Chapter Seventeen

 

He’d have to marry her. Walking home from the Congress Hotel, where he’d left Belle at the door to her room—she wouldn’t let him kiss her because she was embarrassed to do so in public, although there wasn’t another soul around—Win pondered the probability of a marriage between himself and Belle Monroe.

The notion of marriage hadn’t really occurred to him before he met Belle. But now, after what they’d done together . . . Well, he’d have to marry her, or he’d never be able to look himself in the eye again.

Not that he could look himself in the eye now unless he used a mirror, but . . . “Aw, hell.”

Win kicked a crumpled paper lying on the sidewalk and contemplated the nature of fate. Was there such a thing, or was life and everything in the universe governed by pure chance? Had fate sent him his annoying and marvelous southern Belle? The thought of marriage had always before made his blood run cold. The thought of letting Belle get away from him made it run even colder.

It occurred to him that perhaps Belle didn’t want marriage. That notion cheered him momentarily until he realized how ridiculous it was. Belle? Refuse a proposal of marriage now? After they’d consummated the marriage act before the fact? Win grinned in spite of himself.

His darling Belle was probably the most stuffy, proper, well-bred, civilized, genteel lady—and he used the word on purpose in this context—he’d ever met. Even the society debutantes he’d been forced to dance with during his adolescence and whom he only had to photograph these days were less ladylike and refined than his Belle.

Until tonight. His heart floated around in his chest like a hot-air balloon and his sex stiffened when he thought about tonight. She hadn’t been a lady tonight, by damn. She’d been—she’d been—she’d been . . . Aw, hell, he couldn’t even find words for how magnificent their joining had been.

He should, however, have anticipated her passionate underpinnings. After all, she’d not only tried to fend him off that first day in order to protect the Richmond children, but she’d beaned Kate Finney’s father to within an inch of his life in order to save Kate from strangulation. He grinned, remembering. If that wasn’t spunky, he didn’t know spunk.

Ah, Belle. She was an unexpected treasure, his Belle. If he had to marry, and he did have to, because no matter what Belle thought of him or how many roguish airs he liked to claim for himself, he remained a gentleman because he couldn’t help it, he guessed Belle was the best choice. She was at least the best choice of the females he’d met until now.

The idea of ever meeting another woman for whom he could feel the same combination of emotions and frustrations as he did for Belle entered his mind only to be rejected. It wasn’t possible. Belle was unique.

Besides all that, he had no choice. He’d bedded her. Now he had to marry her. It was the gentleman’s code. It was probably the lady’s code, too, although Win doubted there was a woman alive who’d admit it.

Oddly enough, the notion that he had no choice in the matter made him feel a good deal more cheerful. Took the strain out of having to make a decision, and all that. He was whistling by the time he got to his flat on 59^th Street.

# # #

Belle’s own emotions were not sanguine as she let herself into her hotel room. She prayed that Gladys hadn’t waited up for her to return. Belle wasn’t sure she could conceal from her perceptive and good-hearted employer the tumble of emotions rioting through her.

The new Belle, the adventuress who had led her to abandon caution and tumble into bed with Win, seemed to have hidden herself in a closet. The old Belle, the Belle who’d had propriety drummed into her from Day One, was having a serious attack of panic. What if Win refused to marry her now? What if he didn’t even ask her to marry him?

“The cad,” she whispered, her agitated heart twisting like a wrung-out rag in her chest. “The beast. The villain. The—the—” The most vile epithet in her vocabulary came to her rescue. “—the damned Yankee.”

Marriage was de rigueur once a woman had succumbed to the lures of a male. Belle knew it. She’d known it before she could talk. In her childhood, she’d strained to hear the scandalized whispers of her elders, longing to know what was so ghastly that it couldn’t be spoken of aloud. Always, when such whispered conversations had taken place among her mother, aunts, and other female relatives and acquaintances, the topic of conversation had been some young lady’s ruin. Although, as Belle mulled over the matter now, she couldn’t recall ever perceiving any sign of ruin on the young ladies involved. And she’d inspected them closely, too. The signs of ruin had ever eluded her. They did now, too.

She tossed her hat onto a chair, a breach of conduct she perpetrated on purpose because she was mad at the world, and muttered, “Ruined. Pshaw.”

Who made up those rules, anyhow? Had God come to earth, shaken his finger at Belle’s Georgia kin, and said, “Thou shalt not consummate an act of love until Preacher Gideon Hawkins says you may”?

Oh, very well, there was a commandment against committing adultery, but what she and Win had done tonight wasn’t adultery. It was fornication.

