Just North of Bliss

by Duncan, Alice

  “Belle, will you please settle down so we can discuss this calmly? I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

  Lifting her head to send him one of her best, most accusing glares, she said, “I don’t believe that for an instant!”

  From the expression on his face, Belle knew she was right to disbelieve him. Because she couldn’t do as she wanted to do—pace the booth and shriek and throw things—she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. It wasn’t as satisfying, but it was the best she could do, trapped as she was in whalebone.

  He was plainly troubled by her anger. Belle gave an internal snort of contempt. “Even if you didn’t say the pictures would appear only in Germany, you knew that’s what I thought you meant.”

  “But— Aw, hell, Belle.”

  “And don’t you dare use profanity in my presence!”

  They resumed glaring at one another and kept it up for several seconds. Belle wasn’t ready to give an inch. Win seemed merely disconcerted.

  At last it was he who broke the tension. With a deep sigh, he moved toward a desk in the corner of the booth. Belle eyed him suspiciously. She didn’t really think he’d get out a gun and shoot her, but she wouldn’t put much of anything past him after this day’s revelations.

  There was no gun involved. Instead, he opened a drawer, unlocked a box, opened the lid, and took out a bunch of greenbacks. Belle, whose association with money thus far in life had been brief and transitory, watched with interest shadowed by uneasiness.

  “Dash it, if you won’t be reasonable about this on artistic grounds, maybe the money will soothe your spirits.” When he turned around, he was holding what looked like a mound of money. It was certainly more money than Belle had ever seen.

  Although she didn’t alter her pose, she couldn’t drag her attention from the greenbacks. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I’d pay you to pose for me. Well, I’m paying you.” He thrust the pile of bills at Belle. “Here. A hundred bucks. Just as I promised.”

  Belle eyed the money for a moment longer, feeling a sick sensation in her chest reason. That’s right. She’d almost forgotten the monetary aspect of this deal. “Um, is that really a hundred dollars?”

  He let out a huff of what sounded like disgust. “For God’s— Count it if you don’t trust me, for God’s sake!”

  Belle swallowed and took the bills from Win’s outstretched hand. She stood looking down at the cash for a few seconds, then swallowed and decided that if she had sold her soul for money, like that fellow Faust, she might as well make sure she was being paid the agreed-upon amount for it.

  With a crisp rustle of petticoats, she settled herself farther back on the padded bench and began counting the bills. She felt Win watch her as she did so, and couldn’t recall ever being so uncomfortable.

  Chapter Twelve

  Win jammed his hands into his pockets and stood looking down at Belle, feeling helpless. Worse, his feelings were hurt, and that was plain crazy. What reason had he to feel bad? After all, it had been he who’d deceived Belle.

  Naw. Deceive was too strong a word. He’d manipulated her a little bit. So what? It had been for a good cause. And he’d given her the hundred dollars, hadn’t he? Before he’d even earned it back again. So really, she oughtn’t be so damned furious with him.

  It was no use. He still felt like a worthless, deceitful, underhanded cad. With a sigh, he removed his hands from his pockets and sat down next to her on the bench. She gave a start and jerked away from him, hugging the money to her breast as if she expected him to try to snatch it back. Again, his feelings gave a big, painful twang.

  This was nuts. “Listen, Belle, I’m sorry if you didn’t understand the deal.” His conscience slapped him upside the head, and he amended his statement at once. “That is, I’m sorry if I—if I— Damn it all, why had his conscience taken this, of all times, to start acting up? “I’m sorry I misled you.”

  There. He’d said it, although he wasn’t honestly sure he was sorry. He was definitely sorry she was mad at him, so he guessed it wasn’t too much of a lie.

  She sniffed. Win pressed his lips into a sour line and knew he should have expected as much. “But I paid you the amount we agreed upon, so you shouldn’t be too angry.”

  Her gaze slid from the stack of greenbacks she clutched, to his face. “I appreciate the money.” Her voice was low and strained. “But I wouldn’t have agreed to take it if I’d known my likeness would appear on the front page of a big-city newspaper. Or—” She stopped speaking suddenly, her chocolate-brown eyes opened wide, and she gasped.

