Chapter Three

 

After the initial gasp of shock, which he’d expected, the reaction from the Richmonds was also very much what Win had expected. Mrs. Richmond’s eyes grew large, then narrowed. She tried to hide her disappointment and annoyance, but couldn’t quite do it. Mr. Richmond looked uncertain and slightly confused, as if he didn’t know whether or not blowing his top would be appropriate.

Win might have anticipated Miss Monroe’s reaction, too, if he’d been thinking about it. He hadn’t been. He’d merely assumed that any pretty young woman would love to have her pictures plastered all over the United States, particularly since she was going to be held up to all who viewed the studies as a superior example of American womanhood. He had not anticipated her reaction, however, and both she and his lack of foresight annoyed him.

“What?” Her shriek caused all other diners to turn in their chairs and glance at their table. Win didn’t mind the surprised scrutiny particularly, since he’d never been averse to public interest in himself or his work. Miss Monroe turned apple-red.

He tried to hide his exasperation. “You are the one I first saw walking with the children, Miss Monroe, if you’ll recall. It was the three of you as a unit that prompted my initial inspiration.”

She flapped her small gloved hands in the air. Win got the impression she was hoping in this way to stir up a coherent explanation for what Win considered a unreasonable degree of apprehension. Dash it, it wasn’t as if he aimed to ravish her. Besides, even if he’d like to do such a thing, he couldn’t. Not with two little kids hanging around.

“But—but—but, I thought you only wanted the children,” she stammered at last. “I had no idea you wanted to photograph me!” She pointed at her bosom, as if she hoped Win had mistaken her for someone else.

He shrugged. “I saw the three of you walking along the Midway and knew it had to be that particular trio.” Because he figured the children’s parents would need a good deal of mollification, he turned to them and smiled one of his prize-winning smiles. “You see, it’s an odd thing about photography—or any art form, I suppose. Sometimes, while a family will be a perfect, congenial, cohesive group in person, they won’t photograph that way together. The combination of Miss Monroe and Master Garrett and Miss Amalie captures something—something . . .” He paused to suck in air and try to find the right words.

Miss Monroe uttered an unintelligible squeak. Win paid her no mind. She could berate him later, after he’d won the approval of the Richmonds to his proposed project.

Win finally settled for saying, “The combination of your charming children and Miss Monroe practically announces perfect, happy family to the viewing public in America.”

Mr. Richmond frowned. “And my wife and children and I, together, don’t do that? I’m not quite sure I understand, Mr. Asher.”

He understood, all right. He just didn’t want to admit it. Even though trying to convince folks that he was the artist and they were mere subjects was Win’s least favorite part of his photography business—aside from dealing with squirming brats and their mothers—Win held onto his temper and tried more persuasion. He plastered on the charm. “Of course you present the image of a happy family, Mr. Richmond.” He added a rich chuckle to oil the gears. “Anyone looking at you can tell you have been blessed by our Maker with a successful life together.”

Mr. Richmond expelled a self-satisfied grunting sound. It encouraged Win, so he kept talking, throwing a smile in Mrs. Richmond’s direction every now and then to let her know she was important, too, even though she really wasn’t. The only important people at this particular table were Win himself, the kids, and Miss Monroe, if he were to make his vision come to life.

“It’s the composition of the work and its presentation that immediately struck me when I saw your children and Miss Monroe together.” Another thought attacked him, and he’d have slapped himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand for not thinking of it before if he wasn’t in a public place. But it was clear that he ought to have thought of it sooner, if only because it was a sure way to pave the road to success.

“Naturally, I’ll take a series of plates of you and Mrs. Richmond and the children, Mr. Richmond. It’s only fair that I do so, if I’m going to be borrowing your children. It’s my thank you for your patience with my vision, you see.” He added another chuckle to make the Richmonds think he was a great guy. “But the idea I’m hoping to market to the press and public is truly an unattainable ideal.”

His quick glance darted between mother and father. He thought he detected the flicker of burgeoning understanding, if not of his artistic vision, at least of free, professionally taken photographs. Still, he also knew it wouldn’t hurt to keep talking.

“You might want to think of this study I’m proposing as akin to a series of paintings by William Hogarth. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of him . . .”

