His mood of maudlin sentimentality didn’t last, thank God. Another one did, however. Every time Win’s gaze lit upon an object, he envisioned Belle Monroe and the Richmond children in the picture.
The woman was absolutely perfect. Physically.
Her personality was something else again, and Win hoped to heaven he’d be able to work with her successfully. If she kept her mouth shut, it would be easier on his nerves. When he concentrated on his project with her physical looks in mind, his spirits lifted.
She had flawless skin, which was a definite asset when it came to doing a photographic study. Her eyes were a lustrous brown, framed by thick, dark lashes that curled up naturally. These were not assets a professional photographer encountered every day in his life. Her shining chestnut-colored hair adorned a perfect oval of a face, too. Win could picture her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she tucked her precious cherubim in their cots for the night.
She should be wearing a voluminous night dress at the time. It would be best if the night dress were gauzy and rather sheer, but Win knew his public. They’d never go for the ideal American mother being a sexual object, no matter how she got to be a mother in the first place. Voluminous, therefore, could be achieved. Gauzy, unfortunately, would have to be dispensed with.
It was only when Win recalled her honey-thick southern accent and her tendency to panic at the least little thing—she’d damned near thumped him with her parasol this morning, for the love of Pete—that doubts assailed him. But he knew himself to be a smooth-talker. He was sure he’d get her to agree to sit for the study. And if, like artists who used brushes and canvases to compose their studies, he could persuade her to sit still and shut up, he’d probably survive.
The only problem as Win saw it was that he’d begun to envision another series of photographs. This series didn’t involve children. They involved only Miss Belle Monroe and the Columbian Exposition, with a few featuring Miss Monroe all by herself, and Win’s mind’s eye distinctly featured the series appearing in newspapers and magazines the world over.
Even though he knew himself to be a superb salesman, he had trouble featuring Belle acquiescing to this particular desire of his. She seemed the type who took delight in thwarting the schemes of others. He had a gut feeling she’d only agreed to the study with the kids because the Richmonds wanted her to.
That night he joined the Richmonds for a pleasant dinner at the most expensive restaurant at the Exposition. After they’d all eaten their fill and Garrett and Amalie tried valiantly to finish the ice cream they’d ordered for dessert, he proposed the second series of photographs to Belle. Win’s deepest misgivings about her were confirmed.
She stared at him, her beautiful cinnamon-brown eyes gone as round as the moon outside. “I beg your pardon?”
Win sighed. “I would like to do a series of photographs of you alone, Miss Monroe. I’m sure you’ve seen photographs of Miss Mabel Clyde.”
“I,” she said with a firmness that reminded Win of boulders, mountains, cement, and other immovable objects, “am not Miss Mabel Clyde.”
Mabel Clyde was the reigning queen of the chorus line. Her photographs appeared in newspapers and magazines everywhere, she showed up in more cigarette packages than Win could name, and posters featuring Miss Clyde were used to advertise everything from Pear’s Soap to laundry bluing products.
“Oh, Belle!” squealed Gladys Richmond. “What a wonderful opportunity for you!” She clasped her hands at her bosom, and her pretty eyes glowed with pleasure for her employee. Win deduced the two ladies had become more than employer and employee, and he honored Mrs. Richmond for her tolerance.
“Exactly,” said Win with conviction. He smiled at Mrs. Richmond, grateful for her help, although could tell Belle wasn’t convinced.
“I don’t believe I’d care to have my likeness plastered all over the world, thank you very much, Mr. Asher.” Belle turned to Gladys. “My family would be horrified, Mrs. Richmond.”
That was only an excuse; Win would bet on it. It was she who was the horrified party in this instance. “Think about it, please, Miss Monroe. I’m sure you’ll recognize the wisdom of this if you’ll only think about it.”