Fiddlesticks. That was such an ugly word. Still, Belle couldn’t recall a specific commandment against fornication. Unless—

Belle slammed a hand over her heart and stared, wild-eyed, at the door to her room. “Good God.”

Win wasn’t married, was he? Had he ever mentioned his marital status or lack thereof? Had he led her astray, as so many married men had done to their unsuspecting prey? “My land.” Sheer horror made her collapse in a heap on her bed.

But wait. He’d mentioned being a bachelor, hadn’t he? He’d said he’d been embarrassed to purchase that pretty wrapper because he was a single man.

Relief propelled Belle up from the bed. She made her way to the bathroom attached to her hotel room, thanking her stars that the Richmonds were so wealthy that they could even afford built-in bathrooms in hotel rooms rented for their hired help.

Guilt tapped her on the shoulder. The Richmonds. Oh, dear. She couldn’t just leave them high and dry, even though she was now going to be making scads of money and probably—almost certainly—married. She wasn’t that sort of person. She may have had to bend a principle or two in order to pose for Win in the first place, but she wasn’t so lost to decency that she’d quit on the Richmonds without giving notice.

She shuddered to contemplate how many principles she’d downright shattered tonight when she and Win had made love. Remembered sensations rippled through her, and she hugged herself.

What they’d done might have been wrong, but hadn’t felt wrong. It had felt perfect.

As water filled the claw-footed bathtub in the bathroom, Belle disrobed, scanning her clothes for betraying wrinkles and stains. After an initial period of confusion, borne of Belle’s anxiety and Win’s befuddlement, Win had courteously handed her a damp cloth and then turned his back so that Belle could wash away the most betraying signs of her debauch before he’d walked her home. It had been embarrassing, but she was glad now that she’d taken the time, because her clothes remained unstained.

As she sank into the water, which felt soothing to her body and soul, both, she decided not to make any firm decisions right this minute. She was too confused even to attempt a rational goal for the remainder of her life. Besides that, she was only nineteen years old; the notion of directing her future was rather absurd when contemplated in that light.

She’d wait to give the Richmonds notice until she and Win had formalized their partnership and marriage plans, and she had a better idea of how much of an income she could expect. And when. For all she knew, it took years for royalty money to catch up with publication of photographs.

“I’m too tired to think any longer,” she murmured as her eyes drifted shut and her head relaxed against the porcelain tub. She fell asleep a moment later, and it was only when the water got cold that she forced herself to finish her bath, get out of the tub, dry off, and fall into bed. She slept like the dead.

# # #

The dining room of the Congress Hotel gleamed with crystal and white linen, even in the glare of another sultry Chicago summer morning. Belle had donned a light-weight frock of cambric, had considered her corset, and had consigned it to the pit. She was already a fallen woman, whatever that meant. The same as ruined, she imagined. That being the case, what further good could a corset do her?

Fearing she was late, she scanned the dining room in some agitation. A flood of relief filled her when she saw Gladys, Amalie, and Garrett just being seated by a dignified waiter. She hurried over to them, smiling for all she was worth. She didn’t want to smile. She wanted to go back to sleep. However had she turned into such a liar in such a short period of time?

She didn’t know how it had happened so fast, but she was glad it had as the three Richmonds smiled happily at her approach. “Good morning!” she said brightly.

“Good morning, Belle.” Gladys gave her a searching glance, making Belle want to squirm. She didn’t. Rather, she sat, still smiling, picked up her napkin, and laid it in her lap. Directing the question at no one in particular, she asked, “What do we have on the agenda today?” She longed to see Win, primarily because she was feeling dreadfully insecure this morning. She’d never say so.

“Mama said we can go on the Ferris wheel again today, Miss Monroe!”

Stifling a yawn, Belle kept smiling at the little girl. “That’s wonderful, darling.” She hadn’t looked at a clock last night, but she must have gotten to bed late because she felt as though somebody had thrown sand in her eyes.

“George and I will be visiting the Agricultural Exhibit today, Belle. I fear we’ll have to leave the children in your care for most of the day.”

“Yeah,” said Garrett, scowling at his napkin. “Who wants to see a bunch of vegetables?”

“Garrett, really.” The way Gladys looked from her sulky boy to Belle gave Belle the impression that Belle expected her to object.

Oh, dear, had she been neglecting her duties of late? Her brain scrambled to remember. She didn’t think so, but . . . “That’s perfectly fine, Gladys. I’m sure the three of us will have a grand time.” She smiled at Amalie, who smiled back, and at Garrett, who still looked sulky. She sighed before she could stop herself.

