The Ringmaster's Wife (25 page)

Colin spotted a peach crate under the desk, the one he'd emptied and refilled dozens of times for his travels through the years. It was sturdy and dependable, and would no doubt travel with him again—this time when the circus moved to winter lodgings in Sarasota in the New Year.

He pulled the crate up to the side of the desk, then upturned the mail bin, sending the load of paper fluttering down inside. It piled up like a small, daunting mountain asking for a lighted match instead of a reader.

“Caffè?”

Colin looked up.

Bella leaned against the doorframe, lifting one ankle in a sultry tilt. She held out a porcelain mug, extending the peace offering of a cup of coffee as the rain fell behind her.

“It's miserable out,” she said, brushing raindrops from the cap sleeves of her dress. “I suspected you wouldn't have any, so I brought you some.”

Bella was indeed beautiful, but calculating. It wasn't about rain or coffee. She wanted something and brought sugar to attract it.

Same as always.

“Open or closed?”

Colin eyed her dark silhouette in the doorway, wondering how much she'd already guessed about their meeting.

“Closed.”

Bella clicked the wooden half door closed and waltzed in, alone. Her face serene. Her lips painted in a garish red and her hair already coiffed and tucked under a hat—both odd for the early hour.

She set his coffee cup on the edge of the desk and eased into the leather-and-wood swivel chair tucked beneath it. She crossed her legs at the ankle and sat up, poker-straight.

Colin wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of sitting on the cot below her level, so he leaned against the wall. The wagon creaked with age—the only sound to cut through the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof.

“Thank you for the gesture. Ward seems to have forgotten the favorability of hot coffee in the morning instead of cold coffee in the afternoon.”

He held back on drinking and instead eyed the door. No one else came stepping through it. He paused, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No Rossi Family Flyers this morning?”

“Oh, they found their
caffè
somewhere else today.” She paused,
stopping to tap her nails on the armrest. “And I thought our conversation was best had alone. We were able to talk once, weren't we?”

Bella's words sliced through the air.

She was confident and without an ounce of fear—at least not that she was likely to let him see.

Colin could keep just about anything from showing on his face as well. He owned a poker face better than most. But he'd need all of his wits about him if he was going to win the next round with Bella, and she looked ready to play.

“You're sure you don't want the rest of your family here right now? Marvio will want to know what's been said.”

“And I can take whatever you wish back to my uncle,” she said, her tone silky. “Or don't you trust me, Colin?”

He opted to leave that question alone. “Fine. Here it is: we're not renewing your contract.”

Bella noticeably stiffened, despite the layers of garments she wore. Her jaw formed a tight line.

“Unless”—he paused, giving her full disclosure that water was about to be poured on her flaming ego—“you can guarantee no more drinking. We'll renew the rest of your family for two years, but you'll be left out. I hate to put it so bluntly—”

She cut in. “Oh, but you know how I appreciate your frankness.”

“You had to know this was coming, Bella,” Colin fired back, keeping his tone stern. In control. “This is a business.”

“Oh, it's business, is it? You're already out recruiting new acts should I have a complete fall from grace. Taking them to meet the Ringlings for a little Christmas party, hmm? You didn't think I would hear about that? I own respect in this show and I have earned loyalty enough to stay informed when I need to.”

Colin wanted to sigh. Curse loudly. Or light something on fire.

It would have felt good, given the veiled reference to his
recruitment of Rose. This was a meeting about Bella, and Bella alone. The last thing he could do was appear frustrated, especially when he needed to retain the upper hand.

“We recruit new acts all the time. It's part of the show. You know that. We're here to talk about that stunt you pulled in the ring at the end of the season. Do you realize what might have happened if that net hadn't been under you?”

“Have a problem with failure, do you?”

Colin swallowed hard.

The sting of her venom cut deeper than Bella might have intended, had she known what she was truly saying. If pasts were anything to be considered, he'd risk his future to make up for his own shortcomings. But to make excuses for Bella now? It felt weak. And clumsy.

“Failure? Not so much. It's the scraping performers up from the sawdust that turns my stomach a sight more.”

“Flyers fall all the time. It's part of the job. You know
that
.”

He leaned forward to look her in the eye, the wall creaking behind him.

“I'm not judging you, Bella. What you do in your off time is up to you. But when you represent the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey, any illegal activity—especially when it's been addressed before—will precipitate one of these conversations. The Ringlings are very firm on this. It's a family show.”

“And I am the star of their show!” she snapped, slamming her gloved palm against the chair's armrest. Her lips looked brighter in the lamplight, as if she'd drawn blood with the ferocity of her words.

“One of them. You are one of many, all of whom can be replaced if need be.”

She stared back. Seething.

“There are Prohibition laws, for goodness' sake! Bella, you can't keep this up. You're not immune to losing your job. Or prosecution, even. The circus is not above the law. It goes with us to every town we stop in.”

“It's not illegal to consume alcohol—just to make or sell it. I'm not doing either. And don't try to tell me that Irish blood of yours doesn't have you taking a sip now and then, hmm? So righteous.” She blew out her breath. “Americans. Always in a fluff about something . . .” She flitted her wrist in the air. “Today,
vino
. Tomorrow, who knows?”

“But this is a family show, so that's the law around here and we have to live under it.” He pulled the contract from the inside pocket of his vest and walked over from his perch, sliding the paper across the desk. Next to it he laid a pen. “Now, do you want to sign this first, or do you want to tell me what's going on?”

“Tell you?” She leaned forward, anger flashing in her eyes. “I'd sooner talk to the backside of an elephant.” Bella shot to her feet.

“It's a contract for the next six months. But if there's any more of this behavior, you're out. I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be. The decision's in your corner.”

