Chapter Ten

 

“My darling, darling Belle. Your papa and I do so enjoy your entertaining letters home, even though it would be much more comforting to have you here with us. As much as I try to calm myself with regard to your welfare, I fear my nerves remain in a state.”

Belle clamped her teeth on her lower lip and forged onward through her mother’s letter. “I know you do your very best to hide your unhappiness and are attempting with every waking breath to portray your ordeal in the best light, but I can’t bear to feature you up there in the frozen north, my dearest, only daughter.”

Wiping perspiration from her neck and face with her hankie, Belle wondered what her mother had been thinking when she’d penned the words on the letter she was reading. Frozen north? At the moment, Belle only wished it were frozen. She was about to melt into a puddle of perspiration right here in Win Asher’s booth. And she was only sitting still on the padded bench beneath the window in Win’s booth. God alone knew what would happen to her if she got up and moved around. She’d probably die of heat prostration.

“I must say, my dear, that this new venture of yours regarding photographs has your father and me in something of a taking. My darling, darling Belle, you know your loving mother would never, ever criticize you—”

“Ha,” said Belle, as she recalled the weeks of wailing and weeping that had followed her announced intention of moving to New York City and securing a job of work that paid actual money. Belle’s family tradition ran more toward whining about the past and weeping over present poverty than toward creating its own, more profitable, future.

“Beg pardon?” Win, who had shed as many clothes as he properly could in deference to the muggy heat, was sorting through photographic images while Belle read her letter. He’d told Belle that he’d stayed up late developing plates the night before.

They were alone in his booth, as Gladys and George had taken their children to a friend’s house for an evening of socializing. Belle had been happy to see them go, not because she didn’t adore the Richmonds, but because a rebellious part of her nature had wanted to be alone with Win Asher. The rest of her nature, needless to say, was shocked and horrified with the rebellious part, but it didn’t make any difference.

She glanced up at him and smiled. She couldn’t help the smile, either, blast it. “Nothing. Just reading this note from my mother.”

“Hmm,” said Win, returning to his work.

Belle sighed, wondering if he’d ever consider her as interesting as his work. Probably not. Recalling the photograph of her that he’d been so excited about, and that he’d showed her the prior afternoon after her headache had abated, she decided she could understand it. Even Belle, for whom modesty was a way of life, could not but consider that photograph a stunning work of art. It didn’t look like her, which was probably why. It was beautiful. Belle always tried to look her best, but she’d never ever looked like that. Considering the miracles he wrought, it was no wonder that Win’s work was much more interesting to him than she.

On that depressing note, she turned back at her letter. “You know, dearest Belle, that the Monroe family is steeped in the glorious traditions of the Noble South, and that we don’t hold with this modern-day obsession with fame and celebrity that the Northern Aggressors seem so keen to promote.”

Yes, yes, Belle thought with asperity. I know all about the Monroes and their glorious traditions. She stopped her mutinous mind from bringing up poverty and false pride and flinging them at her mental image of her parents.

“I do hope,” the letter went on, “that this Mr. Asher is a trustworthy gentleman, although I harbor sincere trepidations in my mother’s fond heart.”

Belle suppressed a second ha, but with difficulty. She’d gotten sick of hearing about her mother’s fond heart when she was around six years old, although she’d not until this minute acknowledged the unfilial truth. She allowed herself another small sigh.

“Never forget, dearest Belle, that he is from the North.” And that, as Belle well knew, said it all.

She writes of him as if he were a savage from the plains of Africa, Belle thought. She’d finished Mr. Haggard’s novel, King Solomon’s Mines and had gone on to read the thrilling She, so the African plains were much on her mind of late.

“What’s the matter, Belle? You don’t look very happy to be reading a letter from home. Something amiss in Georgia?”

Belle didn’t register Win’s use of her Christian name at first. Guilt associated with her reaction to her mother’s letter was uppermost in her thoughts when she jerked her head up and looked at him. His smile, even without the sweltering heat, was enough to melt her bones. It took some effort, but she managed to rein in her rampaging lust. Lord in heaven, Belle couldn’t understand her reaction to the man.

“Oh, no. Nothing’s amiss. My mother tends to be—” She searched her mind for the right word, and ultimately settled on “dramatic.”

“Ah.” His grin broadened slightly. Belle had to swallow. “Like how?”

Her heart banging up a storm, Belle mulled over the possibility that her condition might be heat-related. It didn’t take long for her to conclude that her condition was worse than heat-related. It was Win-related.

