On the other hand, why should Belle’s family, who only had inertia and poverty to overcome, continue to sit on their backsides and languish in want when all it would take was a little get-up-and-go to better their lot in life. Look at Kate, for heaven’s sake! And even Belle herself. Shoot, her family was still annoyed with her for seeking paid employment.
Belle didn’t know what to make of any of it. She feared she was doing her family an injustice. But still and all . . . If Kate Finney could take care of her mother and herself after climbing up from circumstances so appalling as to be off the scale of Belle’s understanding until today, why the deuce couldn’t her father get a blasted job and support his family? Was family honor—whatever that word meant—more important than food, for heaven’s sake? Was it better to do nothing than get an honest job for honest wages, even if it wasn’t as grand a job as one’s ancestors might have wanted for one?
She pressed a hand to her brow. Her head ached. Small wonder. “Do you think we could get a bite to eat, Gladys? I have quite a headache, and believe I need to sit down for a while.”
Instantly, Gladys’s sympathetic side surfaced. She grabbed Belle’s arm and looked stricken. “Oh, Belle! I’m so sorry! Of course, you need to sit down and eat something. You’ve been through an awful ordeal. I’m so sorry I didn’t think of it at once.”
Before Belle could protest—she hadn’t wanted to cause a fuss—Gladys called to her children. “Garrett! Amalie! We’re going to have luncheon. You can watch the puppet show later.” The children had been staring, fascinated, at an elaborate booth made up to resemble a stage, where a couple of puppets were hitting each other with sticks.
Recalling the earlier events of the day, Belle decided children shouldn’t be allowed to watch such violent sketches, although she kept her opinion to herself. “Really, Gladys, I’ll be fine. I guess it’s just a reaction to that awful scene in Kate’s booth.”
Gladys patted her arm. “I’m sure you’re right, dear, but we need to get you out of the sun and into a shady spot and feed you something. Maybe a glass of cold tea will help your headache.”
“Thank you. That sounds wonderful.”
The cold tea helped. So did lunch. By the time she was through with both and she and Gladys had discussed Kate Finney’s problems until they were threadbare, Belle guessed she was ready to face Win Asher again.
She wasn’t quite sure she trusted him, though. He’d said something about a photograph and arrangements. If that picture, whatever it was, showed up anywhere but in Germany, Belle might just have to take her other parasol to Win.
Chapter Ten
“My darling, darling Belle. Your papa and I do so enjoy your entertaining letters home, even though it would be much more comforting to have you here with us. As much as I try to calm myself with regard to your welfare, I fear my nerves remain in a state.”
Belle clamped her teeth on her lower lip and forged onward through her mother’s letter. “I know you do your very best to hide your unhappiness and are attempting with every waking breath to portray your ordeal in the best light, but I can’t bear to feature you up there in the frozen north, my dearest, only daughter.”
Wiping perspiration from her neck and face with her hankie, Belle wondered what her mother had been thinking when she’d penned the words on the letter she was reading. Frozen north? At the moment, Belle only wished it were frozen. She was about to melt into a puddle of perspiration right here in Win Asher’s booth. And she was only sitting still on the padded bench beneath the window in Win’s booth. God alone knew what would happen to her if she got up and moved around. She’d probably die of heat prostration.
“I must say, my dear, that this new venture of yours regarding photographs has your father and me in something of a taking. My darling, darling Belle, you know your loving mother would never, ever criticize you—”
“Ha,” said Belle, as she recalled the weeks of wailing and weeping that had followed her announced intention of moving to New York City and securing a job of work that paid actual money. Belle’s family tradition ran more toward whining about the past and weeping over present poverty than toward creating its own, more profitable, future.
“Beg pardon?” Win, who had shed as many clothes as he properly could in deference to the muggy heat, was sorting through photographic images while Belle read her letter. He’d told Belle that he’d stayed up late developing plates the night before.
