Chapter One

 

“New York?” Rowena Belle Monroe gulped, although her stiff posture didn’t sag a whit. This was only partially due to the rigidity of her corset stays. The rest was pure breeding.

Even in the misery of the most hot and humid day of summer, Belle did nothing more than fan herself once or twice in order to shoo the flies away from her glowing countenance. She knew her place in the world as a proper southern lady.

Miss Philomena Sprockett, proprietress of Sprockett’s Discreet Domestic Employment Services in the quaint old city of Blissborough, Georgia, nodded. “Yes. New York City, New York State.”

“I see.” Belle’s stomach pitched and rolled. It took a good deal of effort for her not to do likewise. But . . . New York?

Miss Sprockett adjusted the steel-rimmed spectacles sliding down her long, thin nose. “Indeed.” Squinting through the spectacles, she peered at the printed form she held in fingers as long and thin as her nose. After consulting the words printed thereon, she spoke again. “The family name is Richmond. Mr. George Richmond is involved with banks, stocks, and investments. Mrs. Richmond is the former Miss Gladys Lodge. I believe she is a distant relation of the Boston Lodges.” Miss Sprockett peeked over the upper rim of her spectacles at Belle. “The Boston Lodges are an old and respectable family. For Yankees.”

Belle nodded. She understood the significance of that. Because she was feeling faint and didn’t approve, she decided to participate in the conversation in an effort to soothe her leaping nerves. “And you say they have two children?”

“Indeed. A girl, five; and a boy, seven. The Richmonds are looking for a genteel lady to serve as nanny to the children.” Miss Sprockett offered Belle a thin smile. “For gentility, even Yankees look to the South.”

“I see.” New York City. Good Gad, could Belle Monroe survive in New York City? Her blue Georgia blood ran cold at the thought.

“Of course, I thought of you, Belle. Since you came to see me last week regarding securing employment, I’ve been thinking hard about your situation.”

Belle knew the expression on Miss Sprockett’s face was meant to convey kindness and sympathy, but the poor woman looked too much like Belle’s childhood ideal of a wicked witch to achieve this aim. Because she feared she might burst into tears, Belle seized upon the New York couple’s last name. After clearing her throat, she said, “Their name is Richmond?”

Miss Sprockett nodded. “They have offered to pay train fare from Atlanta to New York City.”

Silence spread through the hot, tidy office like a fog. Belle gulped again. This was such a huge step for her. No one in her family for as far back as anybody could remember had ever left the great state of Georgia in pursuit of employment. The Recent Unpleasantness was, of course, an exception to this standard, but the nobility of fighting for a just cause excused the soldiers in Belle’s family from any hint of impropriety that might otherwise have attached to them for heading North.

New York City. Belle couldn’t even conceive of such a thing.

Before the silence could swallow both women whole, Miss Sprockett spoke once more, her voice low, again intending a gentleness Miss Sprockett could never achieve in this life. “It’s a very good offer, Belle. I fear it’s the best one you’ll receive, employment opportunities for young ladies in Blissborough being what they are.”

Slowly Belle nodded. She knew all about employment opportunities for young ladies of her station in life in Blissborough. There weren’t any. In order to secure employment in Blissborough, one had to come from less exalted stock than Belle had. Too bad a little money hadn’t been passed on to the Monroe family along with its pride of station and glorious heritage.

“Richmond,” she whispered, testing the name on her tongue. The name comforted her. Richmond was the capitol of Virginia. Richmond was home to generations of proper southern families and traditions. Richmond was a good name. A noble name.

It was the name of a family of rich damned Yankees who lived in New York City and needed a nanny.

Belle chided herself at once. She was in no position to cavil at the injustices of life or of the absurdity of so fine a name belonging to a New York family. She needed employment. While her family was happy to support her, Belle knew they had little with which to do so. The Monroe family fortune had been burned to a cinder by that marauding fiend, Sherman, and it hadn’t recovered in the thirty years since the end of the Northern Aggression.

And the family name was Richmond.

Lifting her chin and gripping the small reticule residing on her lap, she said, “Very well.”

Miss Sprockett beamed at her. “Excellent! I’m sure you’ll be happy with this decision, Belle. It’s possibly the best employment opportunity we’ve seen here at Sprockett’s, and I’m very glad it will be you who will profit from it, since you’re by far the best qualified young woman in the entire town of Blissborough to fill it.”

That was something, anyway. Belle tried to be pleased with Miss Sprockett’s praise and commendation, but she wasn’t. Because she was the most proper and polite of young southern ladies, however, she did come up with a smile. “Thank you, Miss Sprockett.”

