Naturally, she waited until the Richmonds had decided on their menu choices, consulted their children, and consulted Mr. Asher, before offering an opinion. When Mr. Richmond boomed in his hearty voice, “And what would you like to eat for luncheon, Miss Monroe?” she said, “I’m not sure what anything is, actually.”
Mr. Asher turned his head and stared at her. She frowned back. It wasn’t her fault she’d never eaten anything called something-or-other picada before, or a sopapilla. She couldn’t even pronounce that one. Lifting her chin, she spoke directly to Mr. Asher, who’d said he’d been here before. “Perhaps you can explain what these things are, Mr. Asher.”
He lifted his shoulders. “Sure.” He proceeded to do so, although his explanations didn’t help Belle all that much. She was used to grits and cornbread and potato pone and greens and bacon. Southern food. Good food. Knowing she had to choose, even if she didn’t know what she was getting, she finally decided on a stuffed sopapilla. What it was going to be stuffed with, Belle was almost afraid to find out.
Everything turned out to be quite tasty in the end. Belle was vastly glad about that, as she’d suffered qualms for her delicate southern stomach. As she attended to the children, she kept her attention fixed on the conversation being carried on by the adults at the table with her. Mr. Asher, she soon discovered, was a very persuasive gentleman.
“I envision this series of studies as a portrait of America, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond,” he said. “I intend them to depict the true wealth of our great nation.”
“Wealth is good,” Mr. Richmond stated uncertainly.
Mr. Asher smiled. “Wealth is very good. But what I perceive as this wonderful country’s greatest asset is her people. When I shut my eyes, I can see a series of portraits featuring a mother and her sweet children embodying all the best qualities of every family in America.”
Mrs. Richmond, Belle was interested to note, blushed and appeared quite gratified. She shot her husband a glance. He caught it and grinned at her. Belle was touched by the exchange and had to wipe a stray tear from her eye and wished she weren’t so emotional—not up here in the North, where southern sensibilities weren’t appreciated.
“I’m not sure I’m expressing myself very well, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond, but perhaps you can understand anyhow. I envision these pictures as symbolic of the United States. They’ll depict the best our nation has to offer. They’ll show the world that perfect freedom, perfect beauty, and perfect harmony can be found here, in the United States of America.” He went so far as to thump the luncheon table, making Belle’s glass of water slop slightly. She reached out to steady it.
He didn’t notice. “If that weren’t so, people wouldn’t be flocking to our shores. These portraits will be a tangible demonstration of the American quality of equality. And hope for weary masses of humanity who have no opportunities in their native countries.”
Mr. Richmond’s face had been wreathed in a complacent smile. With Win’s last words, his smile tilted. “There are too many dirty immigrants here already, if you ask me.”
Mrs. Richmond patted his hand. “Now, now, George. You know they aren’t all dirty and ignorant.”
“Humph.”
Mrs. Richmond smiled sweetly at Win. “George gets quite upset when he contemplates the immigrant situation, Mr. Asher.”
As if he didn’t want anything to spoil his vision, Win quickly chimed in. “But don’t you see, Mr. Richmond? These pictures will inspire all who come here to achieve greatness! Nobody will want to wallow in the ghettoes after they get a look at the series I visualize.”
Both Richmonds considered this. So did their children. So did Belle. Mr. Asher smiled at them all in turn, then cleared his throat. The way he straightened, as if he were steeling himself to tackle a tough problem, puzzled Belle. Until he next spoke.
“So, the thing is, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond, your children are charming. Perfect. They’re exactly right for what I want to do. And so are you. But—well—you see, what I’d really like to do is use your children and Miss Monroe in this series of portraits.”
The gasp of surprise was universal.
Chapter Three
After the initial gasp of shock, which he’d expected, the reaction from the Richmonds was also very much what Win had expected. Mrs. Richmond’s eyes grew large, then narrowed. She tried to hide her disappointment and annoyance, but couldn’t quite do it. Mr. Richmond looked uncertain and slightly confused, as if he didn’t know whether or not blowing his top would be appropriate.