They were alone in his booth, as Gladys and George had taken their children to a friend’s house for an evening of socializing. Belle had been happy to see them go, not because she didn’t adore the Richmonds, but because a rebellious part of her nature had wanted to be alone with Win Asher. The rest of her nature, needless to say, was shocked and horrified with the rebellious part, but it didn’t make any difference.
She glanced up at him and smiled. She couldn’t help the smile, either, blast it. “Nothing. Just reading this note from my mother.”
“Hmm,” said Win, returning to his work.
Belle sighed, wondering if he’d ever consider her as interesting as his work. Probably not. Recalling the photograph of her that he’d been so excited about, and that he’d showed her the prior afternoon after her headache had abated, she decided she could understand it. Even Belle, for whom modesty was a way of life, could not but consider that photograph a stunning work of art. It didn’t look like her, which was probably why. It was beautiful. Belle always tried to look her best, but she’d never ever looked like that. Considering the miracles he wrought, it was no wonder that Win’s work was much more interesting to him than she.
On that depressing note, she turned back at her letter. “You know, dearest Belle, that the Monroe family is steeped in the glorious traditions of the Noble South, and that we don’t hold with this modern-day obsession with fame and celebrity that the Northern Aggressors seem so keen to promote.”
Yes, yes, Belle thought with asperity. I know all about the Monroes and their glorious traditions. She stopped her mutinous mind from bringing up poverty and false pride and flinging them at her mental image of her parents.
“I do hope,” the letter went on, “that this Mr. Asher is a trustworthy gentleman, although I harbor sincere trepidations in my mother’s fond heart.”
Belle suppressed a second ha, but with difficulty. She’d gotten sick of hearing about her mother’s fond heart when she was around six years old, although she’d not until this minute acknowledged the unfilial truth. She allowed herself another small sigh.
“Never forget, dearest Belle, that he is from the North.” And that, as Belle well knew, said it all.
She writes of him as if he were a savage from the plains of Africa, Belle thought. She’d finished Mr. Haggard’s novel, King Solomon’s Mines and had gone on to read the thrilling She, so the African plains were much on her mind of late.
“What’s the matter, Belle? You don’t look very happy to be reading a letter from home. Something amiss in Georgia?”
Belle didn’t register Win’s use of her Christian name at first. Guilt associated with her reaction to her mother’s letter was uppermost in her thoughts when she jerked her head up and looked at him. His smile, even without the sweltering heat, was enough to melt her bones. It took some effort, but she managed to rein in her rampaging lust. Lord in heaven, Belle couldn’t understand her reaction to the man.
“Oh, no. Nothing’s amiss. My mother tends to be—” She searched her mind for the right word, and ultimately settled on “dramatic.”
“Ah.” His grin broadened slightly. Belle had to swallow. “Like how?”
Her heart banging up a storm, Belle mulled over the possibility that her condition might be heat-related. It didn’t take long for her to conclude that her condition was worse than heat-related. It was Win-related.
“Well,” she said in answer to his question, “for one thing, she thinks I’m living in the frozen North.”
“Frozen?” Win laughed as he, too, drew out a
handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his dripping face. “If it gets any hotter, my photographic plates will melt.”
She smiled at him, feeling vaguely wistful. How nice it would be, she thought, to have a comfortable, easy-going relationship with this man, as Kate Finney had. Maybe Win only liked shameless females. That let Belle out.
“It is warm,” she said. “It’s every bit this hot and humid in Georgia. Maybe it’s even worse there.” She frowned, thinking about the general level of activity in her Georgia home. It ran toward sitting on the front porch and fanning oneself. She didn’t say that. “But that doesn’t mean Chicago’s cold during the summer.” Recalling the weather in New York City when she and the Richmonds had headed to Chicago, she added, “Nor is New York.”
