Grinding her teeth, Belle wished she could spend another hour or three berating Mr. Win Asher. And what kind of name was Win, anyhow? Belle had never heard such a ridiculous name. She’d like to tell him that, too, but wouldn’t. She was a lady. She might have fallen upon hard times, but she wouldn’t lower herself to such a degree as ridiculing a person on account of his name which, one presumed, wasn’t his fault.
It occurred to her that it was due to people like Win Asher that she’d had to seek employment in the first place. If it weren’t for the fact that her noble southern family and neighbors had been forced into defending themselves against Abraham Lincoln’s War, Belle’s family would still be planting cotton and tobacco and living well in an unruined plantation in Blissborough, Georgia. With slaves.
Fudge. Belle hated it when she remembered the slaves.
Nevertheless, if Mr. Win Asher ever laid a hand on her again, to guide her to the coat-check room or anywhere else, she’d whack him with her parasol. As long as the Richmonds weren’t around to see. Or the children. She didn’t want to set a bad example for the children.
Mr. Asher didn’t give up his intrusive behavior even after their group had left the restaurant. “Do you mind if I tag along with your family for awhile, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond? I’d like to get an idea of how the children and Miss Monroe interact. It will help me understand how best to use them in my study.”
Belle fumed while the Richmonds, whom she’d always considered to be a superior form of Northern family until today, looked at each other in the kind of mute conversation married folks engaged in. She wished she could offer her opinion, but she was merely the hired help. Every now and then, she regretted her decision to move North and secure employment. Now, for instance.
It was Mrs. Richmond who responded to the photographer’s question. “I should think that would be nice, Mr. Asher. Since you’re more familiar with the fair itself than we are, perhaps you can show us the most intriguing places for the children to visit.”
Win’s smile was broad and flashy, and it gave Belle palpitations. Unless that was only leftover pique. She felt better when she decided pique must be it. The thought of Mr. Win Asher causing anything but irritation in her bosom was more than she could healthily contemplate on a full stomach.
“I’d love to.” He knelt beside Garrett and Amalie, a gesture Belle would have approved of in any other gentleman since it betokened a certain ease with children. In Win Asher, she not only didn’t appreciate it, she flat-out hated it.
She watched, eyes narrowed, as he conversed with her charges. She didn’t care for the way they responded to him, which was with without anxiety and reeking with friendliness. She wanted them to disapprove of him, as she did. But that was silly. Children had no discrimination. It was a flaw which maturity would cure.
“Say, you two, how’d you like to visit the Wooded Island? There’s a reconstructed Colonial village there, and you can see for yourselves how the Pilgrims lived.”
Garrett turned a bright, eager gaze to his parents. “Oh, may we? That sounds like such fun!”
It did, actually. Belle would never say so.
“I’d like to do that, too,” Amalie said. She looked at Mr. Asher with wide blue eyes and a simpering smile.
Belle squinted at the little girl, wondering if she were forming a child’s crush on the photographer. It would be just her luck if the whole family fell under the wretched man’s spell; the man who ignored her and didn’t care about her opinion, and who only wanted to use her for his own aims. Belle felt exploited and maltreated, and she didn’t like it.
She was, therefore, particularly silent as the family and Mr. Asher strolled along toward one of the many lakes enclosed in the Exposition’s grounds. When Amalie took Mr. Asher’s hand and skipped along at his side, she began to feel like an old used boot that nobody needed any longer.
“There’s a hunter’s cabin on the Wooded Island that will probably interest you, Garrett,” Mr. Asher went on, oblivious to Belle’s discomfort.
And why shouldn’t he be oblivious? Nobody cared about the hired help. With a start, Belle realized she was descending into a mood of gloom and dissatisfaction, and resolved to buck up. Her beloved father used to say that a body could choose to be happy or unhappy, generally giving examples to illustrate his point.
Those verbal illustrations of her father’s had meant a good deal to Belle, primarily because of her personal family observations. Although she’d never ventured to voice her opinion, she believed her mother enjoyed being unhappy, sort of the way some people enjoyed ill health.
