Chapter Six

 

Belle was absolutely right about Win’s concern for her state of social grace. She could have been the spawn of Satan and cursed him from here to perdition and back again, and he wouldn’t have cared. The only thing he cared about was that she’d agreed to sit for him. A hundred bucks wasn’t much, considering the stacks of money he expected to receive in royalties once the world got a gander at the photographs he intended to produce.

He’d had to obfuscate, but he didn’t care about that, either. While it was true Win had an agent whose headquarters were in Germany, Herr Schlichter handled the sale of his work to publications all over Europe, the British Isles, and the Middle East. Win suspected that with some fancy maneuvering, he’d be able to get Schlichter to play middleman with his agent in the good old U.S. of A., too, thereby technically complying with at least some of Belle’s beliefs, but also gaining Win a huge audience.

When viewed in that light, a hundred dollars was a pittance. He probably ought to offer her more, but he’d wait. If he let on how much he expected to earn from the photographs at this time, she’d probably run off screaming.

His conscience niggled at him a weeny bit about this method of achieving his aims, but the concept of this photographic study was too important to him, and Belle was too perfect for the role, to quibble about technicalities. He’d deal with her wrath later. Once the pictures were in newspapers and on posters throughout the United States and her territories, Belle wouldn’t be able to do anything but sue him, and Win imagined she was too much of a lady—whatever in hell that was—to do anything so unladylike.

He grinned inside when he realized that Belle’s gentility was both his curse and his blessing. “Great!” Borrowing a gesture from George Richmond, he rubbed his hands.

Belle still appeared doubtful. That was all right with Win. He’d get her to pose in spite of herself.

She cleared her throat again. “So, what was it you said about light levels?”

She had a pretty voice, even if it was slow-moving and thick with Southern treacle. “If you’ll please just go up on the platform and sit on the log, I’ll fiddle with the lights.”

As if she hadn’t noticed them before, Belle focused on the electric lights Win had installed in his booth. They were all movable, albeit with difficulty, but he wasn’t going to let anything deter him from fulfilling his artistic vision.

She surprised him by complying with his request without a word of protest. He’d begun to anticipate her fighting him tooth and nail every time he made the least little suggestion.

As he’d expected of her, she smoothed her skirt before she sat, and folded her hands in her lap. He remembered with fond nostalgia the series of photographs he’d taken of Kate Finney. There wasn’t a solitary thing about Kate that was stiff or stuffy.

Not so Belle Monroe. She was as stiff as the proverbial board, and as stuffy as his bench cushion. Win had no idea how he was going to get that damned corset off her, although he entertained a couple of pleasant fantasies, but he decided to concentrate on the lights today. He’d worry about the corset later. One thing at a time. He’d got her this far; he only had to use his intelligence, a little charm, and his undoubted ingenuity on her, and even so confirmed a prude as Belle Monroe wouldn’t be able to resist for long. He hoped.

After contemplating her for a moment or two, he left her on the log and walked over to his bank of electrical lights. He decided he’d set up the tall overhead lamps first. They were heavy, but he was strong. As he lugged the first one over to the platform, Belle asked him a question.

“Um, I’m not altogether certain what you plan to do, Mr. Asher. Would you please explain this series of photographs to me?”

“Again?” He could have bitten his tongue because the one word had sounded as if he were complaining.

But she only waved a hand in the air gracefully and didn’t look as if she aimed to march off in a huff. Thank God.

After clearing her throat, she went on. “I’m not exactly sure how you expect to use me to portray the Perfect American Woman.” She offered him a fleeting smile. “That’s a tall order for little old me.”

When she put it that way, Win’s patience reasserted itself. “Sure. Oomph.” He set the lamp down on the edge of the platform and fussed with it until he thought its placement might be correct. When he turned it on, light burst forth, and Belle lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Sorry about the glare, Miss Monroe. I’m sure you’ll get used to it in time.”

“Hmmm.”

Right. From the tone of her voice, she was determined not to get used to it. Patience, he told himself. “Anyhow, I have a vision of these photographs as a symbol of America today; the Modern America; the America that’s become a leader in the world; the America that now rivals Great Britain in power; the America that bred great men like Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln and—”

“Ha!”

