Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  He’d shed his coat, loosened his cravat, discarded his celluloid collar, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt in deference to the heat and humidity. Belle tried to find it in her heart to deplore this display of nonchalance, but she couldn’t. She was accustomed to heat and humidity, being from Georgia, but she’d been surprised to find the same conditions prevailing, to a lesser degree, in Chicago. She always dressed for the summertime in lightweight frocks and didn’t guess she had any right to criticizing Win for trying to achieve some level of comfort. At least he didn’t have to contend with corsets.

  Corsets were a particularly cumbersome and uncomfortable accouterment to a lady’s wardrobe in sticky weather, but Belle had never, not even once, considered abandoning her own. Corsets were proper. They were de rigueur. They were like hats: you couldn’t go outdoors without one. Even if they did give one a rash on particularly sultry days.

  Therefore, when after several shots taken with her and the children, Win made a request, she didn’t understand him at first. “Miss Monroe, you’re not going to like this next pose, but I fear you’re going to have to loosen your stays or take ‘em off completely, because you’re going to be tucking your cherubs in for the night in this next photograph, and you’re going to have to be able to bend over.”

  Blinking at Win in confusion, she said, “Um, I beg your pardon?” The man couldn’t have said stays. Could he? She had a sinking feeling in her tummy that he could have, and had.

  Gladys, who had been watching with fascination from the padded bench under the window and munching on popcorn out of a striped paper sack, said, “Do you have a place where she can change, Mr. Asher?”

  “Sure.” He pointed to the curtained-off portion of his booth. “That’s my dressing room.” He grinned, Belle presumed because he considered it something of a joke.

  She didn’t see any humor in the situation. After glancing down at Garrett and Amalie, who were having a wonderful time striking odd and outlandish poses for the fun of it, she said uncertainly, “Um, I didn’t agree to disrobe for any photographs, Mr. Asher.”

  “I’m not asking you to disrobe!” he exclaimed, as if she’d said something scandalous. “I’m asking you to undo your stays and step into a wrapper I bought especially for this purpose.” He slammed his fists on his lean hips and glared at her. “We’ve already established that you can’t bend over unless you do as I ask. You’re not going to cause trouble about this tiny little request, are you?”

  Snatching a handkerchief out of his back pocket, he wiped his brow. Only then did Belle realize that he was perspiring heavily, as if he were under great strain or had been working hard. Until this moment, she hadn’t considered how deep concentration on a photographic problem might be considered work.

  Belle didn’t want to start an argument with him, at least not with the children and Gladys present. She cast a beseeching glance at Gladys, who shrugged. “I’m here, Belle. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “Why would you worry about anything, Miss Monroe?” Amalie, who had twisted herself up like a pretzel, asked.

  Belle felt her cheeks get hot. “No reason, dear,” she said under her breath.

  “Mr. Asher’s nice, Miss Monroe,” Garrett explained helpfully. He was, at present, striking a soldierly pose, and trying his best to look noble. “He won’t do nothing bad to you.”

  “Anything,” Belle said automatically before she realized the intent of Garrett’s speech.

  “Garrett!” This time it was Gladys who blushed.

  Wholly embarrassed by this time, Belle said, “Thank you, Garrett. I never thought for a minute that he would.”

  “Hmmm,” said Win, clearly unconvinced.

  Feeling outnumbered and overwhelmed, Belle capitulated with as much grace as she could drum up, which wasn’t much. “Very well.” She sighed heavily. “The wrapper is back there?” She jerked her chin toward the curtained portion his booth. She might be willing to point for a job, but she wouldn’t deny her breeding and do so for real.

  He nodded. “Yes. And I felt like an idiot buying the thing, too, by the way.” He sounded resentful. “I’m a single man, after all. I’ve never bought ladies’ wear before. It was embarrassing.”

  “Not as embarrassing as this will be,” Belle muttered as she stepped down from the platform and marched to the curtain. It was the first time in her life she could relate, however slightly, to those poor folks who’d been led to the guillotine in tumbrils.