He’d already shoved his handkerchief into his back pocket, so Win used his shirt sleeve to give his forehead another quick swipe before he turned back to sorting through images. “Is she like that generally? I mean, you said she’s dramatic. Does she have hysterics or weep and faint and do things like that? My aunt Theodora is the drama queen in my family. She’s always fainting and getting hysterical.”
Belle thought about it. “She doesn’t get hysterical, but she tends to look on the emotional side of things. Like my moving to New York. She’s still horrified about that. She even swooned when I first told her about it.”
“When you and I first met, I thought you were horrified about it,” Win said, giving her another one of those grins.
“Fiddlesticks.” Now she was annoyed. Why couldn’t she ever be in this man’s company without something controversial cropping up. “I wasn’t horrified. I was coming to grips with the differences between life in the South and life in the North. That’s an entirely different sort of thing.”
“Is it?” He was still chuckling.
“Yes it is.” Blast the man.
“I thought you were still fighting the Civil War.”
“It wasn’t a Civil—” Bother. “Are you trying to rile me, Mr. Win Asher?”
He grinned like an imp, and she knew the answer to her question. Nevertheless, he said, “No, although you’re fun to rile.”
“For your information, life is different here! And so are attitudes.” Belle took on a cargo of sweltering air and decided to drop that topic. It was too volatile, the weather was too hot, and she was too apt to lose her temper, for such a discussion to flourish.
Getting back to the original subject under discussion, she said, “But that’s not what I meant about my mother. She—she—” Bother. Belle thought for a couple of seconds. “She enjoys making the most of things. You know, turning something simple into something overblown and dramatic. She finds the worst possible connotation for anything, however much she has to dig to find one.”
“Sounds like my aunt Theo, all right.”
“My mother carries the tendency to extremes sometimes,” Belle said glumly. “And she has a very large romantic streak.”
“Yeah? Like what?” He pulled out a photograph and stared at it thoughtfully.
Belle wasn’t sure she ought to tell him what she considered the most extreme example of her mother’s romantic tendency, but decided she might as well. “For one thing, she named me Rowena, after that idiotic character in Sir Walter Scott’s novel.”
That caught his attention. Holding the image close to his chest, he stared at her. “Rowena? But I thought your name was Belle.”
“I go by my middle name.”
“Hmmm. I read Ivanhoe. I didn’t think Rowena was so bad.”
“I’m not surprised,” Belle said, feeling a little crabby. “Most men prefer simpering women who don’t give them trouble.”
“Simpering?”
“Yes. It was the other girl in the book, Rebecca, who had all the gumption.” She didn’t understand why she should feel so defensive. After all, she’d amply demonstrated her own initiative, by moving to New York and getting a job. It was aggravating that this man, who was so attractive to her in so many ways, seemed totally oblivious of Belle’s spunk and spirit.
“I don’t like simpering women,” Win exclaimed irritably, going back to sorting his photographs. “I think you’re nuts. Kate Finney’s not a simpering female, and I like her.”
“No,” Belle said, wishing she could throw something at him. “She’s not a simpering female.” It had been she, Rowena Belle Monroe, who’d saved the spunky Kate’s life yesterday. Win Asher didn’t seem to remember that. Belle would have brought it up herself, except she’d been taught that to tout one’s own successes was improper and boastful. She wouldn’t mind if Kate were to pop in and thank her some more right this minute, however.
“Hope Kate’s all right,” Win muttered, selecting several prints he’d set aside and carrying them to the table set up beside his camera. “I love Mr. Kodak.”
“Who’s Mr. Kodak?” And how did he get into this conversation? Belle didn’t like feeling confused, although she supposed she ought to be used to it by this time.
“Camera fellow,” Win said. “He’s the first person ever to create portable cameras and to mass produce photographic plates.”
“Oh.” Relevant, but vexing. Belle would have liked to thrash the simpering-maiden conversation to a standstill, but it was painfully obvious that Win Asher found Mr. Kodak of more interest than anything Belle wanted to talk about. She went back to her letter.