Her grandmother sprang to mind. Granny reveled in detailing every one of her many aches and pains. It had come as a great relief to Belle to learn that she didn’t have to grow up unhappy and ill. Recalling her father’s advice, she resolved not to sink into any pits of despair brought about by an ill-mannered Yankee photographer.
Therefore, she straightened her shoulders, took Amalie’s other hand, refused to look at Win Asher, and quickened her step. Since the Richmonds had always included her in their conversations before the advent of Mr. Asher, she decided to assert herself again now. “I understand the Exposition houses an interesting exhibition of relics from Columbus’s voyage of discovery, too.”
Mr. Asher nodded, which struck Belle as vaguely encouraging. “Yes, indeed. The entire fair was intended to be a celebration of the 400th anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of America.”
“They’re a year late,” Garrett said, laughing about it.
Mr. Asher flicked Garrett’s sailor cap down the front of his face, and the little boy giggled as he straightened it. “Yeah, yeah, smart guy,” the photographer said. “They might have been a year late, but they did a superlative job in getting the place together so quickly.”
“My goodness, I should say so,” said Mrs. Richmond. Smiling at Belle, she added, “I insist that we visit the Columbus exhibit. After all, if the fair is in honor of his discovery, we ought at least to see it.”
“It’s fascinating,” Win said. “It astonishes me that those tiny little ships actually made their way across the ocean without sinking.”
Conversation perked right along after that, and Belle didn’t feel so left out. She told herself that she’d learned a valuable lesson. She could have allowed herself to sink into a pit of perceived unworthiness, and it would have been her own fault. On the spot, she decided to write to her father this very evening and thank him for imparting such a valuable lesson.
She did not, however, object when Mr. Richmond, Mr. Asher, and Garrett took off on their own when the ladies began touring the rose garden at one edge of the Wooded Island. “I know you ladies will want to look at the Women’s Department.” Mr. Richmond winked at his son and at Win. “We fellows will find something else to do that we’re more interested in.”
Mrs. Richmond took mild exception. “Mrs. Potter Palmer wrote a very interesting article for the Times, George. You said yourself that it was about time the good works of women were recognized and honored.”
“True, true, Gladys. Don’t get into a huff.”
“I’m not getting into a huff,” Mrs. Richmond said huffily. “You men would be in a sorry state if you had to do all the things we women do by yourselves.”
Win smiled, flashing those white teeth of his and making Belle grind her own teeth together. “Mrs. Richmond is absolutely right about that, Mr. Richmond. We must give the ladies their due.”
“Indeed, you must,” said Gladys, relenting enough to offer up a small smile.
“And the fair directors gave the noble ladies an entire building for themselves,” Win added.
The men chuckled in a mellow, superior manner that made Belle want to kick them both. Dad-blasted men thought they ruled the world. Ruefully, she remembered that they did. It wasn’t fair.
Even though she’d been steeped in southern gentility, mild-mannered ladyhood, and the concept of ruling from behind the throne, from the day of her birth, Belle stil
l occasionally wished women had more power to govern their own actions and lives overtly. It was a pain in the neck always to be forced to use subtle means to obtain one’s goals.
She was not, however, a rebel at heart, and she accepted her place in the world and in American society with resignation, if not with appreciation. Naturally, she said nothing.
“That’s fine, George. I also want Amalie to visit the Children’s Building. I understand there’s a wonderful exhibit of dolls and newfangled animated musical toys and so forth.”
Win nodded. “There is.”
Belle squinted at him, wondering why he’d bothered to look at the newfangled animated musical toys. As if reading her thoughts, he gave her a lopsided, amused grin and said, “I photographed the display for the Globe.”
In return, she gave him a regal nod. “I see.”
“And I want to see all the new kitchen aids, too,” Gladys said. Belle noticed an acquisitive gleam in her eyes.
So did Mr. Richmond. “Try not to get too many ideas, Gladys,” he admonished. He said it jovially, however, and Belle deduced he wouldn’t mind furnishing his grand home in New York City with all the latest and greatest kitchen devices his wife cared to purchase.
“Don’t worry, dear. I won’t break the bank.” Gladys laughed.