Whoops. Wrong example. Drat his mouth. He had to keep in mind that this young woman was a relict of an extinct society, and that she retained its antiquated attitudes and mores. She was, in short, akin to an ambulatory fossil.

“Sorry,” he growled, peeved both with himself and with her. He didn’t understand people who insisted on living in the past. “But you have to admit that America has been the birthplace of a whole lot of great men.”

“Robert E. Lee, for instance,” she said crisply.

He opted not to rise to the bait. “Sure. He was a great general. Or so I’ve heard.” Personally, Win had no use for a man who’d fought to hold on to so evil a practice as slavery, but he wasn’t going to get into that wrangle if he could help it.

“And then,” he went on as he adjusted the lamplight so that it illumined Belle’s face the way he wanted it to, “there are the inventors. Robert Fulton. John Deere. Shoot, the folks who created this Exposition, for that matter.”

“Mmmm,” said Belle.

At least she dropped her hand from her face so Win could see it under the light. He decided not to push his luck, but instead to talk about what he was doing at present. Photography didn’t take sides in bygone conflicts, no matter what its subjects did. “All right, Miss Monroe. These lights get hot after a while, so I’ll turn this one off and set up another one.”

She heaved a sigh. “Very well.”

“You don’t have to sound like Joan of Arc being tied to the stake,” he grumbled, irked beyond reason. He’d meant to keep his fat mouth shut so as not to set her hackles up.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “This is uncomfortable and boring, no matter what you think.”

He backed off at once. “I beg your pardon. I know the process can be tedious, and I appreciate your willingness to pose for me.” He nearly gagged on the words, but at least Belle appeared slightly mollified.

She lifted her chin and sniffed, but Win supposed he ought to be grateful she remained sitting and didn’t leap off the log and storm out of his booth. His next thought caught him by surprise, but he paid attention to it.

Perhaps he ought to be more understanding with the creature, even if she did represent a culture he couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps if he thought of her as if she were from a foreign country—as if she were a Pygmy from the Belgian Congo, for instance—he’d get along with her better.

After all, she was sitting for him instead of enjoying the Exposition. Win supposed that was something he should appreciate. And he did. Truly, he did. It was only that Miss Monroe and he seemed to get along together like oil and water. Cats and dogs. Fire and kindling. Fire and water, for that matter.

Nevertheless, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to be a trifle more conciliatory. As he lugged another lamp over and set it behind Belle and to her left, he muttered, “I promise you I’ll make this up to you, Miss Monroe. I’ll be sure you’ll see the whole Columbian Exposition.”

“I shall see the Columbian Exposition without your help, thank you.”

She sounded like a damned nun condemning a sinner. If nuns did that sort of thing. As he lugged over another lamp, he held his temper and tried another tack.

“Arruph!” He set the lamp down. “You see, the series of photographs I aim to take of you and the Richmond kids will exemplify and extol the American family.” He twisted the lamp head into a position he thought might work and turned the lamp on. “Nuts. This isn’t right.” He turned the lamp off, twisted the head another inch or so, and turned it on again.

“If the Richmond children’s photographs are going to fulfill your purpose in glorifying the American way of life, I don’t see why you need a series of photographs with just me in them.” Again, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “That’s terribly bright, Mr. Asher.”

“Yeah, I know it is. Sorry.” He turned off the lamp again and this time twisted the head downward. “It’s like this, Miss Monroe . . .”

He decided to set up another light in a corner of his booth so as to cast more of a shadowy effect on the platform. With his back to Belle, he went on, “The Richmond photographs—with you in them, of course—will depict the American family as it is today: The beneficiaries of more than a century of innovation, industry, and progress—sort of like this fair.”

“Mmmm.”

“Those photographs will convey the success and happiness of Americans to the world.”

She gave him another “Mmmm,” and Win got the feeling she wasn’t buying his image of America as happy and successful. Damned southerners. It was their own fault if they didn’t like the world the way it was; they never should have developed a system that depended on slaves to begin with.

He opted not to go in to that sticky problem. “But the pictures of you alone are meant to depict the true beauty of America and the American spirit. It’s as if the images of you will convey to the world—”

She interrupted. “They’ll convey whatever that image is to Germany.”