“I shall write to the Richmonds immediately. I expect that you’ll be leaving within the month. That should give you time to prepare your wardrobe and attend to any little details here in Blissborough.”

Prepare her wardrobe and attend to little details. Right. Belle’s wardrobe was so pitiful, it needed no attention, since Belle had to keep it mended and darned in order to keep from going naked on a daily basis. As for little details, Belle expected the most formidable of these would be imparting unto her family the news of her impending employment and move to New York.

The Monroes would be horrified to know that a daughter of their bosom would be leaving her beautiful, if slightly dilapidated, family home for the devilish world of New York. For that matter, Belle was plenty horrified herself.

# # #

Win Asher’s jaw ached from being clenched so tightly for so long. He pried his teeth far enough apart to say, “That’s a good lad. Now try to sit still for another little minute and let’s see if we can get this over with.” He dashed for his camera. The damned child was only three years old. Win supposed he ought to be patient.

He wasn’t patient. He wanted to thrash the beastly little monster. He wanted to pick him up and hurl him through the window of his booth on the Midway Plaisance. He wanted to tell the boy’s large, fussy mother to go to hell and take her large, fussy kid with her.

“Isn’t he just a darling?” the boy’s mother cooed.

Win heard his teeth grind.

The boy moved. Win’s patience snapped. “No!” He threw the black curtain up with such force that it flopped over on the other side of his camera. Standing, not daring to move from behind his camera for fear of what he might do to the boy—or his mother—Win clenched his fists and scowled.

“Oh, dear,” said the boy’s mother, rushing over to her fat little brat of a child, who’d stuck his fist into his fat mouth the instant Win had positioned himself behind his camera. “Is something the matter, sweetums? Can Mama help little sweetums sit still with another gumdrop?”

Win feared his teeth wouldn’t survive his latest business venture. He’d believed himself to be the most fortunate of men when the directors of the World’s Columbian Exposition selected him to be the fair’s official photographer. He still believed that, for the most part. He’d made lots of money so far, and his photographs were appearing in newspapers and periodicals worldwide.

Unfortunately, he still had to communicate with the public, since that was part of the deal he’d struck with the fair directors. They’d told him that his booth would draw people to the fair, thereby contributing to the profitability of the entire Exposition, not to mention Win himself.

They were right. They had not, however, told him how to deal with fat mothers and their fat brats who wouldn’t sit still to be photographed. As he watched the woman and her child, he felt his rage rise like the mercury in a thermometer on a hellish day. Because he didn’t dare speak yet and couldn’t bear watching that miserable excuse for a family any longer, he turned his head with some difficulty—all the muscles in his body, including those in his shoulders and neck, felt as if they’d been cemented into place—and looked out his front window.

He took a deep breath and commanded himself to calm down. That devil and her spawn would go away soon. He only had to take one more little photograph of the junior fiend, and he could forget about him forevermore, except when his obnoxious and doting mother came back to pick up the finished product. He reminded himself that not all of his subjects were as difficult to manage as that toadlike boy now squatting in front of his favorite canvas backdrop and smearing himself with gumdrop goo. Most children, while not Win’s favorite subjects for photographs, were more or less manageable. Not this one. This one was a pure—

Win’s brain went blank and his eyes popped open when he saw, walking down the Midway Plaisance along with the teeming throng of fair-goers, the most spectacular subject of a photograph he had ever seen. Forgetting all about Mr. Wiggles and his corpulent mother, he dashed to the door of his booth in order to get a better look.

“Mr. Asher?”

Evidently Win’s abrupt abandonment of his camera had startled Mr. Wiggles’ mother. Not turning his head from the scene outside, Win waved a hand. “Just a minute. Make the boy sit still, will you?”

“Well, I never—”

But Win didn’t wait around to see what Mr. Wiggles’ mother had never. He darted out the door once he ascertained for certain that his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him.

Entranced, he stared at the stunning woman and the two charming children walking toward him. All three of them were taking in the crowds and the colors and the sights of the Midway as if they were fascinated by it all. Which, Win thought, they undoubtedly were. The World’s Columbian Exposition was an astonishing example of the American mind and spirit. The creativity and innovation that had gone into its production boggled Win’s mind.

The World’s Columbian Exposition had been intended to be a showcase of American ingenuity, enterprise, and character, and its directors had succeeded in their goal beyond anyone’s most exalted anticipation. The fair exhibited the brilliance of a country founded on the tenets of freedom and equality better than anything else ever had. Not even the fabulous wealth of the Morgans or Rockefellers displayed the true essence of the American experience, to Win’s mind. Hell, there were rich people everywhere. Only in America could a fellow decide for himself what path to take in life and then take it. Only in America did such opportunities flourish.