“Of course, we have,” Mr. Richmond said instantly, smiling in a slightly superior way. “Mrs. Richmond and I took in Mr. Hogarth’s work when we toured Britain.”

Win might have expected as much. Most rich Americans “did” Britain and the rest of Europe at least once. Such a trip was de rigueur if one wanted to shine in American high society. “Ah, good. Then you know what I’m talking about,” he purred.

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Richmond. “Mrs. Richmond is quite the little artist herself, you know, Mr. Asher.”

“Oh? No, I didn’t know that.” Win smiled at Mrs. Richmond in what he hoped was a manner conveying camaraderie with a fellow artist. He didn’t know why she didn’t look more pleased with herself.

She told him. “I must say, Mr. Asher, that I don’t approve of this project one little bit if, the subject matter will be akin to some of the studies done by Mr. Hogarth.” She gave him a severe stare.

Whoops. Win had forgotten the subject matter of some of Mr. Hogarth’s studies. He laughed again, aiming for a lilting and good-humored tone. “Good heavens, no! Not for Win Asher the depressing study of the degeneration of a young rake or a harlot.”

Miss Monroe squeaked again. Win shot her a frown. He’d deal with her later, but he really didn’t want her having hysterics at present. He had too much convincing yet to do and didn’t care to have any distraction.

“Good heavens, no,” Mrs. Richmond said faintly.

Win guessed he shouldn’t have said rake or harlot aloud, and suppressed a sigh.

He was confirmed in his surmise when Amalie said, “What’s a harlot, Miss Monroe?”

“Amalie!” cried Mrs. Richmond.

After sending Win a hideous frown, Miss Monroe bent over Amalie. “We’ll talk about this later, dear. You must be still now, because your mother and father are discussing something important with Mr. Asher.”

Amalie looked disgusted, but obeyed. Garrett had been gazing with intensity at the adults in his life. Even though his sister had just been rebuffed, he dared to say, “I think it would be fun to have a bunch of photographs taken, Ma. What’s wrong with what Mr. Asher wants to do, Pa?”

Miss Monroe put a hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “You, too, must be still for a little while longer, Garrett. I’m sure your mama and papa will explain it all to you later.”

“Right. Be a good lad now, and we’ll get this all straightened out,” his father told him. He looked grumpy.

Figuring some fence-mending wouldn’t be out of line under the circumstances, Win said, “Sorry about the Hogarth reference, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond. But it does illustrate my point. Those studies of Hogarth’s depicted a small sliver of life in England during the late 1700’s. I want to do a series of photographs that reflect a much more commendable sliver of life: the perfect American woman and her perfect American children, as they live in today’s society. This is a great country, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond. It’s not like England in those days. It’s progressed! It’s become enlightened. America is an example to the rest of the world. It shows what people can do with a little imagination and a lot of freedom to use it!” Win could tell Mr. Richmond was weakening, so he pressed on. “When I saw your two charming children and Miss Monroe on the Midway, I knew they were my subjects.” He lifted his hands in a gesture meant to convey his inability to deny the truth or change the facts. “They just . . . were. I don’t know how else to say it.”

Mr. Richmond rubbed his chin. “I see.” He looked at his wife, who returned his gaze and added a small shrug for good measure. This form of communication was plainly unreadable to Mr. Richmond, who said, “What do you think, Gladys?”

Sensing imminent capitulation, Win put in hastily, “Don’t forget that you’ll be getting portraits of each of you individually and at least a couple of family studies, as well. I’ll throw those in as a gift, since I’m hoping to borrow your children.” Recollecting the other important—indeed, essential—member of his envisioned grouping, he added, “And your children’s nanny.”

He tried to send a smile Miss Monroe’s way, but she deflected it quite tidily with a frozen frown. He didn’t know what she was so peeved about, but he was sure he could bring her around to his way of thinking eventually.

And if he couldn’t, it wouldn’t matter. If he convinced the Richmonds to allow him the use of their children, she’d go along with the scheme because she went with the kids. It was her job, and she probably didn’t want to lose it. He wondered if that might be considered a form of blackmail and decided it didn’t matter. He had a vision in his mind’s eye, and he knew it would be the making of his career if he could achieve it. Miss Monroe could like it or lump it, but she’d do it.