Dammit, he really had to watch his step with this fussy belle. “Right. Germany. Anyhow, they’ll convey to Germany the full blossoming of American womanhood. You will be, to Germany, the epitome of everything perfect and beautiful in the United States of America. When people see this study, they’ll all want to move over here.”

She pursed her lips. Win braced himself as he turned on the light in the corner.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” she muttered. “From what I’ve seen of foreigners in New York City, many of them are poor and needy. Don’t you think you might be presenting a lie?”

Win straightened so fast, he bumped his head on the lamp and almost sent it toppling. He grabbed it in time to prevent a catastrophe. The damned lights were expensive. “What? Good God, no! It’s not America’s fault that some people can’t support themselves. America offers opportunities to everyone! There are lots of immigrants in Chicago, too, don’t forget, and I know some of them have their troubles, but I’d be willing to bet most of those would have trouble anywhere.”

“Mmmm.”

Again, he got the feeling she didn’t agree with him, and he wondered if her being from the South had anything to do with her attitude. Although he imagined he was stepping straight into a puddle of trouble, he decided to ask. “I guess you folks in the South suffered a lot of economic hardships after the—the war.” He’d been going to say the Civil War, but caught himself in time.

“You guess that, do you?”

She sounded snooty and nasty, and her tone nettled Win. “All right, I’ve read about it. Is that better?” He twisted the lamp head slightly to the left and turned it on. Ah, that was perfect.

“I suppose so.” She sniffed again. “Yes, we in the South suffered terribly after the Conflict. Those of us in Georgia were particularly hard hit by that dreadful fellow Sherman and his marauding band of cutthroats, arsonists, and thieves.”

Win nodded as he contemplated the rest of his lamps. Tapping his chin, he pondered what, if anything, he wanted to do with them. He wasn’t sure he needed them, actually. It might be fun to take some shots of Belle outdoors. Now that he had a portable box camera, outdoor shots weren’t so difficult. “Right,” he said absently. “Sherman. Must have been rough.”

She huffed. “You have no earthly idea, Mr. Asher!”

That caught his attention, because it was shrill and vehement. He glanced at her to find her looking shrill and vehement, as well. He sighed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Monroe. I’m really paying attention. It’s only that I’m contemplating lighting at the moment.”

“Of course.”

Aha. He knew what he was going to do. Thanks to improvements in camera technology, indoor photography was easier than it used to be. With artistic arrangement of lights, it was possible to convey the impression of evening without using flash powder, which made everything as bright as day. Win thought the beautiful Belle would appear to great advantage in evening light. The notion appealed to him strongly, as a matter of fact.

Or maybe it wasn’t so strange. Win was, after all, a virile young American male. He appreciated women. He even appreciated Belle, although he’d like her better if she kept her mouth shut. Tapping his chin some more, he thought about lighting for another moment or two, then grabbed one more tall electrical lamp and began lugging it across the room.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Monroe. Tell me more about Georgia. I’ve never been there.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, as if she considered never having been to Georgia some kind of sin. “My home state was devastated by the vile Sherman and his thugs, Mr. Asher. My own family’s plantation was burned, although the beasts were kind enough to spare most of the house. Of course, they looted everything of value inside it.”

He shook his head as he settled the lamp. He hated hearing these stories, although he knew them to be true. “I guess a lot of that sort of thing happened. I guess when men suffer from battle lust, they’re apt to do anything.”

“Southern soldiers didn’t perpetrate those kinds of horrors,” Belle declared.

Win slanted her a glance as he adjusted yet another lamp head. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Haven’t you ever read about Quantrill’s Raiders? Mosby’s Rangers? The Ku Klux Klan? Or Andersonville? Quantrill, Mosby, and the Kuklos were all southerners, and Andersonville Prison was right there in your own dear home state of Georgia.”

He noticed that her lips primmed up considerably at those sharp reminders that people were people the world over, and that no one group held a patent either on sanctity or immorality. He’d have smiled, except he didn’t trust her not to thwart him if he did something so certain to provoke her.

“There are, of course, exceptions to every rule.”

“Right.” Win left his latest lamp and went to his camera, there to contemplate the entire set-up. Ideas for photographs of Belle had started rampaging through his head, and he could hardly wait to get started. “Exceptions.”

