The Ringmaster's Wife (31 page)

Mable nudged her toward the court. “Come in, my dear. You and Colin have some circus business to attend to. I'll return shortly and we'll go on to Lido Key. I just want to go see that my roses get water.”

Rosamund followed Mable into the room.

“Good evening, Mr. McCarty,” said their hostess. “We are glad to have you back at the Cà d'Zan.”

The man inclined his head, offering a polite, “Mrs. Ringling. Lovely to see you again.”

Rosamund noticed only then that there were three easels set up by the hearth, each one with a sheet of white linen drawn down over the front.

“Here she is,” Colin said, perking up at her entrance. “This is Lady Rosamund Easling. Lady Easling—this is Ron McCarty.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” the man said, his eyes kind.

“Likewise.” Rosamund nodded in greeting. “And what's all this?”

Colin's eyes danced in a way she'd never seen before. “They're for you.”

“What on earth?”

Colin wasted no time. He walked over to each easel, pulling at
the cover and allowing the linen to float down to the marble floor, never taking his eyes off her the whole time.

“Merry Christmas, Rose.”

The sight took her breath away.

“Ron is here on commission of the Ringlings to help with the museum that's going up here on the grounds. He's a celebrated artist, and we thought we could kill two birds with one stone. So he's been working on marketing materials for the upcoming season.” Colin braced his hands on his hips.

“But they're all . . . me.”

“That's right, Lady Easling,” Mr. McCarty noted, smiling. “These will be put up in every city from here to the West Coast. They'll be published in newspapers and magazines. And on the canvas covers lining the wagons. They're the hallmark for our marketing campaign for the entire 1928 season. But we've still got time to make small changes, so go ahead.” He ushered her forward. “Have a closer look if you'd like.”

Rosamund approached in wonder, gazing over the posters that depicted a bareback-riding beauty in various graceful poses. She had long hair that streamed out behind her shoulders in a cascade of chocolate that curled around the gold filigree borders. There were great blooms of English roses trailing behind, falling down like soft pink rain against the deep black of Ingénue's gleaming coat.

The title splashed across each poster's top read
T
HE
E
NGLISH
R
OSE
in bold block letters.

“It can't come as that much of a surprise to you,” Colin said.

“You misjudge me then,” Rosamund said, searching for words that would seem adequate. “Because I'm completely shocked.”

“Surely you aren't surprised that you're getting top billing, Rose. You've earned it.”

It was surreal to stare back at her own image, looking so ethereal.
So beautiful. It humbled Rosamund to know how others might perceive her. And could she live up to that standard?

“You'll have your own train car. A private tent on the road. And you'll be paid handsomely. It's all set.”

Colin pulled a swatch of folded paper and a pen from his inside jacket pocket and held them out to her. “All you have to do is sign.”

The shock of his words sank in.

She reached out, just edging her fingertips over the surface of the artwork, but recoiled almost as quickly, as if the paint had burned her skin.

The threats came back fresh in her mind. Bella's confrontation at the Garden. The shredded costume. Her first triumph in the center ring, and the subsequent realization that Bella wanted her out of the show. The threats seemed so loud that not even the beauty of the posters could drown them out.

Rosamund took a step back, shaking her head slightly. “Colin, I need to speak with you.”

“Now?” he asked, confusion marring his brow.

“Yes,” she said, taking another step back. “Right now.”

“C
OME ON
,” C
OLIN SAID, LEADING
R
OSAMUND UP THE STAIRS
. “W
E
can be alone here.”

He'd taken her by the hand and led her to the top of the Cà d'Zan's five-story belvedere tower.

She climbed the top stair after him and came out to an open-air overlook, with Venetian arches and ornate stucco creating the canopy of a domed ceiling over their heads. It boasted a view of the water on one side and a wide span of palms and Mable's rose gardens covering the estate's acreage on the other.

Rosamund turned away from him, finding the view of lights across the bay easier as she tried to compose her thoughts.

“What happened down there? I thought—” Colin's voice turned softer. “I thought you'd be happy.”

“I am happy.”

She heard his shoes scrape the floor tiles, knowing he'd come behind her and was but a breath away.

“But I need to go home,” she blurted out.

“What?”

Rosamund turned around to face him. Her breaths were uneven, emotion having tripped them in her chest.

“I need to go home. It's been a lovely year, but I can't sign on for the new season.”

It was the first time she'd ever seen Colin Keary speechless.

He nodded. Just once. And shoved his hands into his pockets—the gesture she knew so well. It was his telltale sign that his mind had clicked two steps ahead and he was already working things out, looking for a solution to the problem at hand.

“Top billing isn't enough for you then?”

“You misunderstand,” she whispered. “I'm honored that you have the faith in me to believe I can handle top billing. But I just can't stay.”

“What's changed, Rose? Did your parents write to you, tell you to come home?” He ran a hand over the tie at his collar, tugging to loosen it as he turned away.

“No.”

“Then what?” Colin leaned over the rail, resting his elbows against it as wind kicked up off the water, mussing his hair to tip down over his brow. He lowered his head for a moment. “Is this because of what happened with us?”

He raised his head then, turning to look at her. The depths of
his blue eyes had turned stormy. They seemed to look through her, right to her heart.

“No. It's not,” she lied.

It had everything to do with him.

That Bella had slipped a golden thimble in her hand and told her that the man standing in front of her could never truly love her back. That he was incapable of it. And despite threats or ruined costumes, the thought of falling for Colin and then losing him scared her more than anything.

“Look, Rose. You haven't signed a new contract, so I can't stop you if you want to go. But it's not a crime to want to live your own life. I wish you could see that. I saw a young woman at Easling Park, and I know she was scared, but she still boarded that train. She still stared fear in the face and took a chance on living.”