And there, strolling along the Midway in the bright summer sunshine of this perfect June day, came the epitome of everything good about the United States. Win’s heart felt full to overflowing as he watched the woman and her children. For a fleeting second he envied the woman’s husband; any man must be congratulated for attaching that object of perfection unto himself.

The little girl wore a pink checked summer frock with a low waist bound with a sash in a deeper shade of pink. On her pretty blonde curls sat a straw bonnet encircled by a similar sash, the tails of which fluttered at her back. Her feet were encased in white cotton stockings and black patent-leather Mary Janes. The boy, a sturdy fellow of six or seven, wore a natty sailor suit and a straw boater. The costume was fashionable yet manly, and Win approved. He felt sorry for little boys whose mothers insisted on dressing them in blue velvet and other sissy fabrics.

This mother, however, hadn’t allowed the boy to suffer such an indignity. Offhand, Win couldn’t recall ever espying a woman so perfectly perfect for the role of American Mother. Her own gown was made of blue-and-white sprig muslin, and she carried a parasol which she used to shade the children. Her own shining chestnut curls were capped with a broad-brimmed straw bonnet with a blue ribbon drawn over the crown and tied under her shapely chin. Win stared, agog.

There she was, walking along his own very Midway. The true American beauty: Mother, wife, daughter, sister, lover, nurturer. She was perfect. Utterly perfect.

Win had to swallow when she leaned over, smiled sweetly at the little girl at her side, and pointed out something of interest. Both children smiled and looked. The little girl giggled. The woman, angelic in her flawless radiance, clapped a hand to her straw hat when a breeze lifted its brim, thereby exposing another half-inch or so of her perfect alabaster forehead.

“Mr. Asher!” came the imperious voice of Mr. Wiggles’ mother from behind him.

Again Win waved her to silence. Her heard her give a humph of irritation, and he didn’t care.

He had to capture that icon of unsurpassed American motherhood on film. It didn’t matter that Win had no idea on earth who the woman was. It didn’t matter that Mr. Wiggles’ mother was steaming and blowing behind him. Let her steam and blow. She was about as far from the angelic perfection of that vision and her children as the hell was from heaven.

Win darted away from the door and rushed over to the woman and her cherubic children.

# # #

“It is darling, isn’t it, Amalie?”

“Can I show it to Mama, Miss Monroe? Do you think she’ll get it for me?”

Belle laughed. She adored her charges, Garrett and Amalie Richmond, even if, after all these months in the Richmonds’ employ, their twangy Yankee accents still rattled her occasionally. They were sweet children. Never mind that they had been born in New York City to Yankee parents. That wasn’t their fault and couldn’t be held against them.

Although Belle would never admit it to anyone aloud, she was beginning to wonder if all of her family’s fears and strictures against the North were entirely justified. Not, of course, that the North had any business in telling the glorious South how to run its business. And it was purely wicked to have invaded her homeland. Still . . .

In her own mind, Belle sometimes had trouble justifying the evils of slavery in order to support the agrarian South’s former way of life. That rebellious notion was one other thing she’d never dared discuss with her family.

Then there was this business of genteel poverty. Belle loved her family with an undying and almost reverent devotion. She was not, however, as enamored of poverty, genteel or otherwise, as they all seemed to be. And, while she could and did listen with rapt attention to stories of the vanished grandeur and fabulous, not to say ostentatious, wealth of her deceased forebears, she’d decided long since that she didn’t aim to languish in regret for the bygone era of her family’s days as rich tobacco planters.

Belle considered herself a sensible young lady. In her sensible opinion, it was better to make something of the life into which a body had been born than to pine over a civilization that was, sad to say, gone forever and had been for decades.

She’d even been willing to remain firm in the face of her family’s objections to her obtaining employment when she’d graduated from the Young Ladies’ College of Eastern Virginia. As she’d told them all—very politely—as long as she had this education, she might as well use it.

Her mother had fainted when she’d told her she was moving to New York City. When, after Belle had waved a vinaigrette under her nose and Mrs. Monroe had revived, she’d proceeded to cry for three solid days. This overt demonstration of her mother’s worry and woe had hurt Belle and made her feel guilty, but she hadn’t felt guilty enough to change her plans.

When she’d arrived in New York City almost a year ago, she’d instantly harbored fears that her mother had been right, and that no proper southern lady had any business in the raucous, noisy, crowded, smelly, and completely overwhelming cities of the North. The clamor, rudeness, fast pace, and nasal twangs still jarred her sensibilities on a daily basis. Belle had, however, discovered the joys that could be attained from receiving a regular paycheck.