“Well,” she said in answer to his question, “for one thing, she thinks I’m living in the frozen North.”

“Frozen?” Win laughed as he, too, drew out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his dripping face. “If it gets any hotter, my photographic plates will melt.”

She smiled at him, feeling vaguely wistful. How nice it would be, she thought, to have a comfortable, easy-going relationship with this man, as Kate Finney had. Maybe Win only liked shameless females. That let Belle out.

“It is warm,” she said. “It’s every bit this hot and humid in Georgia. Maybe it’s even worse there.” She frowned, thinking about the general level of activity in her Georgia home. It ran toward sitting on the front porch and fanning oneself. She didn’t say that. “But that doesn’t mean Chicago’s cold during the summer.” Recalling the weather in New York City when she and the Richmonds had headed to Chicago, she added, “Nor is New York.”

He’d already shoved his handkerchief into his back pocket, so Win used his shirt sleeve to give his forehead another quick swipe before he turned back to sorting through images. “Is she like that generally? I mean, you said she’s dramatic. Does she have hysterics or weep and faint and do things like that? My aunt Theodora is the drama queen in my family. She’s always fainting and getting hysterical.”

Belle thought about it. “She doesn’t get hysterical, but she tends to look on the emotional side of things. Like my moving to New York. She’s still horrified about that. She even swooned when I first told her about it.”

“When you and I first met, I thought you were horrified about it,” Win said, giving her another one of those grins.

“Fiddlesticks.” Now she was annoyed. Why couldn’t she ever be in this man’s company without something controversial cropping up. “I wasn’t horrified. I was coming to grips with the differences between life in the South and life in the North. That’s an entirely different sort of thing.”

“Is it?” He was still chuckling.

“Yes it is.” Blast the man.

“I thought you were still fighting the Civil War.”

“It wasn’t a Civil—” Bother. “Are you trying to rile me, Mr. Win Asher?”

He grinned like an imp, and she knew the answer to her question. Nevertheless, he said, “No, although you’re fun to rile.”

“For your information, life is different here! And so are attitudes.” Belle took on a cargo of sweltering air and decided to drop that topic. It was too volatile, the weather was too hot, and she was too apt to lose her temper, for such a discussion to flourish.

Getting back to the original subject under discussion, she said, “But that’s not what I meant about my mother. She—she—” Bother. Belle thought for a couple of seconds. “She enjoys making the most of things. You know, turning something simple into something overblown and dramatic. She finds the worst possible connotation for anything, however much she has to dig to find one.”

“Sounds like my aunt Theo, all right.”

“My mother carries the tendency to extremes sometimes,” Belle said glumly. “And she has a very large romantic streak.”

“Yeah? Like what?” He pulled out a photograph and stared at it thoughtfully.

Belle wasn’t sure she ought to tell him what she considered the most extreme example of her mother’s romantic tendency, but decided she might as well. “For one thing, she named me Rowena, after that idiotic character in Sir Walter Scott’s novel.”

That caught his attention. Holding the image close to his chest, he stared at her. “Rowena? But I thought your name was Belle.”

“I go by my middle name.”

“Hmmm. I read Ivanhoe. I didn’t think Rowena was so bad.”

“I’m not surprised,” Belle said, feeling a little crabby. “Most men prefer simpering women who don’t give them trouble.”

“Simpering?”

“Yes. It was the other girl in the book, Rebecca, who had all the gumption.” She didn’t understand why she should feel so defensive. After all, she’d amply demonstrated her own initiative, by moving to New York and getting a job. It was aggravating that this man, who was so attractive to her in so many ways, seemed totally oblivious of Belle’s spunk and spirit.

“I don’t like simpering women,” Win exclaimed irritably, going back to sorting his photographs. “I think you’re nuts. Kate Finney’s not a simpering female, and I like her.”

“No,” Belle said, wishing she could throw something at him. “She’s not a simpering female.” It had been she, Rowena Belle Monroe, who’d saved the spunky Kate’s life yesterday. Win Asher didn’t seem to remember that. Belle would have brought it up herself, except she’d been taught that to tout one’s own successes was improper and boastful. She wouldn’t mind if Kate were to pop in and thank her some more right this minute, however.

“Hope Kate’s all right,” Win muttered, selecting several prints he’d set aside and carrying them to the table set up beside his camera. “I love Mr. Kodak.”

“Who’s Mr. Kodak?” And how did he get into this conversation? Belle didn’t like feeling confused, although she supposed she ought to be used to it by this time.