Mrs. Richmond hesitated for a moment, then said, “Well, it’s an interesting offer, George. It would certainly be nice to have family portraits taken. I can almost see them on the piano in the back parlor.”

Win’s innards shuddered, but the rest of him didn’t. He reminded himself that it was often the artist’s lot in life to be relegated to a piano in the back parlor.

“Don’t forget, too,” he shoved in smoothly, “that I’m the best photographer in the greater Chicago area. Otherwise, the fair directors wouldn’t have selected me to be the official photographer of the World’s Columbian Exposition.” He offered the Richmonds a smile meant to convey good humor as well as honesty and pride in himself and his accomplishments. Dash it, he was the best.

He thought he heard a stifled sound from Miss Monroe but when he glanced at her, she sat still, stony-faced and upright. He hoped to God he’d be able to get her to unbend during the photographic sessions. He was sure he could do it; he had boundless confidence in himself.

Win was extremely happy and not at all surprised when the Richmonds capitulated to his sales talk.

As for Belle, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so embarrassed, furious, overlooked, and incensed. She hadn’t uttered as horrid a sound as her initial what? at Mr. Asher’s suggested plan since she’d been a child and Johnny Meadows dropped a frog in her lap.

And then Mr. Asher had the nerve, the unmitigated gall to ignore her completely and talk solely to the Richmonds, as if her agreement to this precious scheme of his didn’t matter a jot. And she was the most important part of it, too, or he’d have been willing to photograph the children with their real mother.

Bell would have liked to conk him over the head with her parasol, but genteelly reared southern ladies didn’t do such things. Anyhow, she’d missed her opportunity for doing anything so useful back there on the Midway, when she’d mistaken him for a masher.

He was no masher. He was something much worse. He was a damned Yankee of the worst sort: Brash, rude, unprincipled, and greedy.

When, as the Richmonds began to herd their children out of the restaurant, a job they generally relegated to Belle, and Mr. Asher hung back to talk to her, Belle decided she’d lose nothing but a stomachache if she told him exactly what she thought of him. He held her chair as she rose, and as soon as she was upright, she rounded on him.

“Mr. Asher, you’re a brash, rude, unprincipled, and greedy Yankee pig, and I’ve never been so unconscionably ignored before in my life. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

He had the effrontery to look first stunned, and then amused. Taking her arm without waiting for her to indicate such an attention would be appreciated, he guided her toward the front door of the restaurant. “I’m sorry about that, Miss Monroe. You’re right. But I figured you’d come with the kids and it was more important for me to get the Richmonds to go for my idea than to influence you.”

“Yes,” she said in freezing accents. “I understand perfectly what your reasoning was. Unhand me if you will, please.”

She resented it when he cast his gaze heavenward. “I’m not really all that terrible a person, Miss Monroe. If I was a bit sly back there, it was because when I’m attacked by an artistic vision, I get a little carried away sometimes.”

“Ha.”

They caught up with the Richmonds at the coat-check booth where Mr. Richmond was retrieving his walking stick and hat and the ladies’ parasols. Mr. Asher, too, took his hat from the lad behind the counter, flipping him a coin in a nonchalant gesture that somehow symbolized to Belle the attitude of perfect superiority Northerners were so prone to display.

She used this opportunity, as the gentlemen retrieved their possessions, to reestablish her position at the sides of her charges. She told herself to recollect at all times that the care and well-being of Amalie and Garrett were her duty and her responsibility. She’d given Mr. Asher a piece of her mind. While it hadn’t been as satisfactory an experience as it might have been if he’d been obliging enough be ashamed of himself, it was time to get back to work.

Grinding her teeth, Belle wished she could spend another hour or three berating Mr. Win Asher. And what kind of name was Win, anyhow? Belle had never heard such a ridiculous name. She’d like to tell him that, too, but wouldn’t. She was a lady. She might have fallen upon hard times, but she wouldn’t lower herself to such a degree as ridiculing a person on account of his name which, one presumed, wasn’t his fault.

It occurred to her that it was due to people like Win Asher that she’d had to seek employment in the first place. If it weren’t for the fact that her noble southern family and neighbors had been forced into defending themselves against Abraham Lincoln’s War, Belle’s family would still be planting cotton and tobacco and living well in an unruined plantation in Blissborough, Georgia. With slaves.

