The Ringmaster's Wife (26 page)

“Give what back?”

“The watch you stole from my husband.”

He began shaking his head, but stopped the instant Mable cocked an eyebrow in his direction. She tapped her foot, waiting for him to decide that she wasn't bluffing.

“It's cold out here,” she huffed. “And it makes no sense to stand arguing in the elements. Please save me the trouble of having to walk you over to that policeman across the street, and give the watch back now.”

The young man cupped hands with fingerless gloves around his mouth, blowing air into his palms. He looked over in the direction of the street corner. Surely he'd seen the uniformed officer there, smoking a cigarette under the light of the streetlamp.

“Well?”

“If I did have a watch, how do I know it's yours? I might have one of my own.”

She glowered at him. “Because there is an inscription on the inside. A quote by George Eliot. I ordered that watch from Tiffany and Company last year as a Christmas gift.”

He eyed her warily. She could see the shades of indecision etched on his face.

“Go on,” she prompted. “Read it for yourself.”

The young man looked at her, the blue of his eyes suddenly sharp. He reached in his pants pocket, retrieved the watch, and slapped it into her outstretched hand.

If it was possible, a wave of understanding made the watch burn through her glove. The watch chain dangled, flashing in the dim light of the streetlamps. She gathered it up in her fingertips, seeing that the face was now blemished with a crack across the glass, and curled the chain into her palm.

“Oh, I see.” She exhaled. “You can't read, can you?”

He said nothing, only narrowed his eyes.

“Well, I still have a mind to turn you in,” she said. “But I won't.”

His shoulders eased ever so slightly.

“If”—she pointed a finger at him—“you promise never to do that again.”

“To anyone? Or just the tall man?”

Mable shifted her pose, cocking one hip.

“The ‘tall man' is my husband. And I've seen you before. It was weeks ago that I noticed your undignified profession being
employed on the sidewalk over there. I let it go because I thought it was just boyish folly. But now I see that it has become a nasty habit.”

“It's not a habit. I'm good at it.”

He straightened the brim of his cap. Stood a little straighter. Probably trying to appear older than the thirteen or so years she'd have guessed he could claim.

“Boyish folly indeed,” she huffed. “But you are not a boy, are you?”

“I'm fifteen.”

Fifteen? And he couldn't read? She paused, considering.

“Then you're a young man. And you ought to think about how what you're doing only spells trouble. May I trust that this moment of forgiveness will change your mind? If not, we can summon that officer over there and be done with the matter altogether.”

She raised her eyebrows, punctuating the point. The cold was getting the better of her, so she gave a nod and turned round, intent upon fleeing home to their warm apartment in the fastest manner possible.

“Ma'am?”

“Yes?” She turned toward him again.

A slow smile eased over his mouth, spreading the spray of freckles on his cheeks wider across his face. “The words on the watch. What do they say?”

“It says, ‘It's never too late to be what you might have been.' ”

The young man chuckled, his breath freezing on air.

“Is that funny to you?”

“No.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I was just wondering what I might have been—especially since I'll have to look for a new street corner, thanks to you.”

“Is your life all played out then—at fifteen?”

“I'm old enough to know there's not a feast of options in this
life, not for someone like me. I bet
you've
never had to think twice about where your next meal will come from. A watch would buy me too many to count. And I wouldn't have to return to the Garden for some time. Maybe not until spring.”

Mable could feel the watch ticking in her hand.

The wind breezed in, reminding her that John was waiting for her in the cold, with the minutes passing by.

“Six thirty-six Fifth Avenue,” she replied, pressing her lips into the hint of a smile. “Noon. Tomorrow. Be there and you can find out for yourself.”

He drew back a step. Eyes searching for any signs of deceit he could find in the contours of her face.

“You'll have the police there.”

She shook her head. “I will not.”

“How do I know you're not lying?”

“You don't. I suppose you'll just have to put your faith in something bigger than yourself.”

The young man turned his attention across the street. The police officer was now strolling down the sidewalk, baton twirling in his hand like he was on a carefree stroll through the park.

“And who do I ask for?”

Mable let the warmth of a smile ease fully over her face. “Mr. John Ringling.”

His eyes widened. “The tall man?”

“Yes. He'll put you onto an honest job here in the city, if you're up for it. One that carries three hot meals per day.” She gave a proper nod and a gentle pat to the watch in her hand. “He'll expect you tomorrow then. And be smart about your time. Nice doing business with you.”

He almost smiled.

They parted ways, and Mable was nearly back to the car when she felt a tug on the sleeve of her coat.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Ringling. Give this to the gentleman your husband was talking to?” The young man held out a leather wallet.

Mable took a step backward. This young man might be rough and riddled with thorns, but she had a feeling he had more to offer in life, if only given the chance.

Her thoughts turned to Sally, and the promise she'd made to her dying friend the day of their last visit.
There will never be a single dream lost in any garden that I tend.
The fact that this young man had brought the wallet back showed there might be hope for him yet. Mable felt a sudden compulsion to find out what that hope might become.

“Wait!” she called after him. “Your name, young man?”

He turned and flashed a quick grin over his shoulder.

“Colin,” he shouted back, heading for the darkness of a nearby alley. “Colin Keary.”

1927

S
POKANE
, W
ASHINGTON

Rosamund sat on a straw bale with her hands cradled in her lap, listening to the soft patter of rain against the Big Top's roof.

Her palms were blistered and raw from the days she and Ingénue had trained. The muscles of her back and legs burned nearly every time she walked. And her body seemed to ache all over—no doubt from learning to sleep on a cramped train car and the grueling training schedule they'd undertaken in between performances.