  The curtain hooks made a scraping noise when she yanked the curtain aside and looked around. Yes, indeedy. There it was: A wrapper. Thrown onto a chaise longue which, Belle presumed, people posed on from time to time. She was glad when she picked the garment up and discovered that it was both voluminous and of a thickly patterned fabric; she’d feared Win might have selected a sheer item that she’d have had to refuse to wear. That would have been even more embarrassing than having to listen to him talk about stays and changing clothes.

  Sighing heavily, she unbuttoned her shirtwaist, glad she’d considered the evening’s agenda as she’d dressed earlier in the day. She’d never have been able to get out of a couple of the garments she wore on Sunday, for instance. Not by herself.

  With a frown, she considered her corset. Hmmm. Generally speaking, Belle didn’t need assistance in dressing. Knowing she’d have no family members handy to assist her when she moved from Georgia to New York, she’d altered her clothes so that she could don them and doff them by herself. However, she hadn’t thought to bring a button hook along with her today. She jumped and emitted a gasp of alarm when the curtain rod behind her made the scraping sound indicative of the curtain being moved. Holding her shirtwaist up to cover her bosom, she relaxed when she saw Gladys’s face peeking at her from behind the curtain.

  “It’s only I, Belle. I thought you might need some help.”

  “Thank you very much.” Belle breathed more easily when she realized the kind woman had understood she might be uncertain and uncomfortable and wanted to ease her discomfort. She breathed even more easily when Gladys unlaced her corset at the back and the garment fell away. Belle sucked in a huge breath and murmured, “Ah.”

  “I understand that tightly laced corsets can be unhealthy, Belle,” Gladys said in a woman-to-woman voice she might use to a friend. “Perhaps you oughtn’t lace yours so tightly.”

  Belle stared at her, and Gladys reddened once more. “I’m not criticizing, dear. I’m only interested in your health. I read about corsets in McCall’s Magazine. Health-conscious people are recommending we not lace them as tightly as our mothers used to do.”

  “Thank you.” Belle was pleased to note that the chill she felt inside hadn’t leeched into her voice.

  Gladys flapped a hand in the air. “Oh, dear, I’ve offended you. I’m sorry, Belle. It’s none of my business how you dress. And you always look neat and tidy and perfect. It’s only that you might be able to breathe more easily if you didn’t lace yourself so tightly.” She gave a short, artificial-sounding laugh. “I understand that ladies who lace their corsets tightly are more apt to faint than those who don’t. I should think caring for children would require a good deal of breath.” Frowning slightly, she added, “I thought I’d die yesterday when I had to keep Amalie and Garrett under control for a whole morning.”

  “Yes,” said Belle, trying not to sound stiff and repressive, “Caring for children does require a good deal of running around.”

  “Well, then, there. You see?” As if she’d embarrassed herself enough and didn’t care to do it any more, Gladys subsided into a corner with her hands folded at her waist. “That’s a nice wrapper, dear. It will look wonderful on you, I’m sure.”

  Belle wasn’t. Turning to gaze at the garment, she guessed it wasn’t bad. Win had selected a garment crafted from a blue fabric decorated with light yellow stars. Not that the colors would show in the photograph. But it was rather pretty, especially with its lacy whit
e collar. In truth, Belle wouldn’t mind owning such a garment, although she could never afford to buy one. She might be able to sew one up.

  But that was a frivolous thought, and Belle was not a frivolous girl. She was a working woman, and needed to keep her family’s straitened circumstances in mind at all times. After all, they depended on her.

  A tiny itch of resentment surprised her, and Belle felt guilty. Good heavens, what kind of an unnatural daughter was she, that she could even think of buying herself an unnecessary bed-time wrapper when her family in Georgia remained in need?

  Of course, if the rest of them would get up off their bottoms and go to work, as she’d done, they might not be in such need all the time.

  Belle slapped her hand over her mouth, as if to squash the words before they could leak out. Whatever was she thinking? This was terrible.

  Before her mind could formulate other rebellious thoughts, she grabbed the wrapper from the back of the chaise over which Win had thrown it, and slipped it over her head. Oh, it did feel good. Cozy. Comfortable.