Fudge. Belle hated it when she remembered the slaves.

Nevertheless, if Mr. Win Asher ever laid a hand on her again, to guide her to the coat-check room or anywhere else, she’d whack him with her parasol. As long as the Richmonds weren’t around to see. Or the children. She didn’t want to set a bad example for the children.

Mr. Asher didn’t give up his intrusive behavior even after their group had left the restaurant. “Do you mind if I tag along with your family for awhile, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond? I’d like to get an idea of how the children and Miss Monroe interact. It will help me understand how best to use them in my study.”

Belle fumed while the Richmonds, whom she’d always considered to be a superior form of Northern family until today, looked at each other in the kind of mute conversation married folks engaged in. She wished she could offer her opinion, but she was merely the hired help. Every now and then, she regretted her decision to move North and secure employment. Now, for instance.

It was Mrs. Richmond who responded to the photographer’s question. “I should think that would be nice, Mr. Asher. Since you’re more familiar with the fair itself than we are, perhaps you can show us the most intriguing places for the children to visit.”

Win’s smile was broad and flashy, and it gave Belle palpitations. Unless that was only leftover pique. She felt better when she decided pique must be it. The thought of Mr. Win Asher causing anything but irritation in her bosom was more than she could healthily contemplate on a full stomach.

“I’d love to.” He knelt beside Garrett and Amalie, a gesture Belle would have approved of in any other gentleman since it betokened a certain ease with children. In Win Asher, she not only didn’t appreciate it, she flat-out hated it.

She watched, eyes narrowed, as he conversed with her charges. She didn’t care for the way they responded to him, which was with without anxiety and reeking with friendliness. She wanted them to disapprove of him, as she did. But that was silly. Children had no discrimination. It was a flaw which maturity would cure.

“Say, you two, how’d you like to visit the Wooded Island? There’s a reconstructed Colonial village there, and you can see for yourselves how the Pilgrims lived.”

Garrett turned a bright, eager gaze to his parents. “Oh, may we? That sounds like such fun!”

It did, actually. Belle would never say so.

“I’d like to do that, too,” Amalie said. She looked at Mr. Asher with wide blue eyes and a simpering smile.

Belle squinted at the little girl, wondering if she were forming a child’s crush on the photographer. It would be just her luck if the whole family fell under the wretched man’s spell; the man who ignored her and didn’t care about her opinion, and who only wanted to use her for his own aims. Belle felt exploited and maltreated, and she didn’t like it.

She was, therefore, particularly silent as the family and Mr. Asher strolled along toward one of the many lakes enclosed in the Exposition’s grounds. When Amalie took Mr. Asher’s hand and skipped along at his side, she began to feel like an old used boot that nobody needed any longer.

“There’s a hunter’s cabin on the Wooded Island that will probably interest you, Garrett,” Mr. Asher went on, oblivious to Belle’s discomfort.

And why shouldn’t he be oblivious? Nobody cared about the hired help. With a start, Belle realized she was descending into a mood of gloom and dissatisfaction, and resolved to buck up. Her beloved father used to say that a body could choose to be happy or unhappy, generally giving examples to illustrate his point.

Those verbal illustrations of her father’s had meant a good deal to Belle, primarily because of her personal family observations. Although she’d never ventured to voice her opinion, she believed her mother enjoyed being unhappy, sort of the way some people enjoyed ill health.

Her grandmother sprang to mind. Granny reveled in detailing every one of her many aches and pains. It had come as a great relief to Belle to learn that she didn’t have to grow up unhappy and ill. Recalling her father’s advice, she resolved not to sink into any pits of despair brought about by an ill-mannered Yankee photographer.

Therefore, she straightened her shoulders, took Amalie’s other hand, refused to look at Win Asher, and quickened her step. Since the Richmonds had always included her in their conversations before the advent of Mr. Asher, she decided to assert herself again now. “I understand the Exposition houses an interesting exhibition of relics from Columbus’s voyage of discovery, too.”

Mr. Asher nodded, which struck Belle as vaguely encouraging. “Yes, indeed. The entire fair was intended to be a celebration of the 400^th anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of America.”