“Camera fellow,” Win said. “He’s the first person ever to create portable cameras and to mass produce photographic plates.”

“Oh.” Relevant, but vexing. Belle would have liked to thrash the simpering-maiden conversation to a standstill, but it was painfully obvious that Win Asher found Mr. Kodak of more interest than anything Belle wanted to talk about. She went back to her letter.

“Darling Belle, please don’t allow that Yankee devil to take advantage of you.”

“Fat chance,” Belle muttered bitterly. He couldn’t even keep her in mind for ten consecutive seconds.

“What’s that?” Win had ducked under his black curtain, but he poked his head out and glanced at Belle.

“Nothing.”

She read on. “You know that Yankee men are all vile seducers, darling, and that they’re still trying to lord it over us because they won a modest victory in the Conflict. You must guard yourself from harm, and keep in mind at all times that your Mama loves you. We’re all praying that you will come to your senses soon and return to the bosom of your loving relations.”

Not a word, Belle noticed, about the money she was sending home. Not a thank-you, or a hint of gratitude. She didn’t understand it. She knew good and well that her family was benefitting from her work here in the so-called frozen, not to mention heathen, North. But would her mother admit it? No. It was all very—very—

“Why are you shaking your head?”

Belle glanced up to see that Win hadn’t ducked under his black curtain again, but was standing beside his camera, scrutinizing her as if she were a landscape he wanted to capture on one of his blasted mass-produced plates. She lifted her chin and did something she never believed she’d do. She confessed her innermost guilt aloud to another human being. “My family sometimes gets my goat, Mr. Asher.”

“Yeah?”

She didn’t appreciate his broad grin. Frowning back at him, she said, “It’s not funny.”

“Of course not.” He laughed.

“Stop laughing at me, Mr. Win Asher.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Win declared. It looked to Belle as if he were having trouble keeping from rolling on the floor in hysterical amusement. “It’s only that you look so prim and proper for someone whose family is getting her goat.”

She straightened. “I do not believe it proper to exhibit displays of emotion in public, Mr. Asher.”

“Call me Win. Please. I’d like to be friends, if you can find it in your Southern-belle’s heart to be friends with so despicable specimen of mankind as a Yankee from Chicago.”

Gazing at him in serious doubt, Belle didn’t answer at once.

He said, “Please? I promise I won’t tell your mother.” He laughed some more.

“It is not funny,” she said through clenched teeth. Sentiments she’d tried to hide for years seemed determined to slither through her defenses today. Resentment, against Win and against her family, finally bubbled over.

“Dad blast it, I send almost all of my money home to my family, and what do they do? Do they even once write a word of thanks? Do they express their gratitude? No! They write to me that they’re worried for my moral welfare, and beg me to come home. Back to the ‘bosom of my loving family,’ according to my mother.” She lifted her mother’s letter and smacked it back down on her lap, making a dent in the middle of the paper with her fist. “It’s—it’s—it’s very upsetting.” It embarrassed her to death that she had to wipe a furious tear away from her cheek.

Win left his camera and walked over to sit on the bench next to her. “I didn’t know all that.” His voice was gentle.

“No,” she said caustically. “You only thought I was a piece of fluff, didn’t you? You never would have guessed that I’m trying my level best to help my family. Damned Yankee.” She felt stupid and beleaguered, and completely humiliated. She nearly jumped out of her sweaty skin when Win put an arm around her shoulder.

“Say, Belle, don’t cry. I had no idea you were working so hard to help your kin.”

She hunched into herself and raged on, unable to stop herself, even though she wanted to. “Of course you didn’t. You only thought people like Kate were trying to better themselves, didn’t you? You never even guessed that because I have manners and value propriety, I could be doing something worthwhile with my life. Oh, no! Not me! It’s only people who put on scandalous costumes and wiggle around in front of a bunch of strangers who get your respect.” She could hardly believe she’d just said that.

“Belle, please . . .”

“Oh, leave me alone!” In total defiance of her words, she turned and threw her arms around Win, who instantly took advantage of the situation and held her close to his chest.

“It’ll be right, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t until the word sweetheart penetrated her head, the hair on which was being nuzzled by Win, that Belle realized what she’d done. She tried to pull away from him, but he held on tight.

“Calm down, Belle,” Win begged gently. “I’m sorry your family doesn’t appreciate you.”