Win might have anticipated Miss Monroe’s reaction, too, if he’d been thinking about it. He hadn’t been. He’d merely assumed that any pretty young woman would love to have her pictures plastered all over the United States, particularly since she was going to be held up to all who viewed the studies as a superior example of American womanhood. He had not anticipated her reaction, however, and both she and his lack of foresight annoyed him.
“What?” Her shriek caused all other diners to turn in their chairs and glance at their table. Win didn’t mind the surprised scrutiny particularly, since he’d never been averse to public interest in himself or his work. Miss Monroe turned apple-red.
He tried to hide his exasperation. “You are the one I first saw walking with the children, Miss Monroe, if you’ll recall. It was the three of you as a unit that prompted my initial inspiration.”
She flapped her small gloved hands in the air. Win got the impression she was hoping in this way to stir up a coherent explanation for what Win considered a unreasonable degree of apprehension. Dash it, it wasn’t as if he aimed to ravish her. Besides, even if he’d like to do such a thing, he couldn’t. Not with two little kids hanging around.
“But—but—but, I thought you only wanted the children,” she stammered at last. “I had no idea you wanted to photograph me!” She pointed at her bosom, as if she hoped Win had mistaken her for someone else.
He shrugged. “I saw the three of you walking along the Midway and knew it had to be that particular trio.” Because he figured the children’s parents would need a good deal of mollification, he turned to them and smiled one of his prize-winning smiles. “You see, it’s an odd thing about photography—or any art form, I suppose. Sometimes, while a family will be a perfect, congenial, cohesive group in person, they won’t photograph that way together. The combination of Miss Monroe and Master Garrett and Miss Amalie captures something—something . . .” He paused to suck in air and try to find the right words.
Miss Monroe uttered an unintelligible squeak. Win paid her no mind. She could berate him later, after he’d won the approval of the Richmonds to his proposed project.
Win finally settled for saying, “The combination of your charming children and Miss Monroe practically announces perfect, happy family to the viewing public in America.”
Mr. Richmond frowned. “And my wife and children and I, together, don’t do that? I’m not quite sure I understand, Mr. Asher.”
He understood, all right. He just didn’t want to admit it. Even though trying to convince folks that he was the artist and they were mere subjects was Win’s least favorite part of his photography business—aside from dealing with squirming brats and their mothers—Win held onto his temper and tried more persuasion. He plastered on the charm. “Of course you present the image of a happy family, Mr. Richmond.” He added a rich chuckle to oil the gears. “Anyone looking at you can tell you have been blessed by our Maker with a successful life together.”
Mr. Richmond expelled a self-satisfied grunting sound. It encouraged Win, so he kept talking, throwing a smile in Mrs. Richmond’s direction every now and then to let her know she was important, too, even though she really wasn’t. The only important people at this particular table were Win himself, the kids, and Miss Monroe, if he were to make his vision come to life.
“It’s the composition of the work and its presentation that immediately struck me when I saw your children and Miss Monroe together.” Another thought attacked him, and
he’d have slapped himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand for not thinking of it before if he wasn’t in a public place. But it was clear that he ought to have thought of it sooner, if only because it was a sure way to pave the road to success.
“Naturally, I’ll take a series of plates of you and Mrs. Richmond and the children, Mr. Richmond. It’s only fair that I do so, if I’m going to be borrowing your children. It’s my thank you for your patience with my vision, you see.” He added another chuckle to make the Richmonds think he was a great guy. “But the idea I’m hoping to market to the press and public is truly an unattainable ideal.”
His quick glance darted between mother and father. He thought he detected the flicker of burgeoning understanding, if not of his artistic vision, at least of free, professionally taken photographs. Still, he also knew it wouldn’t hurt to keep talking.
“You might want to think of this study I’m proposing as akin to a series of paintings by William Hogarth. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of him . . .”