Dutifully, she sent most of her earnings home to Blissborough, knowing that her family needed the money. As for herself, she kept a little pin money, but the kindhearted Richmonds gave her room and board.

All in all, Belle had few complaints about her life in the north. If she occasionally missed the refined manners and soft speech of her Georgia home, she assuaged the ache of homesickness by writing letters to her relations and in reading the letters she received from home. She read a lot of books, too, since the Richmonds were a literary family, and went to the public library regularly.

Belle had known all her life that her mother, a romantically inclined lady with a swooning disposition, had named her after a character in Mr. Scott’s famous novel, Ivanhoe, but Belle hadn’t had an opportunity to read the opus until recently. After having done so, she was more glad than ever that, as a little girl, she’d decided to go by her middle name.

When the Richmonds had decided to go to the World’s Columbian Exposition and had asked her if she’d be willing to accompany them and watch the children, Belle had scarcely believed her ears. Was she willing? Lord have mercy, she was thrilled.

This trip to the World’s Fair in Chicago, Illinois, was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to Belle, and it confirmed her in the opinion that she’d been wise to accept the position as nanny to the Richmond children. She might be breaking with family tradition, and she might have made her mother sad, but she knew good and well that if she’d stayed in Georgia, she never would have seen this fantastic Exposition. Or any other exposition, for that matter. Due to poverty and proud family tradition, the Monroes didn’t get out much.

“Madam! I say, madam!”

So lost in happy daydreams had Belle been that she nearly jumped out of her skin when a young man hurried up to her, shouting. Quick as a wink, she gathered Garrett and Amalie to her side and stood as tall as she could, brandishing her parasol.

“Stay back!” she cried. “Oh, stay back! Villain!”

The young man screeched to a halt and blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

Belle’s heart was pounding like thunder and the blood raced in her veins. Her mother had warned her about the evils abounding in the big city. Belle had heretofore believed Mrs. Monroe had been exaggerating. Yet, here, in the flesh, was a living example of just the sort of dastardly beast about whom she’d been warned. She thrust the point of her parasol at the assaulter. “Stand back! Stand back, I say!”

The masher took a startled step back. “Say, wait a minute, lady, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Belle didn’t believe him for a minute. Even though he didn’t look like a masher—although what the typical masher looked like, Belle couldn’t have said—he clearly was one. Or, she amended conscientiously, if he wasn’t actively malignant, he must at least be deranged. No man of breeding and principle would shout at a complete stranger, and a lady to boot, the way this man had done.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” Garrett’s small voice smote her ear, and Belle stiffened her spine. It was her duty to protect the Richmonds’ children, and she aimed to do her duty.

“This man tried to assault us, Garrett, but don’t fear. I shan’t let him hurt you.”

“Assault you? Hurt you!” The young man’s eyes opened wide and he—Belle couldn’t think of a more polite word for it—goggled at the three of them. “I don’t want to hurt you, ma’am!”

He sounded indignant, and Belle’s temper flared. “No? Then why did you rush up to us in that flagrant, boisterous manner?” She kept her parasol poised, just in case. She was beginning to think that she might have been the least little bit precipitate in her assumption that he was out to do her and the children harm, but she still decried his bad manners.

“Good Lord, no! For Pete’s sake!” He still appeared indignant as he tugged his jacket into place and straightened his cravat.

Belle frowned. In truth, he looked rather elegant. She tried to recall if her mother had ever mentioned elegantly clad mashers, and couldn’t. “I beg your pardon if I’ve wronged you, sir, but you startled me.” She glanced down at the children, who were looking on with interest. Amalie seemed worried. She put her finger in her mouth, a habit of which Belle had been trying to break her.

The young man sucked in a deep breath of fair-scented air. “I ask your pardon, madam. I saw you and your charming children walking on the Midway and was very impressed.”

Belle tilted her head to one side and lifted her chin. So the villain was a masher! She’d allowed her parasol point to drift south until it pointed at the walkway. At once she lifted it.

The man put his hands up. “My intentions are honorable, ma’am! Honest! You can sheathe your weapon.” He eyed the parasol as if he’d like to wrench it from Belle’s hands and break it over his knee. “I only wanted to ask you a question. You and your charming children.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he were trying to hold on to his temper.

This was ridiculous. Belle snapped, “I’m not accustomed to being accosted on a public thoroughfare by a madman, sir. If you have business, please state it, and let us be on our way. If you persist in this indelicate behavior, I shall have to call for help.” There. Let him do anything to her now.