Belle put on a martyred expression and cast her glance at the ceiling, as if she were being asked to endure unspecified but ghastly tortures. Wondering exactly how someone got to be like her, he stopped tapping his chin and said, “I suppose you grew up on stories about the suffering South and the evils of the North, huh?”

Although Win had thought she was already as stiff as she could get, she fooled him. Amazing.

“The South did suffer horrid depredations and villainies, for your information, and the North did perpetrate great evils on us.”

“Right, right.” He ducked under his camera’s black curtain. “Hold still for a minute, will you? I want to focus this on you.”

She did as he asked, although her expression was black enough to tar a road. “You have absolutely no idea what we suffered.”

“I suspect you’re going to tell me,” Win murmured from underneath the black curtain.

“You bet your boots I will.”

It was the first time Win had heard her sound as if she wanted to do something. Her attitude actually kind of tickled him. As he fiddled with the focus, he chuckled. “What I don’t understand—and I’m sure you’ll tell me this, too—is why you people down South seem determined to refight the war all the time. It’s been over for almost thirty years. Don’t you think it’s about time you got over it and got on with your lives?”

Her eyes opened wide—with anger, Win surmised. “I swear to goodness, Mr. Asher, you blasted Yankees have absolutely no idea what we suffered from your aggression! You speak of the Conflict as if it were a big joke, and it wasn’t!”

“Guess not,” he mumbled, still fiddling.

“I should say not. Thousands of brave young man died, thousands of children were orphaned, thousands of people lost everything they owned.”

“On both sides,” he reminded her.

“Ha! There may have been a few such cases in the North, but even you must admit that most of the horrors were perpetrated in the south.”

“Hmmm,” said Win. When Belle looked like she was going to hurl one of the lamps at him, he added hastily, “I’m willing to hear all about it, though. Truly, Miss Monroe, I’d be delighted to have a history lesson from a southerner’s point of view.”

At that moment the door to Win’s booth opened. Wondering if Kate had come back to bum another two bits from him, Win slipped out from under the curtain. He was disappointed to discover a complete stranger in his booth. Because he knew he had to, he smiled at the newcomer. “Good morning, ma’am. May I help you?”

He was even more disappointed when the woman turned out to be a customer. With an internal sigh, he turned to Belle. “Would you mind stepping down from the platform for a few minutes, Miss Monroe? I’ll be with you shortly.

Belle stepped down from the platform, but she minded a good deal. Blast the man! He was absolutely infuriating.

What was even worse was that Belle had often harbored feelings of resentment toward her family for doing exactly as Win accused her of doing: wallowing in old sorrows and not getting on with life. Now she harbored feelings of resentment toward Win Asher for daring to point out her family’s shortcomings.

She wanted to berate him, loudly and long, for daring to air one of her most cherished and well-concealed secrets. She wouldn’t admit he’d hit a nerve, of course, but she’d be more than happy to deliver his so-called history lesson. She’d give him enough information about his stupid North to choke him. Unfortunately, she didn’t get the opportunity.

The rest of the morning passed in a frustrating series of interrupted poses for Belle. Every time Win got her settled on the platform and she opened her mouth to impart some vivid history lessons to him, somebody else came in the booth and wanted him to take a photograph. By the time the Richmonds eventually showed up to collect Belle for luncheon, she was ready to scream, and Win looked harassed and unhappy.

Amalie ran over to her. “Oh, Miss Monroe! You’ve got to go up on the Ferris wheel! It’s such fun!”

Belle shot Win a scorching glance. “I’d love to, darling. I’m glad you had fun.” She lifted Amalie in her arms and gave her cheek a kiss. Darting a glance at Gladys Richmond, Belle deduced her job as nanny was safe for a while longer. Poor Gladys looked as though she’d been ridden hard through a deep creek and hung up wet.

Wiping her perspiring forehead with a dainty embroidered handkerchief, Gladys confirmed Belle’s suspicions. “I swear, Belle, I don’t know how I managed before you came to work for us. I love my children dearly—” She shared a sweet smile between her children. “—but they’re a handful.”

“Pshaw,” offered George Richmond. “They’re only high-spirited.”