In a repressive voice, Belle said, “I fear I don’t have the requisite personality for such an endeavor, Mr. Asher. I’m sure Miss Clyde is a perfectly respectable young lady, but . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t have to. Win could read her thoughts. She considered Mabel Clyde and all other women who posed for cigarette cards and newspaper ads—or who sang in the chorus, for that matter—little better than hussies, whores, and other varieties of fallen females. She was probably right, but that didn’t mean she had to be a fallen female in order to pose for him, for God’s sake.
In fact, the whole point of the study was to present the Perfect American Woman to the world. And, dash it, the Perfect American Woman wasn’t a whore! Win experience an urgent impulse to shake his finger under Miss Belle Monroe’s perfect little nose and holler at her to stop being such a prig. But that, as he well knew, would only infuriate her.
What he was going to do was chat with some of his buddies in the newspapers and with some of his successful business friends in the Chicago area. He and a fellow named H.L. May had collaborated on projects before. Win could imagine H.L. writing a moving article about the lovely Miss Monroe.
While Win didn’t know Belle’s story, he could imagine H.L. coming up with something—or making up something, probably—that would capture the public’s fancy and makes its soft heart bleed. H.L. May was good at that sort of thing. He’d been so good at it earlier in the fair season that he’d won the heart of Buffalo Bill’s premier bareback rider, Wind Dancer. They’d married a couple of weeks ago, and Win had photographed the event.
After he’d solidified his plans for the series of photographs he wanted to take of Belle and secured H.L.’s agreement to write articles to accompany the pictures, he’d approach her again. At the moment, he figured he’d better not press the issue. She was such a bullheaded young woman, he feared she’d entrench herself in a position from which her pride wouldn’t allow her to budge. “Why don’t we chat about it later, Miss Monroe.”
She sniffed. He sighed, but knew he’d only be wasting breath if he argued with her at the moment.
Instead, he rubbed his hands and beamed at the company seated around the table, most of whom were exhibiting various degrees of sleepy repletion. “I want to get a couple of shots of these two right now, if you don’t mind, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond. And then I’d like to get one of Miss Monroe alone.” He grinned at Garrett and Amalie, who’d given up on their ice cream and had begun sagging in their chairs, looking bored. They perked up as soon as they had something to do. Win was used to it.
In spite of the overstuffed condition of the five of them, they walked with alacrity from the restaurant to Win’s booth. Win unlocked the door and politely stepped aside. “Why don’t you and Mr. Richmond take seats on the bench under the window, Mrs. Richmond? I’ll take charge of the children.”
Gladys clutched her husband’s arm. “Oh, George, this is so exciting.”
George evidently thought so, too, because he fairly glowed at his offspring as they bounced across the floor in Win’s company. Belle took a chair close to the Richmonds. Win noticed that her posture was ramrod straight and she clutched her tiny handbag as if it were ballast and she feared she’d blow away if she dropped it. She didn’t remove her hat.
He decided to concentrate on the kids. Maybe Belle would relax when she realized what a benign business he was proposing. “I’m going to shoot two plates in front of my normal background, Amalie and Garrett. I just want to see what you two look like to the camera.”
“Won’t we look like ourselves?” Amalie asked.
Garrett tugged one of her pigtails. “It’s called being photogenius, stoopid.”
Win laughed. “Photogenic is the word you’re looking for, I think, Master Garrett.”<
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Garrett shrugged. “I knew it was something like that.”
Amalie stuck her tongue out at her brother.
“I’m afraid the children are exhausted, Mr. Asher. I don’t think nighttime is the best time for this ambitious project of yours to be carried out.”
That, as Win might have expected, had come from Belle. He sighed yet again. “I’m only taking three pictures tonight, Miss Monroe.” He spoke in a gentle, measured tone, so as not to offend her. She, obviously, didn’t care if she offended him or not, because she gave him a furious frown and sniffed. Figured. “I only want to see how the three of you look as subjects.”
“I see.”
The way she said it didn’t give Win a feeling of encouragement in his soul, but he wouldn’t give up. This job was too important to him. Besides, he could out-stubborn pretty much anyone when he put his mind to it.
