’t understood the purpose behind that pose,
either, yet Win had crowed over the result. Therefore, she turned
as he’d requested and looked at him over her shoulder. “Is this far
enough?”

She didn’t understand why he seemed to have
to swallow, or why he looked distressed for a moment. Perhaps it
was her imagination, because the expression she thought she saw
lasted only an instant.

“That’s fine. Hold still now. This one’s
going to be great.”

According to Win, they were all going to be
great. Belle hoped he was right. If she got nothing but money from
their association, it would be worth it. It would be worth it.

Fiddlesticks. It was no use. No matter how
often she told herself money would be enough, she didn’t believe
it. However, she wouldn’t give in to her emotions or give up her
new profession.

Her family, while perhaps not exactly the
most perspicacious, or even the most honest, group of human beings
in the world, had taught her the value of perseverance. They
persevered in their poverty, blame, and hatred of northerners, for
instance. And they persevered in their campaign of hateful
telegrams, much to Belle’s continued distress. Belle would
persevere in her career as a photographer’s model, as a source of
monetary relief for her family even if they didn’t appreciate her
for it, and as a sound-hearted, whole human being. Not for Belle
the torture of wallowing in her lost love. She didn’t want to be
miserable, blast it.

“Perfect,” Win crooned. “Hold still for
another little bit.” He darted over to a light standard and twisted
the lamp head so that the light blazed in Belle’s eyes. She
squeezed them shut; she’d learned long ago that if she dared lift
her hand to shade her eyes, Win would shout at her. A sigh escaped
her as Win dashed back to his camera. “Perfect. Great. Hold still.”
He replaced the flash plate with another, ducked under the black
curtain, and said, “Open your eyes, damn it!”

She didn’t respond with so much as a grimace
to his rude command, because she knew a retort from her would only
provoke a scene. Win claimed he didn’t know what he was saying
during these moments of intense concentration. While she didn’t
altogether believe him, she was learning the business fast. Her
heart might be ripped in two and its eventual repair unlikely, but
she could darned well be a professional. She opened her eyes.

The flash powder caught just as the door to
Win’s booth burst open. Both Belle and Win were surprised, since
not many people visited him during the evening hours. His
Exposition business was carried out primarily in the daytime, and
attracted ladies and gentlemen desiring family portraits or
photographs of children and babies.