“They’re a year late,” Garrett said, laughing about it.

Mr. Asher flicked Garrett’s sailor cap down the front of his face, and the little boy giggled as he straightened it. “Yeah, yeah, smart guy,” the photographer said. “They might have been a year late, but they did a superlative job in getting the place together so quickly.”

“My goodness, I should say so,” said Mrs. Richmond. Smiling at Belle, she added, “I insist that we visit the Columbus exhibit. After all, if the fair is in honor of his discovery, we ought at least to see it.”

“It’s fascinating,” Win said. “It astonishes me that those tiny little ships actually made their way across the ocean without sinking.”

Conversation perked right along after that, and Belle didn’t feel so left out. She told herself that she’d learned a valuable lesson. She could have allowed herself to sink into a pit of perceived unworthiness, and it would have been her own fault. On the spot, she decided to write to her father this very evening and thank him for imparting such a valuable lesson.

She did not, however, object when Mr. Richmond, Mr. Asher, and Garrett took off on their own when the ladies began touring the rose garden at one edge of the Wooded Island. “I know you ladies will want to look at the Women’s Department.” Mr. Richmond winked at his son and at Win. “We fellows will find something else to do that we’re more interested in.”

Mrs. Richmond took mild exception. “Mrs. Potter Palmer wrote a very interesting article for the Times, George. You said yourself that it was about time the good works of women were recognized and honored.”

“True, true, Gladys. Don’t get into a huff.”

“I’m not getting into a huff,” Mrs. Richmond said huffily. “You men would be in a sorry state if you had to do all the things we women do by yourselves.”

Win smiled, flashing those white teeth of his and making Belle grind her own teeth together. “Mrs. Richmond is absolutely right about that, Mr. Richmond. We must give the ladies their due.”

“Indeed, you must,” said Gladys, relenting enough to offer up a small smile.

“And the fair directors gave the noble ladies an entire building for themselves,” Win added.

The men chuckled in a mellow, superior manner that made Belle want to kick them both. Dad-blasted men thought they ruled the world. Ruefully, she remembered that they did. It wasn’t fair.

Even though she’d been steeped in southern gentility, mild-mannered ladyhood, and the concept of ruling from behind the throne, from the day of her birth, Belle still occasionally wished women had more power to govern their own actions and lives overtly. It was a pain in the neck always to be forced to use subtle means to obtain one’s goals.

She was not, however, a rebel at heart, and she accepted her place in the world and in American society with resignation, if not with appreciation. Naturally, she said nothing.

“That’s fine, George. I also want Amalie to visit the Children’s Building. I understand there’s a wonderful exhibit of dolls and newfangled animated musical toys and so forth.”

Win nodded. “There is.”

Belle squinted at him, wondering why he’d bothered to look at the newfangled animated musical toys. As if reading her thoughts, he gave her a lopsided, amused grin and said, “I photographed the display for the Globe.”

In return, she gave him a regal nod. “I see.”

“And I want to see all the new kitchen aids, too,” Gladys said. Belle noticed an acquisitive gleam in her eyes.

So did Mr. Richmond. “Try not to get too many ideas, Gladys,” he admonished. He said it jovially, however, and Belle deduced he wouldn’t mind furnishing his grand home in New York City with all the latest and greatest kitchen devices his wife cared to purchase.

“Don’t worry, dear. I won’t break the bank.” Gladys laughed.

Belle watched the interchange with a tiny ache in her heart. Quite often she wondered what it would be like to have money. Sufficient money. Lots of money. With another smallish pang, she guessed she’d never know.

“We’ll catch up with you at five,” Mr. Richmond said, removing his expensive gold watch from his vest pocket and squinting at it.

“Don’t you dare go to the Columbus exhibit without us.” Mrs. Richmond shook her finger at her husband in mock warning.

“We won’t.” Mr. Richmond glanced at Win. “Perhaps Mr. Asher will join us for dinner.”

This suggestion didn’t appeal to Belle, but she had no say in the matter and kept a serene countenance. Might as well, for such was the way of the world, and women in her situation in life had best learn the art of blank-faced acceptance. If they didn’t, they’d get fired. Belle realized she was grinding her teeth again and ceased the useless occupation.