“Are you sure, dear? You’re not too tired? I, ah, stayed up, but finally went to bed before you returned to the hotel last night.”

Ah-ha. Gladys was worried about her virtue. As well she might be, Belle thought glumly. She smiled more brightly yet. “Mr. Asher brought me home after we’d concluded our business.” She’d never say what kind of business. “I suppose it was rather late.” She was surprised when Gladys laid a hand over hers.

“Is everything all right, Belle? I mean between you and Mr. Asher? I, ah, don’t mean to pry, but . . .”

Instinctively, Belle turned her hand over and squeezed Gladys’s. Gladys was such a genuinely sweet person. And Belle knew she only had her welfare at heart. Therefore, there was no earthly excuse for her to have felt a flash of annoyance at Gladys’s question. “You’re too good to me, Gladys. Everything is fine.” Deciding it would soothe Gladys’s fears a trifle if she were to admit to a part of last night’s adventures, Belle went on to say, “Mr. Asher has offered me a partnership in his business, as a matter of fact.”

Belle wasn’t surprised when Gladys gazed at her blankly. “A, um, partnership? Um . . .”

“A fifty-fifty partnership,” Belle went on to explain. “Evidently, he believes he can market photographs of me and make us both a good deal of money.”

“I see.” Gladys still appeared puzzled. Belle wasn’t surprised. “Um, does this mean you’ll be leaving us?” the older woman asked at last.

“No!”

This spontaneous eruption came from Amalie, and Belle’s guilt skyrocketed. She squeezed Gladys’s hand again and reached for Amalie’s. It was sticky with jam, but Belle didn’t mind. “Good heavens, no. Er, not immediately, I mean. It all depends on whether or not Mr. Asher’s predictions for financial success come to pass.”

“I don’t want you to go!” Amalie wailed.

Oh, land. Belle wasn’t up to this today. She needed sleep, not tantrums from Amalie. “I won’t go, Amalie,” she cooed, squashing an urge to slap the child’s bustle-padded bottom.

“My goodness,” said Gladys. She no longer appeared bemused. In fact, she smiled at Belle. “I do hope it works out for you, dear. You deserve so much more than to have to work as a nanny.”

Belle told herself that she ought to have become accustomed to Gladys’s kindly disposition by this time, but the dear woman’s words made tears pool in her eyes. She felt stupid and mean and deceitful, although she probably had no reason for the latter. She’d told the most important part of the truth as it might affect the Richmonds. Her personal life was her own affair. So to speak. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Gladys started snuffling in reaction to Belle’s heightened emotions. Dabbing at her eyes with her napkin, she said, “Nonsense, Belle. You’re a lovely young lady. And I feel as if you’ve become part of the family.”

“Mr, too! What’s wrong with being a nanny?” Amalie demanded. “We love you, Miss Monroe!” Tears dripped down her cheeks, too.

“Hunh,” said Garrett.

Belle’s heart felt as if it were being rent in two. “I love being with you two, Amalie,” she said thickly. “But I have an unusual opportunity with Mr. Asher.”

“Oh!” wailed Gladys.

Belle’s attention swerved to her. She’d never intended to cause this degree of upset in her employer. “What’s the matter, Gladys?” Something occurred to her, and she gripped the table. Good God, she didn’t know something awful about Win that Belle didn’t, did she?

Gladys gave up on her napkin and dug a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket. “It’s nothing, dear. It’s only that I had hoped that you and Mr. Asher would . . . Well, never mind, Belle. I’m glad you at least have this partnership, and I do hope it will prove profitable.”

“I don’t want you to go away,” sobbed Amalie.

Belle eyed the child with a pinch of disfavor, although she tried not to show it. As much as she adored Amalie, she deplored this overt emotionalism. If the girl didn’t watch herself, she’d end up like Belle’s mother and start swooning every other second.

Good heavens, had she really entertained such a disloyal thought?

Before she could decide one way or the other, a bell boy appeared at their breakfast table, carrying a yellow envelope on a tray. As soon as Belle spotted the boy, her heart squeezed. Not another telegram, please God.

It didn’t please God. Rather, the boy headed straight at her, smiling broadly. He stopped in front of Belle. “Miss Monroe?”

Belle sighed. “Yes. I am Miss Monroe.”