“Of course, we have,” Mr. Richmond said instantly, smiling in a slightly superior way. “Mrs. Richmond and I took in Mr. Hogarth’s work when we toured Britain.”
Win might have expected as much. Most rich Americans “did” Britain and the rest of Europe at least once. Such a trip was de rigueur if one wanted to shine in American high society. “Ah, good. Then you know what I’m talking about,” he purred.
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Richmond. “Mrs. Richmond is quite the little artist herself, you know, Mr. Asher.”
“Oh? No, I didn’t know that.” Win smiled at Mrs. Richmond in what he hoped was a manner conveying camaraderie with a fellow artist. He didn’t know why she didn’t look more pleased with herself.
She told him. “I must say, Mr. Asher, that I don’t approve of this project one little bit if, the subject matter will be akin to some of the studies done by Mr. Hogarth.” She gave him a severe stare.
Whoops. Win had forgotten the subject matter of some of Mr. Hogarth’s studies. He laughed again, aiming for a lilting and good-humored tone. “Good heavens, no! Not for Win Asher the depressing study of the degeneration of a young rake or a harlot.”
Miss Monroe squeaked again. Win shot her a frown. He’d deal with her later, but he really didn’t want her having hysterics at present. He had too much convincing yet to do and didn’t care to have any distraction.
“Good heavens, no,” Mrs. Richmond said faintly.
Win guessed he shouldn’t have said rake or harlot aloud, and suppressed a sigh.
He was confirmed in his surmise when Amalie said, “What’s a harlot, Miss Monroe?”
“Amalie!” cried Mrs. Richmond.
After sending Win a hideous frown, Miss Monroe bent over Amalie. “We’ll talk about this later, dear. You must be still now, because your mother and father are discussing something important with Mr. Asher.”
Amalie looked disgusted, but obeyed. Garrett had been gazing with intensity at the adults in his life. Even though his sister had just been rebuffed, he dared to say, “I think it would be fun to have a bunch of photographs taken, Ma. What’s wrong with what Mr. Asher wants to do, Pa?”
Miss Monroe put a hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “You, too, must be still for a little while longer, Garrett. I’m sure your mama and papa will explain it all to you later.”
“Right. Be a good lad now, and we’ll get this all straightened out,” his father told him. He looked grumpy.
Figuring some fence-mending wouldn’t be out of line under the circumstances, Win said, “Sorry about the Hogarth reference, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond. But it does illustrate my point. Those studies of Hogarth’s depicted a small sliver of life in England during the late 1700’s. I want to do a series of photographs that reflect a much more commendable sliver of life: the perfect American woman and her perfect American children, as they live in today’s society. This is a great country, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond. It’s not like England in those days. It’s progressed! It’s become enlightened. America is an example to the rest of the world. It shows what people can do with a little imagination and a lot of freedom to use it!” Win could tell Mr. Richmond was weakening, so he pressed on. “When I saw your two charming children and Miss Monroe on the Midway, I knew they were my subjects.” He lifted his hands in a gesture meant to convey his inability to deny the truth or change the facts. “They just . . . were. I don’t know how else to say it.”
Mr. Richmond rubbed his chin. “I see.” He looked at his wife, who returned his gaze and added a small shrug for good measure. This form of communication was plainly unreadable to Mr. Richmond, who said, “What do you think, Gladys?”
Sensing imminent capitulation, Win put in hastily, “Don’t forget that you’ll be getting portraits of each of you individually and at least a couple of family studies, as well. I’ll throw those in as a gift, since I’m hoping to borrow your children.” Recollecting the other important—indeed, essential—member of his envisioned grouping, he added, “And your children’s nanny.”
He tried to send a smile Miss Monroe’s way, but she deflected it quite tidily with a frozen frown. He didn’t know what she was so peeved about, but he was sure he could bring her around to his way of thinking eventually.