Gladys shot him a glare. “A lot you know about it. You’re not the one who has to discipline them or tell them they can’t have all the sweets they want, and that they aren’t supposed to pick up the organ-grinder’s monkey, and that they really aren’t supposed to be hanging out of the carriage on the Ferris wheel.”

George’s complexion took on a brickish hue, and he glared at his wife. “Now, see here, Gladys. . .”

Oh, dear. Belle didn’t like it when married couples argued. And the Richmonds were generally the most compatible of married people. Considering an interruption in this instance less impolite than necessary, she interrupted. “It’s a warm day,” she suggested gently, still holding Amalie in her arms. “I’m sure tempers are a little frayed. And you must be hungry after such an exciting morning.” She noticed Win watching them all, and lifted her chin slightly.

“You can say that again,” grumbled Garrett.

Belle realized for the first time that the usually voluble Garrett had been silent since coming into Win’s booth. Now he stood aside, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his formerly natty sailor suit, and gave every indication of being unusually crabby. He was also filthy dirty.

“Goodness gracious, Garrett, what happened to you?”

Garrett shuffled his feet. “Nothing.”

“Nothing, my foot,” Gladys said, sounding more high-pitched and piercing than usual. “He fell into the Grand Basin!”

“Oh, dear.” Belle knew she shouldn’t want to laugh, because laughing at a child’s capers was the best way to turn the child into a monster. Therefore, she hid her smile under an expression of concern.

Garrett kicked at the bench under the window. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Was too!” said his adoring sister.

Garrett reached up and hit her. Amalie started crying, although he hadn’t hit her hard, she was still secure in Belle’s arms, and it didn’t sound as if her heart were wholeheartedly engaged. Rather, her tears bore the earmarks of a perfunctory performance, aimed at getting her brother into more trouble.

With a sigh, Belle had the odd thought that she’d love to have children of her own one day and to be mediating their quarrels instead of those of the Richmond children. “Garrett, that’s not a nice thing to do. You should apologize to your sister.”

When Belle saw Amalie smirk at Garrett, she added, “And Amalie, when your brother is attempting to explain something, it’s not your place to interfere with his explanation. If you believe it necessary to add something, you ought to do so later. A lady doesn’t add sarcastic commentary to someone else’s explanations.”

She noticed Win looking at her oddly and turned so that she couldn’t see his face. What was wrong with the dratted man now? She wondered. He was most likely critical of her handling of the children. Belle decided he was probably one of those people who believed children should be given free reign when it came to self-expression, which she understood was called modern psychology. She sniffed. He hadn’t liked it much yesterday when that obnoxious boy was sitting for him and exhibiting his free expression.

Amalie had foregone crying in favor of sulking. She did, however, say, “I’m sorry,” in a muffled voice.

Belle eyed Garrett, silently challenging him to offer an apology to his sister. After heaving a huge sigh, as if he were only doing it under duress, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Neither child sounded particularly repentant, but Belle knew that they’d come to understand the importance of proper manners someday. Glancing at the children’s parents, she wished she could offer the two of them a pointer or two as well. The Richmonds looked as if they’d just as soon go their separate ways for a couple of hours.

This, she decided, is what comes of too much fraternizing as a family. It was much easier to get along with one’s relations when you weren’t constantly in each other’s company. For example, Belle was able to positively adore her family in Georgia now that she was living in New York. It seemed strange, but there it was.

Win Asher ultimately broke through the tension in his little photography booth. “Say, folks, would you object if I went to lunch with you again today? I have a couple of suggestions about the series of photographs I’m going to take with your children and Miss Monroe.”

As if he were grateful to have another grown man along to keep him company and add masculine support, George leaped at Win’s suggestion. He brightened and cried “Absolutely!” before Gladys or anyone else had a chance to think about Win’s question.

Men, thought Belle with unaccustomed cynicism. Rulers of the Universe and kings of the world. In their minds, at least. Belle was no feminist revolutionary or women’s suffrage marcher, but she sometimes got really sick of men always wanting to make decisions for her.

Needless to say, she didn’t show her displeasure. She merely smiled, set Amalie down again, wiped the child’s cheeks of nonexistent tears, tidied Garrett up as much as was possible, put on her own hat, and stood by, waiting for everyone else to direct her day for her.