  Maybe Belle ought to take Gladys’s advice and loosen her stays tomorrow. A little. It wouldn’t hurt to be a trifle more comfortable as she went about her daily business. Gladys was right in that caring for children was an energetic pastime; it wouldn’t hurt to be able to do it more easily. In fact, she might do her job better if she weren’t always out of breath. She felt more comfortable in her mind when she considered loosening her corset as being in the line of duty.

  Win’s voice interrupted her train of thought. “Are you almost ready, Miss Monroe?”

  Belle realized she’d been dawdling and hurried to button herself up the front. The fabric felt so good against her skin. It was a soft flannel and perfect for the photograph Win had proposed next. “I’ll be right there,” she called, forgetting to get mad at him for sounding exasperated. “One more little minute, please.”

  “Mr. Asher’s got us on a couple of cots, Miss Monroe,” Amalie informed her in a yell, presumably so that Belle could hear her better. “He said he bought them special for us, for these pictures.”

  “Goodness,” said Belle, glancing at herself in the mirror set up in the dressing room. “That’s exciting.”

  She’d almost forgotten Gladys was still in the dressing area with her until that lady said, “I’ll just step out now, Belle. You look wonderful.” She left the dressing room.

  She also left Belle wondering why she should have sounded so wistful. Surely, Mrs. George Richmond could have any number of pretty wrappers sewn up, in which to tuck her children into bed. Mr. Richmond, while something of a bore, was a genuinely fond husband and father. He’d never balk at buying Gladys anything she asked for.

  It occurred to Belle as she left the dressing area that perhaps Gladys had been wistful about something else, although she couldn’t think what it might be. “I’m ready now,” she said, fussing with the folds of the wrapper. When she glanced up, she was alarmed to see all the people in the booth staring at her.

  “Oh!” she cried. “What is it? Do I have a spider in my hair or something?” She batted at her hair, horrified that something of the sort might have occurred. Belle wasn’t fond of bugs.

  Win was the first to move. He lurched toward his camera. “No,” he said. “You’re fine. Fine.”

  “You look beautiful, Miss Monroe.”

  Belle glanced sharply at Amalie, the little girl’s tone of voice having startled her. Good gracious, the child sounded awestruck. Looked it, too.

  Finally deciding she simply didn’t understand Yankee sensibilities, Belle laughed indulgently and said, “Thank you, Amalie dear.”

  Garrett yawned, from which gesture Belle assumed that he was unmoved by her purported beauty. She smiled at the boy, thinking how nice it would be to have a little boy and a little girl of her own; a little girl upon whom to lavish her womanly knowledge—such as it was—and a little boy to keep her vanity in check. She stopped before the platform, turned, and looked for direction from Win.

  She was a little disconcerting to find him standing beside his camera, arms folded over his chest, scowling at her. Again, she patted her hair. “What is it?”

  He gave a little start, as if her question had jolted him out of a brown study. “Nothing,” he said. “You’re fine.” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you get up on the platform, Miss Monroe, and stand beside Miss Amalie’s cot.”

  With one last glance at him—Belle didn’t understand why he looked at her so oddly—she did as he’d requested. Amalie was still gazing at her as if she’d been stunned by a hard blow, so Belle smiled down at her. “You look comfy, Amalie.”

  “I am,” the little girl said. “When I grow up, will I be as pretty as you?”

  The question so astonished Belle, she nearly tripped on her hem and went sprawling. “Good heavens, darling, of course you’ll be pretty when you grow up!” Because Belle knew, from lessons imparted to her as a child, that beauty was only skin deep, she added conscientiously, “You’ll be pretty inside and out. It’s the inside prettiness that counts the most.”

  Amalie appeared unconvinced. She sounded it, too, when she grumbled, “I don’t know what good a pretty tummy will do me.”

  Surprised by the comment, Belle laughed. Amalie frowned, and Belle regretted her impulsive laugh. Children often didn’t know how amusing they were, and didn’t like it when it was pointed out. She didn’t have time to apologize to the girl because Win interrupted them.