And if he couldn’t, it wouldn’t matter. If he convinced the Richmonds to allow him the use of their children, she’d go along with the scheme because she went with the kids. It was her job, and she probably didn’t want to lose it. He wondered if that might be considered a form of blackmail and decided it didn’t matter. He had a vision in his mind’s eye, and he knew it would be the making of his career if he could achieve it. Miss Monroe could like it or lump it, but she’d do it.
Mrs. Richmond hesitated for a moment, then said, “Well, it’s an interesting offer, George. It would certainly be nice to have family portraits taken. I can almost see them on the piano in the back parlor.”
Win’s innards shuddered, but the rest of him didn’t. He reminded himself that it was often the artist’s lot in life to be relegated to a piano in the back parlor.
“Don’t forget, too,” he shoved in smoothly, “that I’m the best photographer in the greater Chicago area. Otherwise, the fair directors wouldn’t have selected me to be the official photographer of the World’s Columbian Exposition.” He offered the Richmonds a smile meant to convey good humor as well as honesty and pride in himself and his accomplishments. Dash it, he was the best.
He thought he heard a stifled sound from Miss Monroe but when he glanced at her, she sat still, stony-faced and upright. He hoped to God he’d be able to get her to unbend during the photographic sessions. He was sure he could do it; he had boundless confidence in himself.
Win was extremely happy and not at all surprised when the Richmonds capitulated to his sales talk.
As for Belle, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so embarrassed, furious, overlooked, and incensed. She hadn’t uttered as horrid a sound as her initial what? at Mr. Asher’s suggested plan since she’d been a child and Johnny Meadows dropped a frog in her lap.
And then Mr. Asher had the nerve, the unmitigated gall to ignore her completely and talk solely to the Richmonds, as if her agreement to this precious scheme of his didn’t matter a jot. And she was the most important part of it, too, or he’d have been willing to photograph the children with their real mother.
Bell would have liked to conk him over the head with her parasol, but genteelly reared southern ladies didn’t do such things. Anyhow, she’d missed her opportunity for doing anything so useful back there on the Midway, when she’d mistaken him for a masher.
He was no masher. He was something much worse. He was a damned Yankee of the worst sort: Brash, rude, unprincipled, and greedy.
When, as the Richmonds began to herd their children out of the restaurant, a job they generally relegated to Belle, and Mr. Asher hung back to talk to her, Belle decided she’d lose nothing but a stomachache if she told him exactly what she thoug
ht of him. He held her chair as she rose, and as soon as she was upright, she rounded on him.
“Mr. Asher, you’re a brash, rude, unprincipled, and greedy Yankee pig, and I’ve never been so unconscionably ignored before in my life. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
He had the effrontery to look first stunned, and then amused. Taking her arm without waiting for her to indicate such an attention would be appreciated, he guided her toward the front door of the restaurant. “I’m sorry about that, Miss Monroe. You’re right. But I figured you’d come with the kids and it was more important for me to get the Richmonds to go for my idea than to influence you.”
“Yes,” she said in freezing accents. “I understand perfectly what your reasoning was. Unhand me if you will, please.”
She resented it when he cast his gaze heavenward. “I’m not really all that terrible a person, Miss Monroe. If I was a bit sly back there, it was because when I’m attacked by an artistic vision, I get a little carried away sometimes.”
“Ha.”
They caught up with the Richmonds at the coat-check booth where Mr. Richmond was retrieving his walking stick and hat and the ladies’ parasols. Mr. Asher, too, took his hat from the lad behind the counter, flipping him a coin in a nonchalant gesture that somehow symbolized to Belle the attitude of perfect superiority Northerners were so prone to display.
She used this opportunity, as the gentlemen retrieved their possessions, to reestablish her position at the sides of her charges. She told herself to recollect at all times that the care and well-being of Amalie and Garrett were her duty and her responsibility. She’d given Mr. Asher a piece of her mind. While it hadn’t been as satisfactory an experience as it might have been if he’d been obliging enough be ashamed of himself, it was time to get back to work.
Just North of Bliss Page 4