  Fearing she was about to suffer a spasm of maidenly distress or something equally southern and beyond his ken, Win put a hand on her shoulder. “Say, Belle, what is it?”

  The look she gave him then was so accusatory, Win feared she’d mistaken him for Jack the Ripper or somebody like that. “What’s the matter?” he demanded again, more harshly.

  “Oh, my land, what if my parents get wind of this?”

  “Of what? I thought they already knew?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, they know I’m posing for photographs, but they don’t know about this.” She gestured toward the cabinet photograph of her displayed in his window.

  “Ah.” Damn. “Um, where did you say you’re from?”

  Belle had sunk her head into her hands—after she’d tucked the bills away in her tiny pocketbook—and moaned, “Blissborough. It’s not very far from Atlanta.”

  “Ah.” For the life of him, Win didn’t know what to say now. The truth of the matter was that H.L. May’s articles, accompanied by whatever photographs went with them, were syndicated in newspapers everywhere. He decided Belle didn’t need to know that yet.

  “They’ll think I’ve sunk beyond anything if they see that picture of me in a Georgia newspaper.”

  Forgetting he was trying to placate the wench, Win said, “That’s plain stupid, Belle! The more places that picture shows up, the more I’ll get paid.”

  She eyed him with what looked a good deal like loathing. “Lucky you.”

  He instantly started backpedaling. “And you! You—you should get a percentage of every placement.”

  Her lovely dark eyes gazed at him in clear disbelief for long enough that Win got edgy and started fidgeting. “I, um, never heard that,” she said at last.

  “I guess we never discussed it,” he muttered. “But it’s the way these things work. You see, every time a photograph of mine appears anywhere—as long as I know about it, or my agent does.” He scowled, thinking about the unfairness of life. “So many unscrupulous people try to steal a man’s work, and don’t want to pay—” Glimpsing Belle’s altered facial expression, he decided he’d better not go in to unscrupulous motives. “I mean, I’m supposed to get paid every time another newspaper or other venue picks up one of my photographs for publication. It’s sort of like books.”

  After several tense seconds, Belle said, “Ah.”

  What the hell did that mean? Ah. Ah? Damn it, Win as getting fed up with this conversation. That being the case, he stood, reached down, grabbed Belle by the arm, and hauled her up off the bench. “Come with me. I’m going to talk some sense into you.” And he was going to do it somewhere they couldn’t be interrupted.

  “What are you doing?” Belle cried.

  “You heard me.” Win snatched his hat on the way out of the booth without releasing Belle’s arm.

  # # #

  Belle figured the thrill she experienced from Win’s forceful treatment of her was only further indication of her fallen nature. It was her bad luck that her fallen nature seemed to have beaten the rest of her nature into submission. The thought of that hundred dollars in her reticule had obviously softened her moral character.

  Nevertheless, she did manage to dig in her heels. Since that didn’t stop Win’s forward motion appreciably, she only succeeded in scuffing her shoes. “Where are we going? What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking you s
omewhere to talk some sense into you.” He continued to haul her along.

  She saw a gentleman in a tweed suit, accompanied by a stout lady in plaid, lift his hand to shade his eyes and stare at them. The tweed man frowned at Win, who scowled back. Fellow appeared taken aback, turned at once, and hurried his stout companion on. Some gentleman he was, Belle thought bitterly. Damned Yankees.

  “You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Win growled. “I thought you didn’t want anyone noticing you.”

  “It’s not I who’s making a spectacle of me!” she whispered indignantly. However, she did stop resisting. Not only was resistance bad for her shoes, but she couldn’t catch her breath.

  A group of young man stood idling beside one of the beautiful statues set up on the grounds of the Exposition. They were dressed in the height of fashion, and looked to Belle as if they were practicing languor as an art form. One of the young men lifted a—good heavens, was that thing a monocle? How affected!—to his eyes and ogled Belle. Nudging his nearest companion, he nodded toward Belle and Win. His companion grinned and winked at Belle. The rest of the young men turned to stare at them, too.