It occurred to him that, if Miss Monroe couldn’t be persuaded to pose for artistic reasons, she might succumb to greed. He’d keep that option in his back pocket to drag out if he needed it.
“All right now. I want you to sit there, Amalie.” He gestured to a log he’d set up for his “rural” poses. He’d learned shortly after he’d seriously begun to consider photography as a career that the farther folks moved away from their rural roots, the more they clung to the vestiges thereof.
Amalie plopped down on the log. She was a natural subject, because she possessed no grown-up vanity yet and, therefore, had no self-consciousness. Unlike her nanny, who looked at the moment as if she wished she were made of plaster. Win heaved another sigh. “All right. Now Garrett, I want you to stand behind your sister. Put a hand on her shoulder.”
Garrett bounded up onto the platform where his sister sat on the log waiting for him. He lifted his hand high in the air as if he aimed to set it down hard, and Win hastened to say, “Softly! Don’t hit her. Just lay your hand gently on her shoulder.”
Garrett didn’t appear happy that his fell scheme had been foiled, but he did as Win asked. Amalie stuck her tongue out at her brother, who promptly squeezed her shoulder hard. Although Amalie winced, for good reason, she didn’t start bawling or anything, so Win guessed he wouldn’t reprimand Garrett. Anyhow, he’d learned the hard way that parents didn’t appreciate photographers administering disciplinary instructions to their precious brats.
Not that these two were brats. He hated to admit it, but Belle had been right about them. It was late, they’d been through an exciting and exhausting day, they’d just finished a huge meal, and they needed to get to bed. “This won’t take long,” he assured them all. “Stay still now, you two, and I’ll take the picture.” He ducked under the black curtain, pulled the chain, the flash powder exploded, and both children jumped, then squealed, then giggled.
“Good job, you two!” Win was quite satisfied with them, as they’d waited until after the flash to move. “I think the one shot will give me an idea as to how the two of you look in a photograph. You can come down here and sit with your parents now.” He braced himself and turned to face Belle. With the sweetest smile he had in his repertoire, he said, “Your turn, Miss Monroe.”
“Very well.” After heaving a sigh that told Win exactly how much she was looking forward to this ordeal—about as much as she’d look forward to thumb screws or the rack—she marched up to the platform, climbed the one short step, and turned to face him.
She reminded Win of a general facing rebellious troops. He endeavored not to grimace or in any other way convey his doubts about her. Those doubts grew larger by the second, though. She was going to have to relax if his vision was ever to come to fruition. “Um, can you put your handbag down, Miss Monroe? You can set it down on the log, if you will.” She was squeezing it to death, actually.
With ill grace, she complied with his polite request. When she turned to face him again, she lifted her chin, set her lips, and stood as straight as a string. Win suppressed another sigh with difficulty.
Plastering an encouraging smile on his face, he said quietly, “What I need for you to do now, Miss Monroe, is pretend I’m not here.”
The look she gave him at this suggestion confirmed Win in his opinion of her as a self-conscious prig. He didn’t give up. “Perhaps you can turn slightly, so that I have a three-quarters view of you.”
She did it reluctantly, but she did it. Win decided to accept small gifts and hope they’d grow in time and with enough verbal fertilizer. “And now, if you could bend over just a little bit—as if you were tucking a beloved child into bed at night.”
Turning to face him again, she looked for a moment as if she might rebel. Win braced himself. He got help from an unexpected source.
“You do that all the time, Miss Monroe. You tuck us in every night. And you love us, don’t you?”
Belle’s expression softened so suddenly and unexpectedly that Win caught his breath. “Of course I do, Amalie, darling.”
“That’s it!” Win cried in mounting excitement. If he could only get this woman to cooperate with him, this series of photographs would be fantastic. It would be the making of his career as an artistic photographer of international repute. “That’s it exactly! Now, turn around again, the way you were before, and bend over slightly.”