He watched as Bella removed the glove from her right hand, unscrewed the cap of the pen, and scrawled her name across the bottom of the contract. She tossed the pen across the desk without recapping it, surprisingly in control with every movement.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?” she added.

Colin reached for the coffee cup, the contents still releasing tiny swirls of steam. He took it in hand, swirling the liquid around the inside of the cup. Fully debating whether to drink it. Only half in jest, he wondered to himself if she might have laced the liquid with something. At the very least, it gave him something to stare at while he framed his words.

“I'm sorry, Bella. For everything that's happened.” He looked her in the eye. “I'm here to help if you need it, but I have to do my job.”

“Sorry? You're sorry. How dare you talk to me about being sorry and the cutthroat business of this circus in the same breath! This conversation is over.”

She turned to leave, her composure firm as concrete as she headed for the door.

“One more thing.” Colin cleared his throat and took a step toward her, softening his tone. “I need you to be kind to her, Bella.”

Bella turned. Slowly. As if she had all the time in the world to blast him with an icy reply. “Who?”

He wanted to forget he'd said it the moment the words were out. Maybe find an extra second or two to convince himself it really was only about the show. That Rose's success in it was just smart business, and whether Bella was truly kind didn't matter beyond that.

“The English brat?”

“The show needs her,” he reasoned. “You know we're losing May Wirth.”

“Sounds as if she is escaping tyranny.”

“She's just moving on. She wants to tour more of the country fairs and smaller, indoor circus shows. So we need Rose to stay. Just as we need you to. And whether Rose knows it or not, she's got the kind of talent that will sell tickets. Just like you.”

“And now I am to be flattered so you can get what you want.”

“No,” Colin answered. “I just want you to know I'm putting her in the center ring. Soon.”

“And does she know this?”

He shook his head.

Rose didn't know it, but she'd slowly eased into a flow of excellence in the ring. There wasn't any place she could go now but under the spotlight.

“I see. It is a sacrifice I must make for the show then, hmm? I must play nice under the Big Top,” Bella breathed out, slithering through a cool smile as she stepped back to the stairs. “No, Mr. Keary. I do not think so. You do not want me to be nice to her. You want me to fall in love with her—just like the crowd.
My
crowd. But there's something you seem to have forgotten. The people belong to me, and I will not share them.”

1912

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

Mable had noticed the young man some weeks ago.

He'd casually brush against a gentleman in the crowd as he offered to park cars outside Madison Square Garden, with a ready apology for his clumsiness. He'd then scamper off into the nearby park, blue eyes twinkling, with a wallet in his hand and a victor's grin splayed wide across his face.

Shrouded in the darkness of their Rolls-Royce, Mable waited in the backseat while John engaged in an impromptu conversation with a business colleague. And there he was again—the young man on the street corner, tooling the crowd. Up till now Mable had been content to observe and not intervene, but now he edged too close to her husband's place on the sidewalk.

Mable knocked her gloved hand against the inside of the door, drawing the driver's attention to the backseat. “I'm getting out,” she advised, and opened the door without waiting for him to hop out and do it for her.

She stepped out, lowering her head to clear her fur hat under the doorframe. The driver met her on the sidewalk, having darted from his perch in the front seat.

“I won't be a moment,” she stated, her breath freezing in a fog. “Please wait here for Mr. Ringling. And if he should return before me, tell him I'm about circus business.”

“Very good, madam.” The driver nodded, albeit with a quizzical expression. Even the staff knew Mable avoided her husband's business dealings. But if he thought anything of the comment, he kept it to himself, clicking the door closed behind her.

Mable marched down the sidewalk, eyeing her target.

She'd have to time her approach perfectly. Too early, and he'd shy away from the deed. Too late, and her husband's wallet would be lost.

The young man tipped the edge of his cap back off his forehead and in a split second of acting bumped John in the side. Her husband turned immediately, his eyes furrowed to the boy's profuse apology.

Perhaps John's size was overbearing. He stood tall at an even six foot four inches—and with a hat adding a few more to the top of his head, he proved quite an imposing figure. Mable saw something flash in the young man's eyes, as if he knew this moment would come one day and it could now be time to pay for past debts.

In his haste to turn he experienced a genuine fall this time, a near collision with a couple who had just exited the Garden's front doors. John may have known exactly what had happened and might have even offered grace at watching this turn of events—Mable couldn't know. Because the instant she saw a flash of gold hit the pavement and the young man scoop up the item to quick-step it to the park, Mable approached, slipped her arm under his elbow, and whisked him away from the crowd.

“Mable? Is that you?” John saw her breeze by and called after her. “Where on earth are you going?”

She waved him off with a gloved hand. “Just for a turn around the park, Mr. Ringling. We'll return momentarily.”

“What? Who is that?”

The questioning voice faded away behind them. The young man grappled with the viselike grip she'd placed around his elbow. Though nearly dragged, he kept pace as Mable tugged him along.

Good thing he was more wiry than strong, and she was far more determined with her muscle than he'd likely have allowed for a woman in a fur coat and heels. She was quite able to keep him attached at her hip until she was willing to let go.

“Who are you, lady?” he groused, trying to wheedle away from her grip.

“I'm the woman who may have just saved your life. And the woman who's going to testify at your trial unless you cooperate and follow me away from that group of gentlemen,” she snapped. “Now, keep walking until I tell you to stop.”

They stood at the corner of the street, waiting for several carts and horse-drawn buggies to pass by before crossing over to the park. Once there, she turned him round to face her.

She held her gloved hand out, palm up, and sent him the most no-nonsense glare she owned. “Give it back. Now.”

Mable could see him shiver under his light tweed jacket. He crossed his arms across his chest, trying to trap as much warmth as he could.