  “All right, now bend over, as if you’re giving Miss Amalie a good-night kiss, Miss Monroe.” He still hadn’t ducked under his black cloth.

  Presuming that he was merely seeing how different poses looked to him, Belle did as he’d asked. She bent over Amalie and put a hand out to brush the hair away from the little girl’s brow. She remained bent over under her back started to hurt, and still Win said nothing. At last, she glanced at him. “Is this all right, Mr. Asher?”

  He jerked, as if he’d been lost in contemplation of the picture she and Amalie made. Garrett had sat up on his own cot and was engaged in making faces and twiddling his thumbs. “Sorry,” Win said. “Yes. That’s fine. Master Garrett, it’s time for you to lie down again.”

  With a noisy sigh, Garrett complied with Win’s request.

  “All right,” Win continued, “that was good, Miss Monroe—when you had your hand on Miss Amalie’s forehead.”

  Belle brushed the hair away again. “Like this?”

  “Right. Keep your hand there.”

  She did so. Finally, much to the relief of Belle and her back, Win ducked under the curtain. “Don’t move!” he called. “Garrett, stay still.”

  The flash powder produced its explosion, light jarred Belle’s senses, and Win called out, “Great! That’s perfect.”

  She stood up and pressed a hand to her lower back. “Ooh, staying bent over that way was very uncomfortable, Mr. Asher.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, fiddling with his camera.

  Belle got the impression he didn’t have any idea what he’d just apologized for. She sighed, realizing she ought to have expected such a reaction from him. He was a decidedly single-minded young man.

  “According to Miss Isabella Chalmers Primm,” Gladys said from her bench, “the longer a lady relies on her corsets to keep her posture, the more her back muscles will weaken.”

  “Is that so?” Belle said politely, wondering when it had become proper to refer to ladies’ nether garments in the presence of men. Yankees. She chalked up all of these shocks to her nervous system to being in the presence of Yankees.

  Still and all . . . Perhaps it would be a good idea to strengthen her back muscles. After all, one’s back was important to one’s overall health. At least, she supposed it was.

  At last her abuser—that is to say, her photographer—stopped fooling with his equipment and turned to her. He even smiled. “That was good,” Win said. “Now, if you’ll move out of the way, Miss Monroe, I’m going to fix those cots in a
different position.”

  The session continued for another hour, until Amalie and Garrett started whining. Belle didn’t blame them; she felt like whining herself, especially when she had to take off the cozy wrapper and don her corset once more. That did it. She was definitely going to loosen her stays as soon as she got back to her hotel room.

  Win foiled her fond musings. “Say, Miss Monroe, would you mind remaining here for a little while?” As if he didn’t care what she minded, he turned at once to Gladys. “Would it be all right if I borrowed your nanny for about an hour, Mrs. Richmond? I have an idea for the first of the Perfect American Woman series.”

  “But . . .” Belle wasn’t given the chance to complete her thought.

  “I don’t know,” Gladys said doubtfully. Belle imagined she was thinking about how difficult it had been for her to handle the children by herself the day before.

  She said, “I don’t—”

  Again, she wasn’t allowed to finish her sentence. Win said, “I promise I won’t keep her for more than an hour, and I’ll see her safely to the hotel.”

  Gladys frowned as she eyed her children. Belle tried again. “I really think—”

  This time it was Amalie who interrupted her. “We’ll be good, Mama.” She eyed her brother and said in a menacing tone, “Won’t we, Garrett?”

  Garrett shrugged. “Sure.”

  This support from her darlings gratified their mother. Gladys smiled tenderly at her offspring.

  Belle was beginning to feel like a piece of furniture; a frustrated and angry piece of furniture. “But—”

  “I think that will be fine, Mr. Asher,” Gladys said at last. “As long as the children behave. And Mr. Richmond will be there to see that they do behave.” She turned to Belle. “Is that all right with you, Belle?”

  Finally! Belle opened her mouth to state emphatically that it was not all right with her, but she wasn’t allowed to speak.