The Ringmaster's Wife (3 page)

“And you are . . .” Ward tipped his eyebrows in question.

“Rose,” she said very simply. She wasn't sure why she'd said it, except that the pet name from childhood was the first one to come to mind.

“Well then . . . Rose.” Colin paused. “We ought to be off.” He held out his hand, offering to guide her to the top of the steep ridge.
“We can walk you back to the bridge, then we'll take our car to the village. We should see about getting you to a doctor first, then arrange to retrieve your auto later once the weather's cleared.”

“
No
,” Rosamund shot back on instinct, leaving his hand extended on air. Her refusal must have been shocking for a tiny slip of a woman to effectively halt two grown men in their tracks.

Ward's eyes grew large. He darted a glance to Colin before asking, with a tone of amusement, “No . . .? To which part?”

Rosamund backtracked with a forced smile, hoping to cover her misgivings.

“What I mean to say is that you don't have to go to the trouble of summoning a doctor. I assure you, I'm fine. Just a bit shaken, that's all.”

“Of course you are. Understandably.” Colin pursed his lips as if noting something he'd chosen not to comment on.

Something told Rosamund that Colin Keary should be worthy of trusting. There was an earnestness in him that couldn't be mistaken, even if he was a stranger. He was older than his companion, Ward—maybe by ten years—and clearly in command. He had rescued her and now was steering the lot of them to calm despite the circumstances.

For that, she knew some explanation was warranted.

“I left an all-day riding party later than I should have. It set me late for an evening engagement, so I stretched the Talbot's engine in hopes that I'd arrive on time. But I misjudged a bend in the road and tumbled down the embankment instead.” She squared her shoulders, trying to appear confident and proper instead of entirely aloof. “I didn't wish to bother our driver with such an all-day trip, and now I'm quite relieved he stayed behind. I know it's very untoward, but I ask for your discretion in this matter.”

“You've been ‘riding all day,' Miss Rose?” Colin asked, scanning the landscape around them. “And yet you have no horse?”

“Heavens. Don't tell me someone has to dive into that river after a horse now.” Ward shuddered, as if the thought were too gruesome to entertain.

“My horse has been quite taken care of. I'd already hired a man to see her back to my home,” she answered. “And it's not against propriety for a woman to drive through town on her own, horse in tow or not. If that is your meaning.”

“On the contrary, it's impressive. It seems almost . . . How do you say it over here—
revolutionary
?” Ward broke in with an easy smile.

Truth be, he was too forward to be anything but American.

“I didn't know English women drove automobiles themselves.”

“They don't. Not as a rule,” Colin added.

“Are you from Linton, to know how such things are received here, sir?” she asked, hoping to keep the inquisition light while challenging his knowing tone.

“No. We're a little farther off from the English countryside, I'd say.”

“Ireland then?” Rosamund responded before she could stop herself, then bit her lip.

“See?” Ward cocked a grin and tipped up an eyebrow in Colin's direction. “She noticed it. I told you the accent comes out when you're riled up.”

“I meant nothing by it,” she said.

“Ignore Mr. Butler and his lack of
tact
,” Colin responded. “My family is Irish, but not in that way. The Kearys hail from New York. You're in the presence of a couple of Yanks, I'm afraid, in case you couldn't surmise that from this pup's rather loose-lipped manner. First trip out of the country, and he's a bit too eager.”

Americans.

So she was right—about the younger of the two anyway.

Rosamund nodded as the sky once again rumbled with the threat of imminent rain. She edged forward a few steps. “My home is not far from here and my family is expecting me. I really must be going.”

“Wait—you can't just march through the woods. It's going to storm,” Ward blurted out, directing her to the gray-tinged sky with an accusatory finger. “And we're miles away from anything. Even Linton's a mighty long jaunt from here on foot.”

Rosamund shifted her glance from him to Colin.

“Well, I'm already soaked through. A few raindrops and a walk can't possibly hurt me now.”