  She lifted her nose, thinking those ill-bred, though evidently well-off, fellows wouldn’t dare to do such a thing to a lady whose photograph hadn’t appeared on the front page of the Chicago Globe. “Drat you, Win Asher! Did you see that?”

  “Yes.” Win turned to the group of young men and bellowed, “Who are you staring at, you filthy louts? My lady friend doesn’t appreciate your obnoxious attentions. Mind your own business or I’ll level the lot of you!”

  The young men clearly had never been called to account for their rudeness before this. The first man dropped his monocle and retreated a step. The second fellow stuttered, “S-s-sorry, sir. We didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Humph,” Win growled. “A likely story.”

  The young men turned as if they were connected by a string, and started walking away from Belle and Win. Win sneered. “Cowards.”

  “That was your fault,” Belle said furiously. “They probably think I’m a—a—” She couldn’t say the word. Figuring it wouldn’t hurt, and might just help, she tried yanking her arm from his grip. As she’d suspected, that didn’t work, because his hold on her was firm. So firm, indeed, that she’d probably have bruises on the morrow. She wondered how well they’d photograph.

  “Applesauce. They were only strutting their stuff and trying to be sophisticated.”

  “It’s still your fault,” she muttered.

  “Just be still for a minute, and we’ll be able to talk this thing out.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. You misled me, and now I’ll have to pay the consequences.” She added a sniff. It wasn’t a very potent one because of the corset situation, but it demonstrated her displeasure.

  “You’re being unreasonable, damn it.”

  “Don’t swear at me, drat you!”

  He didn’t respond, but came to a precipitate halt in front of a boating dock, causing Belle, who hadn’t been able to keep up with him after he stopped pulling on her, to bump into his back. He turned to give her a hideous scowl, which wasn’t fair.

  “It’s your fault for dragging me,” she panted, worried that she might faint. Her mother was always fainting. Belle had heretofore chalked up this aspect of her mother’s character to her dramatic tendencies, but now she wondered if she swooned all the time because she laced her stays too tightly.

  Win didn’t bother with a rebuttal. He didn’t speak to her at all, in fact, but rather to a young lad who was grinning at the two of them like an imp. Belle felt herself flush with embarrassment. “Taking your lady on a boat ride, Mr. Asher?” the lad said, tipping Win a wink.

  “Right.” Win thrust some money at the boy. “I don’t know how long we’ll be on the canal.”

  Pressing a hand to her bosom in hopes of stilling her wildly beating heart, Belle looked around. She hadn’t been paying attention to where they were headed, but now that they were here, she realized Win was renting a boat.

  The World’s Columbian Exposition had been built on what had basically been a swamp. Since water was plentiful, they’d taken advantage of it and created a series of waterways that threaded the Exposition grounds, interspersed with numerous lovely lakes. The landscaping surrounding the rivers and lakes was breathtaking, even when one hadn’t laced ones corset too tightly. Belle realized Win expected to take her out on one of the rowboats being rented to take advantage of the waterways, and yanked at her hand again.

  “I can’t go out there with you!” she hissed, thinking of her already tarnished virtue.

  “Hush. Here, Buster. I’ll take the oars.”

  “Sure thing, Mister Asher.” With a laugh that sounded too lascivious to be coming from a boy his age, Buster took up a pair of oars.

  Before taking them from the boy, Win lifted Belle into the small rowboat. She was too shocked to struggle, although she might not have struggled had shock not been a problem. She was already a spectacle. She didn’t much care to become a waterlogged one. The boat rocked wildly as soon as Win plunked her down on the bench. Belle uttered a soft shriek and gripped the sides of the boat.

  “Thanks, Buster.” Win grabbed the oars from his collaborator in crime and deftly climbed into the boat. To Belle he grumbled, “No need to scream, Belle. I know how to row a boat.”

  “Blast you, Win Asher!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” His mouth closed and his lips pressed together until white encircled it in his tanned face.