After shooting him a scowl, thereby ruining the expression Win had hoped to capture, Belle did the first part. He wanted to stamp his feet when she didn’t bend over slightly—or even at all. Restraining his impatience and irritation, he requested once more, “All right. That’s the perfect angle, now bend over slightly.”
Still she refused to comply with his request. A suspicion began forming in his mind. It was confirmed only seconds later when Belle muttered through what looked like seriously clenched teeth, “I can’t bend over, slightly or otherwise. I can’t bend over at all.”
Slumping with disappointment, Win grumbled, “Corsets.”
She spun around precipitately. “Well, really! There’s no need for vulgarity.”
Win blinked at her. “Vulgarity?” Did the word corsets equate with vulgarity? He gave an internal shrug and decided it must, where she came from. Dammit, why couldn’t she be from New Jersey or Massachusetts, or some other up-to-date state? Why’d the perfect woman have to hail from the benighted South?
Belle sniffed. “Yes. I don’t believe it proper to refer to ladies nether garments in public.”
Amalie and Garrett giggled. Win saw their mother give them a stern look, although she, too, appeared amused. Win might have thought Belle’s insufferable prudery amusing, too, if it wasn’t interfering with his inspiration.
“This isn’t a public place,” Win muttered under his breath. Because he didn’t want to foment an all-out mutiny on her part, he forced another smile. “Well, we don’t have to try for that pose this evening. If you’ll just turn to the three-quarters view once more, I’ll take this picture, and we’ll see how it turns out.”
“Very well.” She turned.
Win tilted his head and wondered if this was going to be worth it in the long run. Instantly he took himself to task. Certainly, it was going to be worth it. Hell, he was only a little tired tonight. All he had to do was charm this Southern belle of an ice maiden into complying with his wishes, and he’d never have to deal with her again in this lifetime.
Thus encouraged, he spoke in a friendly tone when he said, “Good. That’s perfect, Miss Monroe. Now, try to recapture that expression you had a few minutes ago. You know, when you were tucking your precious cherubs into their beds at night.”
He caught the caustic glance she cast at him from the corner of her eye, but opted not to react to it. It would behoove him to keep his temper, no matter how difficult a task it was. If he blew up, she’d vanish, and he’d never get to undertake the project that had become so important to him.
“Think of tucking me in, Miss Monroe,” Amalie suggested sleepily.
Now there, Win thought with some bitterness, was a female who knew her worth and wasn’t terrified of th
e world’s opinion. He wished he could borrow a portion of Amalie’s self-confidence and easy-going nature and sprinkle it over Miss Belle Monroe. It was a sad fact that life wasn’t that simple.
“I’ll try to do that, dear.”
The strain and doubt discernible Belle’s voice was marginally discouraging to Win, but she did a better job than he anticipated. As soon as she’d changed her facial expression, he ducked under the black cloth and pulled the chain. An explosion again sent the children into fits of giggles. As soon as the flash died, Belle seemed to do likewise.
Without even looking in Win’s direction, she grabbed her skirt in her hand and headed for the stair down from the platform. Win hollered, “Wait!” before he remembered with whom he was dealing.
His yell stopped her, though. She stiffened up like water freezing, and gave him an equally chilly stare. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry,” Win muttered. He hurried to replace the flash powder and slide another plate into his camera. “Didn’t mean to shout. But I want to get one shot of you and the two children together. After I develop all of these plates, I’ll have a better idea how to set up the composition of the pictures I want to take.”
Belle’s pretty alabaster brow wrinkled, as if she didn’t understand what he’d just said. Fortunately, she complied with his request—shout—Whatever it had been—without quibbling. Win not only hadn’t anticipated her easy compliance, but he appreciated her not fighting with him about it.
The children, needless to say, scrambled up from their bench and hurried over to the platform. Children were fun to photograph, unless they were cut of Mr. Wiggles’ stamp, because they were generally such egoists. Win figured that quality eventually got knocked out of a body, but while it lasted whoever had it was much easier to photograph than were people who were nervous and shy about posing.
Just North of Bliss Page 6