“All right, Miss Rose. No doctor. Will that suit you?” He'd acquiesced, though something still flickered in Colin's eyes. Thunder cracked the sky closer this time, echoing behind his words. He glanced up to the canopy of trees overhead, adding, “But something tells me that despite appearances, you don't live in the village. And since that thunder sounds as though a bit more than a light shower is headed this way, you just might wish to take us up on our offer of assistance. So can I order a car to take you wherever your home is?”

“While I'm sure your offer is well intended—”

“No, it's not,” Colin interrupted.

Often. And as it suited him, apparently. As brash as any Irishman she'd have expected.

“My inquisition is to ensure I'm not entangled in something sinister when I have your auto pulled from the creek bed back there. And I'd much prefer not to have an angry husband or father chasing us for compromising your reputation—on these innocent grounds or not. But if you tell me there's nothing to concern ourselves about, then I'll let the matter drop. I'm here on business, and I don't want my employer's name associated with any sort of trouble.”

“Is your employer known in Yorkshire then?”

He leaned in, a twinkle flashing in his eyes, and whispered, “My employer is known everywhere, Miss Rose. Even as far off the path as the village of Linton.”

“Then I'll pay you for a new suit,” she offered, before thinking better of it.

He tipped up his brows, as if to ask,
Is it that bad?

“I meant I'll pay for the
damage
to your suit. And for the obvious trouble to pull the motor from the water. I'll have a man come and meet you to retrieve it this night.”

“No payment is necessary, even for a new suit.” He paused, a marked lightness now lacing his tone. “Because despite my appearance, the employer I represent very likely has more money than the King of England himself. And I assure you—he likes to manage his own affairs.”

He approached her with ease, looking with a direct gaze. She edged a step back.

“I'll see that the motor is put back in order—free of charge.”

And with that he nodded and started trekking up the route that led back to the bridge.

Brash, indeed.

He wouldn't have heard it as a compliment, if Rosamund had said what she was thinking in that instant: Colin Keary was certainly an American and an Irishman wrapped into one.

1885

C
INCINNATI
, O
HIO

Ten-year-old Armilda Burton had never heard the sweet sound of a piano before.

How different it was compared to the deep-chested organ that filled the ceiling vault of their country church every Sunday. This sound was enchanting—with crisp notes that echoed through the spacious rooms and greeted her young ears the moment she stepped through the front door of the ladies' tea parlor.

Armilda had come to Cincinnati with her mother and the ladies in their parish to attend the annual Temperance League meeting outside of their small farming community of Moons, Ohio. She'd never before seen such modern brick buildings and shop after shop teeming with fashionable wares. Why, she'd only ever seen a mere handful of store-bought dresses, outside of drawings in the catalog at the Moons General Store. Stepping into the world of the ladies' tearoom, she felt small and uncultured.

And completely awestruck.

Floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains of crimson were fashioned with gold cords, pulled back like stage curtains hanging against the backdrop of white wainscoting on the parlor walls. Chandeliers twinkled
overhead. The arched floor-to-ceiling windows let in an abundance of natural light. A smattering of settees—marvelous in their gold and cream brocade—adorned the front room, and clothed tables with glassware and shining china settings bedecked the garden room beyond. Both rooms carried the light scent of vanilla and lavender mixed with the sharper notes of black tea and citrusy lemon.

The ladies themselves were a vision in day gloves, hats, and their finest trappings. They had plumes in their coiffed hair and hats angled on their crowns. The most Armilda had ever seen of the soft yellows, blues, and blush-pink they wore was in the richness of the summer landscape in the fields beyond their farmhouse. But she doubted now that sky or fields could compare with the array of hues around her.

Her attention was drawn away from the ladies, however, by something in the rear of the garden room.

There stood the piano, gleaming black. Like a king presiding in court.

It was marvelous, demanding attention with a light melody over the hum of chatter and the clinking of china teacups. Armilda broke away from her mother to approach it, feeling called by a lyrical pied piper.