The boy’s smile grew even larger. “I knew it! I saw your picture in the paper. You’re—” He blushed brightly. “You’re real beautiful, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Of course not.” Belle managed to produce a smallish smile. She wanted to scream. Handing the boy a coin hastily dug out of the reticule lying on her lap, she took the telegram. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Miss Monroe. It’s real special, being able to talk to you, ma’am.” He turned and rushed away, his face glowing like a hot coal.

As Belle watched him go, an odd numbness began to creep over her. Was this what her future held? Bell boys worshiping her as some kind of idol of femininity? The notion appalled her almost as much as it amused her. She? Rowena Belle Monroe?

“How ridiculous,” she said under her breath.

“It’s not, you know,” said Gladys.

Belle’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a lovely young woman, Belle. Mr. Asher is going to make you famous.”

Belle stared at Gladys for a moment, aghast. Yet Gladys had spoken only what Belle already knew. She heaved a huge sigh. “You’re right, of course. I know that. I made my decision after taking all of that into consideration.”

“What’s wrong with being famous?” Amalie wanted to know. She’d stopped crying, thank God, and now gazed at Belle with watery blue eyes.

Gladys smiled gently. “Yes, Belle. What’s wrong with being a famous beauty? I’m sure most young women would love to have the opportunity, but most of them aren’t as well equipped to fill the role as you.”

Pressing a hand to her rapidly heating cheek, Belle murmured, “Pshaw. But as to what’s wrong with it . . . well, my family is terribly opposed to it for one thing.”

“Hmmm.”

“How come?” asked Amalie.

Blast the child. How could she not understand what seemed so clear to Belle. Almost clear to Belle. Maybe. She shook her head once in an effort to clear it. “It’s not, um, proper to put oneself forward like that, Amalie.” Since Amalie appeared as confused as she’d been before this explanation, Belle hastened on. “Um, it’s also unwise to advertise oneself to the world. Why, all sorts of miscreants and so forth might feel free to make unwelcome overtures if they think I’m a public property. So to speak.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Gladys sighed.

“I guess.” Amalie didn’t believe it; Belle could tell.

“Getting back to the why’s of the matter,” Belle said desperately, “I’m willing to endure it all for the sake of money.” All at once, she felt like Judas Iscariot.

But the comparison was not only foolish, it was totally unrealistic. Not to mention sacrilegious. Belle wasn’t betraying her Savior, she was trying to help herself and her family, Dagnabbit!

That being the case, she gave herself a hard mental shake, picked up the yellow envelope, and ripped it open. Frowning, she gazed at its contents. “Ha.”

“What is it, Belle? Is it bad news?”

“It’s as I expected,” Belle said, resigned but vexed. “My family wasn’t pleased by my move to New York. They’re claiming to be wretched now that I’m making some money by modeling.”

Gladys appeared understandably puzzled. “Um . . . Why?”

Belle reread the telegram. Another photograph today. Belle, why? Hurt. Crushed. Disappointed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Love, Mother.

“Beats me,” she said, handing the communication to Gladys.

Gladys perused the telegram, and her forehead wrinkled. She gazed at Belle for a moment. “But I thought you sent most of your salary home to Georgia. I should think your family would be pleased that you’re helping and thank you for it, not send unkind telegrams berating you.”

Win’s condemnation of her family rolled through Belle’s mind like a strip of film through a projecting device, as she’d seen in the Machinery Hall. He’d been absolutely right about them. Her lips pressed together tightly for a moment before she answered Gladys’s sensible question. “They don’t like it that my face is being publicly displayed.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Gladys said, although she clearly didn’t understand anything of the sort.

“That’s what they claim,” Belle went on, feeling acrimonious and bitter. “The truth is that they don’t like it that I’m making something of myself. They’d rather wallow in lost glory and poverty than help themselves, and they expect me to do likewise. If I don’t, I’m upsetting the status quo.”

It didn’t surprise her when Gladys’s eyes opened wide. “Good heavens! I can’t imagine such a thing.”

Of course, she couldn’t. She was a Yankee. She didn’t come from a family who revered its status as somebody else’s victims like some sort of holy writ. “Old family tradition,” she said briefly.

Gladys blinked. “Oh.”

“I don’t understand, Miss Monroe,” Amalie piped up.

“You’re not supposed to butt into grown-up conversations,” Garrett said piously, ruining the effect of sainthood by shoving his sister.

“Stop it!” Amalie cried, shoving back. Belle placed a judicious hand on each small shoulder and held the children in place.