Belle watched the interchange with a tiny ache in her heart. Quite often she wondered what it would be like to have money. Sufficient money. Lots of money. With another smallish pang, she guessed she’d never know.
“We’ll catch up with you at five,” Mr. Richmond said, removing his expensive gold watch from his vest pocket and squinting at it.
“Don’t you dare go to the Columbus exhibit without us.” Mrs. Richmond shook her finger at her husband in mock warning.
“We won’t.” Mr. Richmond glanced at Win. “Perhaps Mr. Asher will join us for dinner.”
This suggestion didn’t appeal to Belle, but she had no say in the matter and kept a serene countenance. Might as well, for such was the way of the world, and women in her situation in life had best learn the art of blank-faced acceptance. If they didn’t, they’d get fired. Belle realized she was grinding her teeth again and ceased the useless occupation.
In spite of her inner turmoil, the afternoon passed pleasantly. Belle felt much more comfortable in the absence of Mr. Asher’s company, although she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. Still and all, she and Mrs. Richmond had already established a congenial relationship, and they both enjoyed looking through the rose garden. The weather was warm and the wind had kicked up.
Amalie lost her bonnet once and had to run after it. Belle bought her a pretty pink ribbon with which to tie it down. The small gesture gave her pleasure out of proportion to the deed itself. Nevertheless, this was one of the few times in her life that she’d been able to buy something frivolous for no better reason than that she wanted to.
Her mood elevated slightly after that, although she still couldn’t rid her mind’s eye of images of Mr. Win Asher. She wondered if she were coming down with some kind of malady. Sometimes when she took sick, she was subject to morbid fancies. Not that the image her brain concocted of Mr. Archer was morbid. Far from it. She told herself to concentrate on the Exposition and stop thinking so hard. She wasn’t any good at thinking, having had so little practice.
The three ladies had a wonderful time inspecting all the exhibits in the Women’s Department. “Oh, Belle, you look just like the statue of that Greek goddess over there.”
Belle looked and had to admit to a momentary sense of pride. The statue to which Mrs. Richmond pointed was quite lovely. Because she knew her pride did her no credit—after all, her looks weren’t her fault, but were a gift from God, her parents, and her other antecedents—she said only, “Oh, la, Mrs. Richmond. I think you closely resemble the Goddess of—” Egad. She’d been about to compare Mrs. Richmond to the Goddess of Fertility. That would never do. She pretended to get something caught in her throat and took refuge in a cough. “I beg your pardon.”
She was glad when Mrs. Richmond didn’t recognize this subterfuge, but patted her on the back in the time-honored and useless gesture intended to help clear a person’s breathing passages. “Are you all right, Belle?
Belle felt guilty, which was natural as she wasn’t accustomed to prevarication. “I’m fine, thank you. You’re very good.”
“Pshaw.”
“I was going to say,” Belle lied, “that you look very much like the Goddess of Nature.” She gestured to another statue, which was pretty in its own right, although the face didn’t do justice to Mrs. Richmond’s elegant features.
Fortunately for Belle, Amalie decided to join the conversation. “Do I look like any of them, Miss Monroe?”
Pleased with the distraction, Belle leaned over as well as she could considering her corset stays, lifted Amalie into her arms, and hugged her. The child was particularly affectionate, and Belle loved her dearly. “My goodness, Miss Amalie, you look like all of them!” she declared in her best rendition of her native drawling speech. “But I think you bear an amazing resemblance to the statue of the grizzly bear over there.” She gave Amalie a little squeeze and winked at Amalie’s mother, who laughed.
“Definitely,” agreed that good-humored lady. “Or perhaps the prowling coyote over there.”
Belle didn’t disparage the fact that Mrs. Richmond pointed with her forefinger at the statue to which she referred, as she had pointed to the one she thought resembled Belle. Belle was beginning to come to terms with the fact that the manners of her childhood did not prevail in the heathen North, and that ladies weren’t considered ungenteel if they descended to finger-pointing. Such unrefined gestures as finger-pointing and speaking loudly were not considered rude up here.