  He was furious, Belle realized. As furious as she. And for no reason. At least she had a reason for her wrath. If she’d dared let go of the sides of the boat, she’d have crossed her arms across her chest and stared off into the distance, as there didn’t seem to be any other way to express her anger and disapproval. Since that option was denied her—she’d never been on a boat before, didn’t know how to swim, and wasn’t fond of being on the water—she settled for turning her head and staring at the shore, trying to ignore Win.

  He didn’t speak for what seemed to Belle like hours, but was probably only several minutes. He was rowing fast. The little boat seemed to zoom through across the lake. In spite of herself, Belle enjoyed the view.

  The entire Columbian Exposition was beautiful. The buildings, most crafted in the Beaux Arts style—Belle had read a little bit about the school of art—were gorgeous. The landscaping, which she could see better from the water than from on the walkways, was lush and beautiful. She realized that Win had rowed them to the Wooded Island because she saw the magnificent rose garden. She sighed with pleasure before she could catch herself.

  One day, she promised herself, she was going to have a rose garden. Even if she remained impoverished and had to move back to Blissborough and live in her parents’ dilapidated home, there was no earthly reason she had to forego the pleasure of roses. The disloyal thought niggled at her that her mother had deliberately denied herself some of life’s inexpensive pleasures for no better reason than that she wanted people to feel sorry for her.

  “Phooh,” she muttered under her breath, irked that she should be thinking such things in the present circumstance. She shot a glance at Win. Sure enough, he was staring straight at her. Vexed, she said, “Don’t you have to look where you’re going?”

  “No.”

  Since he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, Belle guessed he didn’t have to look. Drat it. It was uncomfortable to be stared at, especially since his expression was odd. It wasn’t long before she gave up looking at him at all, but turned her head to view the scenery, which was lovely. They were on a waterway that bore a resemblance to pictures Belle had seen of rivers in the Belgian Congo, with thick vegetation growing everywhere. She’d have been surprised, but not very, if a hippopotamus suddenly showed up.

  She grabbed the sides of the rowboat and uttered a gasp of alarm when the boat came to a bumpy stop. Glancing around wildly, Belle realized Win had pulled into a tiny indentation in one
of the islands. “What are you doing? Did we run aground?” She thought that was the right terminology.

  “On purpose,” he said shortly.

  Good Lord, he wasn’t going to drown her, was he?

  He seemed to sense her fear. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you, dash it. I just need to talk to you. We need to get this straightened out.”

  She sniffed. “I want to be taken back to—to—” Drat it, she couldn’t remember where Gladys and Amalie were. Ah, yes. “—to the balloon ascension.”

  “You can’t get in without a pass, and I don’t have any more passes.”

  He did whatever oarsmen did with their oars when they weren’t in use. Belle vaguely recalled that there was a term for it, but she didn’t know what it was. Eyeing him suspiciously, she said, “What are you doing now?”

  “Damn it, Belle Monroe, you’re driving me crazy.”

  She goggled at him, even though she knew goggling was unladylike. “I! Driving you crazy?”

  “Yes.”

  Since he’d taken to glaring at her savagely, Belle guessed he meant it. Still, she didn’t understand, and her own temper blossomed like a rosebud on a hot day. “How dare you? I’m the one who’s been lied to and misled and—”

  “Damn it, you’ve been paid!”

  His roar was so loud, Belle clapped her hands over her ears. Shooting him what she hoped was a hideous frown, she snapped, “Money doesn’t make up for the humiliation of having my likeness plastered all over the United States!”

  “Humiliation! Humiliation?”

  “Yes! I know you told me it would only appear in Germany! I know it, blast you Win Asher!”

  “Humiliation, my foot! You’re being completely unreasonable. You’re a beautiful woman, damn it! You ought to be proud of yourself, not hollering at me because I discovered you like—like—like a swan in a herd of ducklings!”

  “Flock,” Belle muttered. She felt sort of as if he’d thrown a blanket over her temper with that comment about her alleged beauty. Belle tried at all times to look her best, but she’d never thought of herself as particularly beautiful. Her swooning mother was the beauty of the family. Belle was too independent, too stubborn, and too unlike the rest of her family to be considered . . .