“Darling Belle, please don’t allow that Yankee devil to take advantage of you.”
“Fat chance,” Belle muttered bitterly. He couldn’t even keep her in mind for ten consecutive seconds.
“What’s that?” Win had ducked under his black curtain, but he poked his head out and glanced at Belle.
“Nothing.”
She read on. “You know that Yankee men are all vile seducers, darling, and that they’re still trying to lord it over us because they won a modest victory in the Conflict. You must guard yourself from harm, and keep in mind at all times that your Mama loves you. We’re all praying that you will come to your senses soon and return to the bosom of your loving relations.”
Not a word, Belle noticed, about the money she was sending home. Not a thank-you, or a hint of gratitude. She didn’t understand it. She knew good and well that her family was benefitting from her work here in the so-called frozen, not to mention heathen, North. But would her mother admit it? No. It was all very—very—
“Why are you shaking your head?”
Belle glanced up to see that Win hadn’t ducked under his black curtain again, but was standing beside his camera, scrutinizing her as if she were a landscape he wanted to capture on one of his blasted mass-produced plates. She lifted her chin and did something she never believed she’d do. She confessed her innermost guilt aloud to another human being. “My family sometimes gets my goat, Mr. Asher.”
“Yeah?”
She didn’t appreciate his broad grin. Frowning back at him, she said, “It’s not funny.”
“Of course not.” He laughed.
“Stop laughing at me, Mr. Win Asher.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Win declared. It looked to Belle as if he were having trouble keeping from rolling on the floor in hysterical amusement. “It’s only that you look so prim and proper for someone whose family is getting her goat.”
She straightened. “I do not believe it proper to exhibit displays of emotion in public, Mr. Asher.”
“Call me Win. Please. I’d like to be friends, if you can find it in your Southern-belle’s heart to be friends with so despicable specimen of mankind as a Yankee from Chicago.”
Gazing at him in serious doubt, Belle didn’t answer at once.
He said, “Please? I promise I won’t tell your mother.” He laughed some more.
“It is not funny,” she said through clenched teeth. Sentiments she’d tried to hide for years seemed determined to slither through her defenses today. Resentment, against Win and against her family, finally bubbled over.
“Dad blast it, I se
nd almost all of my money home to my family, and what do they do? Do they even once write a word of thanks? Do they express their gratitude? No! They write to me that they’re worried for my moral welfare, and beg me to come home. Back to the ‘bosom of my loving family,’ according to my mother.” She lifted her mother’s letter and smacked it back down on her lap, making a dent in the middle of the paper with her fist. “It’s—it’s—it’s very upsetting.” It embarrassed her to death that she had to wipe a furious tear away from her cheek.
Win left his camera and walked over to sit on the bench next to her. “I didn’t know all that.” His voice was gentle.
“No,” she said caustically. “You only thought I was a piece of fluff, didn’t you? You never would have guessed that I’m trying my level best to help my family. Damned Yankee.” She felt stupid and beleaguered, and completely humiliated. She nearly jumped out of her sweaty skin when Win put an arm around her shoulder.
“Say, Belle, don’t cry. I had no idea you were working so hard to help your kin.”
She hunched into herself and raged on, unable to stop herself, even though she wanted to. “Of course you didn’t. You only thought people like Kate were trying to better themselves, didn’t you? You never even guessed that because I have manners and value propriety, I could be doing something worthwhile with my life. Oh, no! Not me! It’s only people who put on scandalous costumes and wiggle around in front of a bunch of strangers who get your respect.” She could hardly believe she’d just said that.
“Belle, please . . .”
“Oh, leave me alone!” In total defiance of her words, she turned and threw her arms around Win, who instantly took advantage of the situation and held her close to his chest.
“It’ll be right, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t until the word sweetheart penetrated her head, the hair on which was being nuzzled by Win, that Belle realized what she’d done. She tried to pull away from him, but he held on tight.
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