Belle sighed as a momentary pang of loneliness assailed her. Looking around at the crowds inside the Women’s Department, she told herself she was assuredly not without companions. That they were alien to her very heart and soul shouldn’t be a consideration. She’d made a sensible decision, and had best get used to it.
She consoled herself with the knowledge that she could speak to her family, figuratively, that very night, in the solitude of her bedroom on the twelfth floor of the brand-new and magnificent Congress Hotel. Plus which, she’d taken the precaution of bringing with her on this trip to the Windy City several letters her family had sent to her before she’d left New York. Belle was sure rereading those epistles would make her feel more the thing.
If only Mr. Asher’s proposed photographs didn’t loom so large in her mind, she was sure she’d feel quite grand in fact.
“I can’t wait for dinner,” said Amalie from the comfort of Belle’s arms. “I want to see Mr. Asher again. I like him lots.”
If Belle didn’t know the child to be innocent of evil intent, she might just have dropped her.
Chapter Four
Win passed an enjoyable afternoon with Mr. Richmond and Garrett, although he hoped none of the fair directors ever found out that he’d abandoned his booth to pursue personal business. Since they’d named him official photographer of the Columbian Exposition, they kept a sharper eye on him than they did other concessionaires. He had faith in his ability to talk himself out of any detectival questionings on the part of the directors, however, so he didn’t worry over much.
Mr. Richmond was as stuffy and self-satisfied as most men of his age and position in life and, therefore, he bored Win a lot. But the day was clear and not too windy, Garrett was an amiable and interested lad, and Win expected to see Miss Belle Monroe at dinner that night.
Not to mention the fact that his anticipation at being able to produce a truly spectacular piece of art seemed to be within his grasp. Life was grand, and Win intended to enjoy it all, even if he had to put up with boring businessmen from time to time. It was the boring businessmen of the world who had all the money, after all, and Win intended to finagle as much of the green stuff out of them as he could.
The fair itself o
ffered guaranteed interest and entertainment. Even if a fellow didn’t bother to visit the exhibits—a supposition too ridiculous to be contemplated—merely watching the sights and spectators would keep him entertained for hours on end. The very smell of the fair thrilled him. Win didn’t think he was being fanciful when he told himself he could detect the scent of excitement itself in the air.
“One of these days, you’ll have to sample a hamburger, Garrett,” he told the little boy who, while he considered himself too old to hold his father’s hand, was more than willing to stay close to his adults. Win suspected he was a trifle too overwhelmed by the teeming masses and the unique sights and sounds to run off by himself.
Garrett tore his gaze away from the Arab merchant who was dressed to the hilt in his native costume—Win noted with amusement that Garrett seemed especially intrigued by the huge curved scimitar sheathed at the man’s belt—and glanced up at Win. Win grinned down at him, pleased to know his assumption that the mention of food could distract a young boy’s attention from anything had been proved correct.
“What’s a hamburger?”
“It’s a beef patty, cooked on a griddle and served on a round bun. They put different condiments on the bun—”
“What’s a condiment?”
“Pickles, onions, that sort of thing,” said Mr. Richmond, who also seemed interested.
After glancing at what appeared to be Mr. Richmond’s rapidly expanding waistline, Win wasn’t surprised by his interest. Pretty soon Mr. Richmond would have to abandon his belt for suspenders, unless Win missed his guess. He vowed that if he ever got rich, settled down, married, and began producing children, he wouldn’t allow himself to get fat. The likelihood of any of those things happening, other than the getting rich part, seemed remote at present.
“Perhaps we can do that tomorrow, Garrett,” his father suggested. Win thought he heard the gentle smacking sound of anticipatory lips. The lips were those of Mr. Richmond.
As they strolled down the Street in Cairo, a reproduction of a Seventeenth Century avenue in Egypt, Win watched Garrett discover new foodstuffs, unusual fabrics, reproductions of ancient Egyptian tomb engravings, paintings, amulets, jewelry, and images. Once, he shocked himself with the thought that it would be nice to show a child of his own this amazing spectacle. He tossed the notion aside with something akin to panic.
Just North of Bliss Page 5