“Oh, for Christ’s . . .” The young man, realizing he’d offended Belle with his blasphemy, retreated a pace, both physically and verbally. “That is to say, my name is Win Asher, Mr. Winslow G. Asher, ma’am, and I’m the official photographer for the World’s Columbian Exposition. When I saw you and your children—your charming children—walking on the Midway, it occurred to me that the three of you would make an enchanting photograph.”

Belle stared at the young man and blinked. “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure she believed him.

Plainly he sensed her doubt because he stood aside and, with a sweeping gesture, drew her attention to his photographic booth. Belle read the gilt sign hanging over the entrance: Asher’s. In smaller black print, beneath the name of the shop, were the words, Official Photographer of the World’s Columbian Exposition. A stout woman stood at the door frowning at him. Belle thought she detected sounds of a whining infant issuing from behind the woman. The noise was unpleasant, and she spared a moment to be glad neither of the Richmond children was inclined to whine.

She cleared her throat. It didn’t help, since she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You see, I’m neither a madman nor a villain, madam. I am, in truth, a portrait artist. My medium is the camera and my canvas is film. I took one look at you and your children—”

He paused, and Belle expected him to amend his sentence by adding a clause featuring the word charming, but he didn’t. “—I took one look at you and your children and immediately envisioned the three of you as a study.”

“A study?” Whatever did that mean?

He waved his arms in another extravagant gesture. Belle didn’t approve of such broad gestures. They were ungenteel and absolutely typical of the slovenly manner prevailing in the northern states.

He nodded. “Yes. You see, as an artistic photographer, I like to do studies, that is to say, series of photographs. I took one look at you and your children—your—”

“Yes,” Belle said impatiently. “I agree that they’re charming. Please continue.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat this time. “The notion of doing a series of photographs featuring the three of you occurred to me when I saw you walking on the Midway.”

“Ah. I see.” She frowned and glanced down at Garrett and Amalie. She was pleased that Amalie no longer sucked her finger. Garrett looked as if he wanted to get on with his day and quit yakking in the middle of the Midway. Belle understood his point of view.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” the young man—she supposed she should begin thinking of him as Mr. Asher—said. “But I didn’t want you to get away before I had a chance to talk to you about my—my—vision.”

Eyeing him from the corner of her eye, Belle thought she detected a hint of embarrassment in his demeanor, as if he wasn’t comfortable talking about visions. “I see.”

“So, will you visit my shop and talk to me about it? Please? I have a customer in there, waiting for me.” He grimaced and added, “The dratted boy won’t sit still. Every time I get under the cloth, he starts to squirm. But I’ll try to finish up as soon as I can so we can discuss the idea of a study.”

Amalie tugged on Belle’s hand. Smiling down at her, Belle saw a hint of eagerness in the clear blue eyes gazing up at her. “Do you want to have your photograph taken, Amalie?”

“Oh, yes, please!” the little girl cried.

Belle glanced at Garrett. “And you, Garrett? Do you think you’d like to have your likeness captured on film?”

The little boy thought about it for a moment. “S’long as we get to see the rest of the fair,” he said after a judicious pause.

Mr. Asher laughed. “I’ll see to it that you get to see the rest of the fair, young man.”

“I’ll see to it that he sees the rest of the fair, Mr. Asher.”

“Of course.”

Belle resented it when he rolled his eyes, as if he found her correction both superfluous and idiotic. “Let me show you to my temporary studio here at the Exposition,” he said, leading the way.

Although she deplored the lax manners predominant in this part of the world, Belle merely sighed as he took off ahead of them. Sometimes she missed the gallantry of her southern homeland. On the other hand, she could use a rest. Her feet hurt from walking all day. She’d promised the Richmonds that she’d be on the Midway at lunchtime. She didn’t suppose it would matter if she awaited their arrival in a photographer’s booth.

Besides, Belle was sure Mrs. Richmond would be thrilled that this photographer, who called himself a portrait artist, considered her children ideal for an entire series of photographs. If Belle ever had children, she knew she’d be proud if such a thing happened to them.

The quartet was met at the door of the booth by the stout lady, who was clearly furious. “I declare, Mr. Asher, why ever did you dart out of your booth like that?”

Belle offered the matron a friendly smile, but didn’t get one in return, so she guided Garrett and Amalie over to where Mr. Asher had set a chintz-covered bench underneath the front window.

With a sigh of relief, she sat. This was a good spot, because she could keep her attention focused on the Midway and see the Richmonds when they arrived to join their children and Belle for luncheon and rest her feet at the same time. Garrett and Amalie sat on either side of her. Both children stared at the scene being enacted in the photographer’s booth. Belle only listened, amused, as the stout woman lectured Mr. Asher on his manners, morals, and business practices.

The poor man was being berated by all sorts of women today. Belle figured it was probably no more than he deserved.