In spite of her inner turmoil, the afternoon passed pleasantly. Belle felt much more comfortable in the absence of Mr. Asher’s company, although she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. Still and all, she and Mrs. Richmond had already established a congenial relationship, and they both enjoyed looking through the rose garden. The weather was warm and the wind had kicked up.

Amalie lost her bonnet once and had to run after it. Belle bought her a pretty pink ribbon with which to tie it down. The small gesture gave her pleasure out of proportion to the deed itself. Nevertheless, this was one of the few times in her life that she’d been able to buy something frivolous for no better reason than that she wanted to.

Her mood elevated slightly after that, although she still couldn’t rid her mind’s eye of images of Mr. Win Asher. She wondered if she were coming down with some kind of malady. Sometimes when she took sick, she was subject to morbid fancies. Not that the image her brain concocted of Mr. Archer was morbid. Far from it. She told herself to concentrate on the Exposition and stop thinking so hard. She wasn’t any good at thinking, having had so little practice.

The three ladies had a wonderful time inspecting all the exhibits in the Women’s Department. “Oh, Belle, you look just like the statue of that Greek goddess over there.”

Belle looked and had to admit to a momentary sense of pride. The statue to which Mrs. Richmond pointed was quite lovely. Because she knew her pride did her no credit—after all, her looks weren’t her fault, but were a gift from God, her parents, and her other antecedents—she said only, “Oh, la, Mrs. Richmond. I think you closely resemble the Goddess of—” Egad. She’d been about to compare Mrs. Richmond to the Goddess of Fertility. That would never do. She pretended to get something caught in her throat and took refuge in a cough. “I beg your pardon.”

She was glad when Mrs. Richmond didn’t recognize this subterfuge, but patted her on the back in the time-honored and useless gesture intended to help clear a person’s breathing passages. “Are you all right, Belle?

Belle felt guilty, which was natural as she wasn’t accustomed to prevarication. “I’m fine, thank you. You’re very good.”

“Pshaw.”

“I was going to say,” Belle lied, “that you look very much like the Goddess of Nature.” She gestured to another statue, which was pretty in its own right, although the face didn’t do justice to Mrs. Richmond’s elegant features.

Fortunately for Belle, Amalie decided to join the conversation. “Do I look like any of them, Miss Monroe?”

Pleased with the distraction, Belle leaned over as well as she could considering her corset stays, lifted Amalie into her arms, and hugged her. The child was particularly affectionate, and Belle loved her dearly. “My goodness, Miss Amalie, you look like all of them!” she declared in her best rendition of her native drawling speech. “But I think you bear an amazing resemblance to the statue of the grizzly bear over there.” She gave Amalie a little squeeze and winked at Amalie’s mother, who laughed.

“Definitely,” agreed that good-humored lady. “Or perhaps the prowling coyote over there.”

Belle didn’t disparage the fact that Mrs. Richmond pointed with her forefinger at the statue to which she referred, as she had pointed to the one she thought resembled Belle. Belle was beginning to come to terms with the fact that the manners of her childhood did not prevail in the heathen North, and that ladies weren’t considered ungenteel if they descended to finger-pointing. Such unrefined gestures as finger-pointing and speaking loudly were not considered rude up here.

Belle sighed as a momentary pang of loneliness assailed her. Looking around at the crowds inside the Women’s Department, she told herself she was assuredly not without companions. That they were alien to her very heart and soul shouldn’t be a consideration. She’d made a sensible decision, and had best get used to it.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that she could speak to her family, figuratively, that very night, in the solitude of her bedroom on the twelfth floor of the brand-new and magnificent Congress Hotel. Plus which, she’d taken the precaution of bringing with her on this trip to the Windy City several letters her family had sent to her before she’d left New York. Belle was sure rereading those epistles would make her feel more the thing.

If only Mr. Asher’s proposed photographs didn’t loom so large in her mind, she was sure she’d feel quite grand in fact.

“I can’t wait for dinner,” said Amalie from the comfort of Belle’s arms. “I want to see Mr. Asher again. I like him lots.”

If Belle didn’t know the child to be innocent of evil intent, she might just have dropped her.