“Nobody appreciates me!” Belle whimpered. She was appalled by how pathetic and whiny she sounded. Nevertheless, the words felt right, and it was a relief to say them.

“I appreciate you.”

“Ha! You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” She felt Win take a deep breath. “Not at all.”

“You th-think I’m a simpering Rowena because I don’t dress like a slut!”

“What?” He sounded honestly astonished.

Belle realized she’d just been vicious about Kate, and despised herself. Since she’d already been despising herself quite effectively, this additional dose of self-loathing about finished her off. She hated herself for being a mean-spirited fuddy-duddy, and for finding such pleasure, however hot and sweaty, in Win Asher’s arms.

She buried her face in the convenient hollow of his shoulder, glad he’d removed his jacket because she could smell him better this way. A hint of bay rum added spice to the aroma of Win himself, and she wished she could drink it in for the rest of the evening, tomorrow, and a couple of months thereafter, although she wasn’t sure even then she’d get enough.

“You’ve been right about me all along,” she said, trying to decide if she wished she were dead or if she’d prefer remaining exactly where she was for all eternity. “I’m horrid. I’m judgmental and hateful. And spiteful.” She tried to come up with some more critical words, but her mind went blank.

“I never said that.”

“You thought it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You think I’m a silly belle from Georgia who hates everything.”

“Well . . .”

Belle grabbed on to his hesitation and flayed herself with it. “See? I’m right. You hate me.”

“I do not hate you!”

Again, Belle felt Win’s chest expand as he sucked in air. She wanted to crawl onto his lap, curl into a ball, and stay there, like a fat house cat. What a shocking hussy she’d become! The North was playing havoc with her sense of propriety. Her mother was right about her. Belle said, “Ohhh!” as the truth struck her, painfully, smack between the eyes. “She’s right!”

“What the hell is going on in that lovely head of yours, Belle?” Win asked at last, sounding moderately frustrated. “Who’s right? And I don’t hate you. Jeez Louise!”

She finally found the moral and physical strength to pull herself out of his arms. What a blithering fool she was being. Scooting over to the other side of the bench and clutching her handkerchief, not to mention her moral worth, in a death grip, she said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Asher.”

Win said, “Win.”

Belle said, “Win,” and blushed.

He scooted after her, and she jumped up from the bench. She’d made enough of an ass of herself for one day. Unfortunately, she’d left her mother’s letter behind. Win picked it up. Belle made a grab for it, but Win lifted it out of her reach.

“Your mother must be even worse than my Aunt Theo, if she created that kind of reaction in you.”

“Don’t you dare read that letter!” Belle made another swipe for the missive, but again Win eluded her.

He sprang up from the bench, too, and jigged out of her way, reading as he did so. “Shoot, she really has it in for us Northerners, doesn’t she? You’d think we all burned down her barn personally.”

“Stop it!” Belle realized with horror that she’d started to screech. “That’s my private correspondence!”

“Applesauce,” said Win, grinning like the Cheshire Cat in Alice In Wonderland. “You started telling me about it. I’m just taking it another step.”

“Ooooooh!” Understanding at last that she was doomed, and that Win Asher was going to read her letter whether she wanted him to or not, she flopped down on the log atop the platform and sank her chin in her cupped hands. She supposed this was no more than she deserved, after allowing Win to take such liberties with her person.

It was distressing to realize that she had allowed the heathen North to subvert her southern morals and standards. Yet that was exactly what had happened to her. Never, ever, would she have allowed a man to put his arms around her when she lived in Georgia. Well, except for her father and other male relatives, but that was an entirely different matter.

“Oh, Lord,” she moaned, staring at the toes of her little white boots peeking out from beneath her skirt. It had been she who’d thrown her arms around him, hadn’t it? First it had been her corset. She’d thrown that out without giving it a second thought—or a third thought. She had worried about it at first. Hadn’t lasted long.

But she’d sunk fast from there. Perhaps she ought to quit her job and go home again.

Everything inside her rose up in protest. “I’ll be damned if I will,” she muttered to her boots, and immediately cringed when she heard a profanity leave her mouth. She glanced with trepidation at Win. To her consternation, she saw that he was staring at her. Her letter, she noticed, lay limp on his lap. She sat up straight. Even though she’d sunk beyond redemption in the morals department, he didn’t have to know it. She said, “What?” sharply.

“I don’t understand why she wrote all this guff.” Win lifted the letter.

Belle sighed heavily. “I don’t, either.”