Smiling at Amalie, she told Garrett, “It’s all right, Garrett. Amalie is only concerned for my happiness.” Garrett wrinkled his nose and grimaced, which Belle figured was par for the course. She decided there was no communicating with a seven-year-old boy, so she turned her attention back to Amalie. “I don’t understand, either, Amalie. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“You’d think your family would be grateful for your assistance,” Gladys said as sternly as was possible for her. “They have no business sending mean-spirited telegrams to you.”

“Using the money I send home to do so,” Belle supplemented.

Gladys nodded firmly. “Exactly.” She gave Belle’s hand one last squeeze before picking up her own napkin and laying it on her lap. “I don’t mean to criticize, Belle, but I don’t think your family is being quite fair to you.”

Belle heaved another sigh. “To tell you the truth, I don’t, either.” It had taken her a long time, but Belle was beginning to doubt her family’s soundness of heart. If anyone were to assist her in life, for instance, she’d thank the person, not condemn him.

Naturally, she thought of Win. He was trying to assist her in life, and she couldn’t offhand perceive of thanking him for it. Actually, she’d sooner leap from the twenty-first floor of the Congress Hotel than thank him. For anything. She decided the two situations were entirely dissimilar and she needn’t worry about her lack of appreciation for Win at the moment. “Will Mr. Richmond be joining us for breakfast?” she asked in hopes of turning the conversation in another direction.

“Yes.” Gladys’s sigh echoed Belle’s. “He went to the front desk to get his morning supply of newspapers. I don’t understand what gentlemen find so fascinating in the business news.”

“I don’t, either,” said Belle with a laugh. “I rather like reading about crimes, though. It’s probably wrong of me.”

Gladys shot her a conspiratorial grin. “I do, too.” She sat up, gazing at the door as if something had captured her attention. “There’s George now. And he has. . . My goodness, is that Mr. Asher?”

Belle wished she’d had time to prepare. Before she could stop herself, she’d turned and started to rise from her chair. Luckily, she caught herself up. Before she’d managed to make a complete idiot of herself, she sat again and tried to gather her wits together.

But there he was! In the all-too-wonderful flesh. Win Asher, looking as neat as a pin in his summer suit and boiled shirt, chatting with George Richmond as if they were old friends. George appeared pleased, so Belle guessed Win was a welcome addition to the breakfast group.

“My goodness,” she said, trying to sound casual. “It is Mr. Asher.” She didn’t miss Gladys’s sharp look, and tried to deflect it with a bland expression on her own face. It was difficult to achieve. She felt the heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks even as she strove for serenity.

“Look who’s come to visit with us at breakfast, Gladys,” George said jovially. Belle was glad he’d evidently had a restful night. Sometimes George wasn’t terribly jolly in the morning.

“How do you do, Mr. Asher?” Gladys beamed at Win.

Win beamed back. “I’m dandy, Mrs. Richmond. And you?”

“I’m very well, thank you.”

Taking Belle’s hand, Win bowed over it formally, not unlike a southern gentleman at a ball—Belle remembered the gesture well from her younger days. If he was going to make fun of her, she’d just have to . . .

“Good morning, Belle. I hope I didn’t keep you up too late last evening. We had a lot of business to discuss.”

“Yes, we did.”

Amalie broke into the slight aura of strain that had sprung up around the table. “Hello, Mr. Asher! You wanna go on the Ferris wheel with us today?”

“Yeah,” said Garrett, for once sounding happy about something. “Can you?”

Belle thought it was interesting that both children liked Win. Their approbation made her feel a tiny bit better.

“I’d be delighted to join you on the Ferris wheel,” Win said, sounding almost as jovial as George had.

“Please sit down and join us, Mr. Asher,” Gladys said, gesturing at an empty chair. “Belle has been telling us that you’re hoping to form a business partnership.”

“Has she now?” Win directed a glittering smile at Belle, who gave him one back with interest.

“Yes. I think it’s very enterprising of you both to go into business together.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Richmond. I’m glad you approve.”

“Brilliant idea, old boy,” boomed George, clapping Win on the back. “Seize the opportunity, is my motto.”

It was, was it? Belle’s gaze went from Win to George, and she wondered if that might not be Win’s motto, as well. Had he seduced her merely in order to cement a business opportunity? The thought was unpleasant, and she wasn’t certain how to discover the truth of the matter. She could ask Win, but he’d say no, even if he meant yes. He seemed to be a trace unscrupulous where his photography business was concerned.

And if that wasn’t a depressing notion, she didn’t know what was. It took a good deal of effort for her to smile at the waiter, order a breakfast she hoped she could hold down, and to eat it as if her mind were at ease. It wasn’t. Blast Win Asher, anyhow.