Never before had Rosamund been so exhausted that she crumpled down right on the spot, content to stay put for more than an hour after they'd finished. She'd fallen against the straw bale, not caring that it poked through her cream silk sleeveless blouse and high-waisted riding pants. Just to rest and recover was such a luxury that she couldn't be bothered by the small inconvenience of a few prickles to her skin.

The show had rolled in March, Rosamund and Ingénue with it.

They'd gone out in front of crowds of thousands for months now, executing—but barely. Theirs was the bare-minimum performance, with both of them struggling each time. Rosamund no longer looked up to the flash of blue sequins and the smiles brought
to the crowd by the spectacular Rossi family. Now she looked to the crowd. Wondering what they were thinking. How they'd receive the jittery Arabian and the automatic routine of the petite brunette in ring three, with the lack of charisma and the blush of English roses laced in her hair.

“I thought you would have gone back to the ring stock tent by now.”

Colin appeared at a side entrance to the tent, leaning against the edge of the wooden bleachers. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky behind his shoulders.

Rosamund was surprised to see him, but determined not to show it. She curled her fingers into her palms and pulled her hands in closer to her waist, hiding them from his view.

“I was waiting for you, but you never showed.”

She rolled her eyes to the direction of the rain dancing on the roof. “The rain. I couldn't go back to a busy tent just yet. It was too peaceful here.” She leaned against the bale of straw behind her. Tiny stalks poked her shoulders again, and she readjusted until they finally left her in peace. “What time is it?”

He didn't reach for his watch. Just noted, “It's late.”

“I was too exhausted to move,” she admitted with a light smile, rubbing the ache out of her arms. “Even to go to the dining tent for a cup of coffee. You know it's serious when I'll forgo that.”

Colin nodded. As though he'd expected her to say something like that. “Lucky we don't have to roll tonight. One more day staying put can be a blessing sometimes.”

He stepped inside, hands buried in his pockets as he walked toward her.

She could see the rain-dampened hair hanging low over his forehead. His striped work shirt was speckled with drops at the shoulders and collar.

“May I?”

Rosamund nodded, scooting over to share the straw bale with him.

She could hear the sounds of men tinkering somewhere off behind them, with hushed conversation, arbitrary clinks of metal, and the occasional laugh or two as they finished their tasks for the night. Other than the far-off company, they sat alone in the dim light of the Big Top, side by side. And she felt better for it.

She wasn't certain she could collect her thoughts if she had to look straight at him.

“Owen is a good man. I've worked with him for years. I can attest to how well he treats the performers in his charge—both people and horses. He makes no distinction between them. But he'll put you through your paces to get a performance that's up to his standards, and I can't fault him for that.”

“Neither can I, to tell you the truth.”

He pulled something from his pocket—a small glass jar that was half full of a cloudy, sticky liquid. “Here,” he whispered, and twisted off the lid. “Give me your hands.”

Rosamund felt her pulse quicken, as it had the night of the party. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Been around the lot for a long time. You're not the first bit of raw talent to come waltzing through our doors.”

They hadn't spoken much in the past few weeks.

She'd seen him around the lot, muscling wagons onto train cars at depots, standing guard in the wings during every performance, with an intense glare and arms folded across his chest as she and Ingénue rode into the ring. Those flashes she caught of Colin Keary had been of Colin the boss. He was always watching. Managing every detail. Ensuring that the Circus King's show went off without a hitch.

But it was not the same man who'd appeared in the stock tent now.

This man was relaxed, sitting with his palms out, waiting to accept hers. He was the same man who had once brought her fishing rods at a Sarasota dock. The one who had taken her hand in his and led her around the outdoor dance floor at the Cà d'Zan.

Colin had keenly avoided her since the show opener. To give her space as she trained. Maybe to give them both a bit of it, being boss and employee. But now those winds had shifted, and the old Colin had breezed back into her path.

He waited, his quiet way punctuating the sudden silence between them.

A familiar longing squeezed in her chest. Rosamund realized now how much she'd missed him.

“May I?” He was asking rather than telling this time, his tone layered with sincerity.

She nodded, wincing from the sting that shot up her arms as she stretched her palms wide. “Yes.”

Her hands felt warm in his fingertips. Then cool, when he rubbed balm over the painfully inflamed parts of her palms.

“The flyers swear by this stuff.” He spoke over the rain, taking time as his fingertips brushed across her palms. “Been using it for years. Trust me—you'll have new hands by morning. And try using more talc between sets. You need to keep your palms dry or you'll find yourself nursing hands like this all season.”

Rosamund kept quiet as he worked.

Except for her heart. That began beating louder, so much so that she feared he'd hear it over the pattering of rain overhead. She watched him work, felt the balm soothing every rough edge out of her day, wondering why it was that his very presence could stir and soothe at the same time.

He ran a finger over the base of her wrist, having noticed the scar there. “Where'd you come by this? It doesn't look like a riding injury.”

“Evidence of a stubborn nature, I'm afraid.”

She almost laughed to think on it now. Those youthful days of running from her tutorials, hiding in the rose garden to avoid getting caught.

“I'd been hiding in the rose garden. Hendrick found me there and took pity on me. He seemed to think that a diversion might lessen the sting of a thorn that had badly pricked my skin. That was long before he went to war. Before Ingénue, before everything changed. And it left a scar, right where I can always see it.”

Colin seemed to understand that there was more to the story, but didn't inquire further. He merely nodded as she talked, listening as was his way.

“This has been hard on you, and I'm sorry for it.”

“I know. But you've done what you had to in order to get a performance out of us.”

His eyes shot up, connecting with hers. The blue in them was open. Stormy. Searching the contours of her face.

“Is that really what you think of me?”

“Well . . . the circus has to come first, right? The balance. Everyone doing their part around here.”