“I mean, it doesn’t make any sense. You’d think she’d be overjoyed that you’re trying to better your family’s lot in life.”

Her family’s lot in life. “Hmm.” Belle thought about that. For the very first time, it occurred to her that if she managed to increase her family’s overall economic welfare, her mother wouldn’t have anything to talk about any more. Neither would her father. Or Granny and Gramps. Or Uncle Stephen and Aunt Mae Scudder. Or the rest of her siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. They’d have to stop whining and improve themselves.

“Well,” she murmured musingly, “they wouldn’t have to.”

“They wouldn’t have to what?” Win’s smile this time was different from any of the others he’d smiled at her.

Belle thought she detected sympathy, and she resented it. Defiantly, she said, “They wouldn’t have to stop talking about things.”

Win’s befuddlement was clear. “I beg your pardon?”

Belle threw up her arms. It was, perhaps her very first spontaneous gesture she’d ever given that was not rendered in defense of another human being but only done because she felt like throwing up her arms. “If they didn’t have their poverty and old family traditions of hating the North to talk about, they’d still be able to find topics of conversation. If they really wanted to.” She realized she’d sounded every bit as bitter as she felt and wasn’t even sorry about it. Not very, anyhow.

She didn’t appreciate the expression on Win’s face, which was smirky and oh-so-knowing. “Drat you, Win Asher! Your whole way of life wasn’t wiped out by a bunch of invading monsters, as ours was!”

He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Belle.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Well . . .” He shrugged. “I guess I don’t understand, is the main problem. My family never, ah, did stuff like that. You know: moan and groan about the past, I mean.”

“Why should they? They didn’t have to.”

He thought about it. “I guess you’re right, although my father fought in the war.”

“On the winning side,” Belle said acerbically.

“Yeah, but lots of Union men died, don’t forget.”

“Your entire way of life wasn’t destroyed.”

He remained silent for a moment. Belle at first thought he wasn’t going to respond to that sharp reminder, but he did at last.

“You know, Belle, you’re probably going to hate me for saying this, but I have to admit that the notion of slavery appalls me. Any way of life that depends on slavery to support itself deserves to be destroyed, in my opinion.”

She stared at him, wishing he hadn’t said that. She’d always been secretly ashamed that in her heart of hearts, way down deep where nobody could see, she felt the same way. She dropped her gaze until she was again peering at the toes of her little white boots.

What kind of a disloyal daughter of the South was she, to harbor these feelings? She knew the answer to that one: The worst kind. And yet she couldn’t condone slavery. Always before she’d consoled herself with the vague notion that the South itself would surely have done away with slavery eventually. Sooner rather than later, in all probability. At any rate, she liked to believe it was so.

Nevertheless, because she was possessed an honest soul, even though it felt as though it was being tried viciously hard of late, she grumbled, “I think so, too.”

Belle didn’t relish Win’s ecstatic cry of, “You do? Good God!”

She was about to respond with something cutting and sarcastic when she heard a thundering noise and glanced up. She was just in time to realize the thundering noise had come from Win’s boots racing across the floor. She cried, “Win!” when he swept her up from the log and hugged her in a bruising embrace.

“By God, I never thought you’d admit the heroes of the South had ever done anything wrong, Belle Monroe! This is cause for a celebration! And I have a great idea on how to celebrate. Let’s give your parents something really interesting to talk about besides the damned Civil War that ended thirty years ago!”

She didn’t even have time to protest his calling the War of Northern Ignorance by the inapt and, naturally, Northern name, Civil War, before she discovered she was being kissed, deeply and thoroughly, and her shaken senses switched from utter panic to absolute delight.

Throwing her arms around Win’s neck, Belle held on for dear life while Win imparted unto her so many of the lessons she’d felt were lacking in her life until this minute. She melted, she throbbed, her heart soared, her soul rejoiced, and she kissed him back with all the intensity in her body. God alone knew what might have become of her if the door to his booth hadn’t burst open. She and Win jumped apart as if an ax had hacked them into two pieces.

“Oh!” she whispered, covering her burning lips with her hand. She blinked fuzzily at the person standing in the sunlight pouring in through the open door.

“Damn.” Win, too, appeared befuddled. Or bedazzled. Belle couldn’t tell.

“Whoops!” Kate Finney stood in the doorway, grinning like an elf, her fists on her hips, her throat livid with fingerprint-sized bruises. “Sorry,” she said in a voice that, although hoarse, held more than a hint of laughter. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

On the whole, Belle guessed she was glad she had.