The pianist was a young lady of perhaps twenty, wearing a cherub-pink gown and a white felt hat with an oversized peony tipped to one side of her brow. She offered a congenial smile as her fingers continued floating over the keys. Armilda felt welcomed, but only as a guest. She was reminded at the same time that all of
this
was far beyond her grasp.

She reached out, running her fingertips against the edge of the wood.

Funny, but it felt like silk somehow.

“Why, hello.” The pianist smiled at her as she rested her fingers
on the keys, while the final notes echoed in the room. She tilted her head down, accepting the applause from the crowd in a congenial nod, then turned her attention back to Armilda.

“I can see that you like music. Would you like to play?”

Armilda shook her head. “No, ma'am,” she answered, the words more meek than she'd intended. “I don't know how.”

“But you appreciate music, which is a gift in itself. And the sound is beautiful, isn't it? This is a Steinway piano—the best. Shipped all the way from New York.” Her eyes were kind but curious. “Is this your first trip to Cincinnati?”

How did she know that?

Armilda nodded. “I've never been anywhere.”

“Chin up. Perhaps you'll go to New York one day and see where the Steinways come from. Mmm? Don't let that love of music leave your heart.”

The pianist flipped the music sheets in front of her, moving on to another song.

Of course Armilda didn't travel. Not to New York or even Cincinnati until that day. And she didn't play a piano—she doubted she ever would. They didn't have such things at home. Not pianos with melodies like that.

Music, fine table settings, and elegant tearooms were a world away from her quiet life in Moons. Hers was a plain farm dress and her expectations of life plain as well.

She'd always believed it. At least, until now.

S
EVEN YEARS LATER

M
OONS
, O
HIO

I
T WAS A FAMILIAR MEMORY THAT GREETED
A
RMILDA WHEN SHE
blinked awake.

The piano faded away again, its song turning into the hum of crickets chirping in the fields. The view of rich taffeta gowns in her dream became the span of a blue-ink sky dotted with clouds out the open window, the velvet curtains the walls of the small bedroom she shared with her sisters. And she was no longer ten years old, but nearly seventeen—all grown up now and too old for childish dreams.

She rolled out of bed and pulled a rust-colored knit shawl over her shoulders. The floorboards creaked as she knelt, as carefully as she could manage, and ran her hands along the aged wood floor under her bed, feeling for the cigar box she kept hidden there.

Armilda tucked it under her elbow and with extra-careful tiptoed steps slipped down the stairs and out the front door. Safe on the porch, she melted down into one of the old wooden rockers. She'd be content to watch dawn escape, just as it always did, with a splash of orange painting the sky over the distant horizon. She cradled the prized O. L. Schwencke cigar box in her lap, absently running her fingertips over the raised lithography image of fashionable smiling women riding bicycles down a sunny lane.

The rocker creaked in time with the crickets' refrain.

“Armilda?”

She turned at her sister's voice. “Dulcey—go back to bed. It's early still.”

“What are you doing out here, Mim?” Dulcey whispered the question, adding the nickname only the family called her.

“Nothing. Just watching the world wake up.”

Dulcey eased into the rocker opposite Armilda's. She pulled her legs up and tucked them under the ends of the pinwheel quilt she'd dragged from her bed to wrap around her shoulders, then she turned her freckled face out to the span of dusky fields beyond their farmhouse. The sun peeked up between the porch spindles. “It's cold out here. Whatever happened to summer?”

Armilda glanced over at her sister and sighed. “I suppose it's gone where it always does—tucked away somewhere until it's needed for next year.”

“Hmm. Next year,” Dulcey agreed. “Just as long as it stays cool, I'll be happy. Last year we couldn't think of anything but melting until dusk.”

How could it possibly be any different from last year? Or the year before that?

Dulcey looked down at the brightly colored box in Armilda's lap. “You're thinking about it again, aren't you? About the tearoom. And the piano.”

“Nonsense.” Armilda tossed the idea off with a wave of her hand. “You were snoring again and it woke me up. You really should do something about that.”