“They're beautiful,” she said.

Colin narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“The posters. They're so beautiful,” she whispered. “I should have thanked you for them. I'm sorry.”

His sigh came easy. As did the shrug of his shoulders.

Rosamund walked toward him. Not stopping until she was at his side.

“Why did you bring me here tonight, Colin? We both know you could have shown me the posters at the winter headquarters. So why now? Why here?”

Colin's eyes searched her face.

The glow of the tower light overhead illuminated his features. She could see something there—pain, maybe. Questioning, definitely.

“Because I wanted to show them to you away from everyone else. Rose, I saw how effortless your beauty was with those young girls today. This is where you belong. I didn't want you to look back anymore. Not when you can really live. And I didn't want to elevate
you to top billing because the show needs it. None of that matters now. Despite what the pressures are around us, I only wanted it for you.”

“Then you want me to do this—be your star?”

He shook his head. “Be yourself. Stay if you want to.”

Everything about Colin said he was holding something back. His gaze was intense, but battling somehow. He seemed on the edge of wanting to tell her something, just as she was with him.

Did they both have secrets?

“Dance with me,” he whispered.

“Here? But there's no music.” Rosamund looked around their empty dance floor, the only sound around them the wind whipping off the bay and the gentle sway of palms fluttering behind them.

“I hear music.”

Colin stood before her, arms extended. Waiting. Seemingly content to leave the conversation for the moment. She accepted, stepping into his embrace. He rested his chin on the top of her head as he held her, together swaying to the dance of the wind.

“Colin, I . . .”

He eased back, looked in her eyes.

Bella was harmless. Rosamund had been sure of it that night in the star's tent.

The shredded costume and the note—they were empty threats from the bitterness of a life worn. Nothing more. But Rosamund feared that if she revealed Bella's actions now, Colin would disagree and send her home on the next boat. And she couldn't bear the thought of leaving him. Not now. Not when they were moving in step with one another.

“I think I hear the music too . . .” A tear fought its way down the side of her cheek. “It's telling me to stay, that the rest of this will work itself out somehow.”

Maybe they'd talk after dinner, she thought. Or maybe Mable was right. People only see what they want to, and perhaps Rosamund never wanted to see the truth in Colin Keary or, more importantly, in herself.

She escaped into Colin's arms, and for tonight at least, it was enough.

1920

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

Mable eyed their new understudy for Manager of Operations, who had proved his industriousness by fashioning a makeshift desk in a lonely corner of the Garden, tucking an upturned peach crate and folding chair alongside the performance floor.

Colin looked prepared to carry the weight of leading the circus's hundreds of performers and crew on his wide shoulders. His tall frame was hunched over a stack of papers as he contentedly worked long hours after the arena had all but hushed for the night. The teardown after the last show had been swift. Only workmen lingered now, clanking metal to wood in the background, readying the inner structure of the Big Top's bones to go back under canvas for the upcoming season. The train was to pull out in two days' time with man and beast, stopping in more than a hundred cities and towns through October. And Colin would go with it just as he had in years past.

Only this time, things were different.

He'd matured from his many months in the war. Mable couldn't help but think Colin was bowed down at the shoulders, and quite older than his twenty-three years should have allowed. He sat there
running a hand over his chin, lost somewhere in the depths of his thoughts. And now, once back to the circus life after more than a year away, he'd stepped into the shoes of Charles's right-hand man in a steadfast transition that would keep him a fixture in the Ringling family.

Colin was content with very little. A small stack of books. A black violin case slightly worn at the edges—probably one of Charles's old ones. A small carpetbag of red-and-orange paisley, with the clothes he'd packed for the coming months, all leaning against the side of the crate in a tidy line, his hat sitting on top.

And the watch. Always Colin carried the watch, weighing down his pocket.

Mable knew he'd not leave it behind.

“Am I disturbing you?”

He looked up, turned, slightly jarred by her voice. He jumped to his feet, scattering the top sheets of paper on the crate until they fluttered to the ground.

“Well, it looks as though I am.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Ringling. Just some last-minute matters of business to attend to before the show rolls. It's just details,” he said, extending a hand, offering his small wooden chair. “Sit. Please.”

“Thank you.”

Mable obeyed, watching as Colin cleared the wares from the crate. He swept the papers away, along with a fountain pen, collecting them in a pile to tuck in his bag.

“It's late,” he added, sitting atop the crate as a stool. “I hope we haven't disturbed you. I'd hate to think that we'd kept Mr. Ringling about at all hours.”

“Not tonight. It's the closing of the show at Madison Square and the opening of the season for the world, so John also had some last-minute business. We start for home this evening. I could have
gone ahead, but the apartment is lonely without him. Besides, I wanted to talk to you.”

“You're breaking your rule, aren't you, by stopping down here? Mr. Ringling assures me that his wife prefers not to step into the business side of the family name—though between you and me, I think you could take charge of the lot of us.” He leaned in and whispered, “Don't tell him I said that though. Might not bode well for my career.”

“Rules?” Mable flitted the idea away with a characteristic flick of her wrist. “They're made to be broken on occasion. But then, you're not a performer, are you? And there's no show left here. You see, it's not that I entirely keep an oar out of Mr. Ringling's business affairs. I simply know where I'm needed. There's a difference.”

The tinkering workmen behind them dropped a stack of poles, creating a clatter of some substance. Colin edged off the crate, as though he'd wanted to leap into action at the mere hint of disorder.

He tilted his head up, looking off in the distance. Watching with a keen eye.

“You conduct yourself like a leader already, Colin,” Mable noted. “You have the instincts for it. I know you see this as a big responsibility, and I wanted to wish you well.”