The Ringmaster's Wife (38 page)

“What happened?”

“We got the fire out,” Colin answered, staring back with intensity. He rubbed the back of his wrist at the beads of perspiration on his brow. “The fire marshal is here with the police. They've taken Marvio into custody. Did you fall?”

She shook her head, licking her lips against the dryness the smoke had caused. “No, the mare. She just reared up and I was thrown back. I'm all right.”

“Enzo, go get the doctor. You need him too.”

“No. I'll be fine.”

Colin ran a hand over the side of her face. “Are you sure you're okay?”

She shook the cobwebs of dizziness away, then placed a hand over his, patting it against his fingertips.

“Just shaken a little. But I'm fine.”

She turned back to Enzo, who stood behind Colin with one arm cradled in his other hand. His forearm was inflamed to a bright pink, a burn puckering the skin from elbow to wrist.

Ingénue bobbed her head when Rosamund approached. She cupped her hand, filling it with Ingénue's nose, giving her a gentle pat.

Rosamund reached out to take Ingénue's reins from Enzo's grip. “And you?”

He shook his head. “It's not bad. I'll mend.”

She looked around and saw two uniformed policemen walking a handcuffed Marvio out the far end of the stable.

“And your uncle?”

“I don't condone what he did. Or tried to do.” Enzo raised his head, strengthening the line of his jaw. “Not everyone thinks you stole something from us. He realized what he was doing and tried to put out the flames. But not soon enough to avoid walking out like that.”

“Thank you, Enzo. If it weren't for you . . .” She shook her head. “Thank you very much.”

She turned back to Colin, seeing the fear and relief beneath the smudges of soot that covered his face.

“It's our last show together.” She stood as tall as her frame would allow. Praying he'd see the resolve in her face and not question what she knew she had to do.

She slipped her arm around the side of Ingénue's head, giving her a loving pat. “We're going to perform.”

T
HE RING HAD BECOME HER HOME
.

Rosamund felt welcome there under the flood of lights and sky of canvas and rope. And for her last performance, it was no different. The smudges of soot on her costume and the hastily tied-up chignon of roses at the base of her neck made no difference. She'd not think about the fire. Or Marvio. She'd ignore the leftover haze of dizziness that had claimed her before, choosing instead to focus on the show. She was a professional now, just as Colin had said. No excuses for a lack of balance, no matter what had happened in the stable.

Though it was a much smaller crowd than they were used to, the audience welcomed them home as stars, showering applause as the overhead lights dimmed and they high-stepped into the ring.

The music enveloped the inside of the practice tent—the circus band playing its usual rendition of “Roses of Picardy.” And together, Rosamund and Ingénue allowed themselves to be quite lost in it. The spotlights found their focus, and they went to work. Happy in the dance, of course, but Rosamund was still filled with the bittersweet knowledge that it was the last show they'd give.

They moved through the act, starting and stopping with precision. Rosamund performed mounts and dismounts. She knelt on Ingénue's back, stretching the length of her leg back in an elegant extension midride. They turned. Absorbed the applause of the tourists. The opportunity to stand a final time came at last, and Rosamund unlaced the bower of roses from her hair.

It wasn't until the lights around them fizzled and faded out that she realized something was happening. Something that wasn't right. The crowd did not cry out in fear when the lights dimmed. Nor did Ingénue stop in her gallop around the ring.

Rosamund fell to her knees, nearly toppling off Ingénue's back in her haste to grope for the leather harness. She slipped her hands underneath the cool leather, tugging, fighting to keep her balance when the distance between Ingénue's back and the ground below was unknown.

She pulled Ingénue to a stop, unsure whether she was in the center or at the edge of the ring. There was nothing to do but grip the harness and slide down to the side, feeling for the touch of ground to the bottom of her slippers.

The crowd responded—some shouting, “Is she all right?” while others grew silent.

The mixture of concern and question floated around her,
causing her head to spin. She leaned in to Ingénue's side, melting there from fear and disbelief.

“Rosamund?”

She heard Owen's voice, drawing her to turn her head to the left.

A hand eased over her shoulder. It surprised her how she was shaking. How quickly fear had swooped in, crippling her in the ring.

“Rose.”

Colin was there too. She recognized his voice.

“What's wrong?”

“I . . .” She breathed out, shaking her head through the muddle of black-and-gray shadows dominating her vision. “Colin?”

He slipped his arms under her knees, scooping her into his arms.

The crowd had grown silent. Owen, too, made no sound. Even Ingénue seemed to have faded somewhere in the background.

Had the roses fallen from her hair?

What was happening?

Her heart willed the question. Wondering why she could feel Colin's every running step, why she was bundled in his arms and saw nothing flying by as he carried her away from the ring. She could only feel the touch of air against her face, the speed of his steps causing it to stir around her.

“Colin . . .,” she said, voice cracking as she looked up, trying to fix on his face. “I can't see.”

1929

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

The nurse popped her head into Mable's room, announcing in a cheery voice, “Your visitor has arrived, Mrs. Ringling.”

Mable peered into the hall, then, seeing their guest, sat up straighter against the mound of pillows at her back.

She turned to look at John, who'd been occupied with staring out the second-story window of the Leroy Sanitarium to the street below. The narrow art deco building overlooked the business sector off Madison Avenue, and he'd passed the time by watching it for two days.

“John,” she whispered, trying to draw his attention to her bed in the center of the room. “Our visitor is here, John. Would you see her in?”

He pulled his attention away from the honking horns and street sounds below, turning to gift her the warmth of a smile. “Of course.”

John met Rosamund at the door and placed her outstretched hand in the crook of his arm. With his other hand he leaned on his walking cane.

Mable was altogether relieved that if Rosamund could see anything in the room, it wouldn't be the tears that had formed in her eyes.

The young bareback rider was still striking in beauty; the loss of sight couldn't mar that. She was dressed in a pale-pink and nude dress of beaded silk, with a soft gray cloche that she'd removed and held in her hand. A youthful glow of natural blush brightened her lips and accented her high cheekbones.

Mable watched as John carefully led her to a cushioned chair at the side of the bed.

Rosamund felt her way around the obstacle of armrests with her fingertips and searched the depth of the cushion. She eased down into it, sweeping her skirt under and then folding her hands against the cloche in her lap.

“She's right in front of you, Rosamund.”

Rosamund lifted her hand. John led her fingertips to graze the blanket on the edge of the bed, helping her to get her bearings.

“And now, Mable dear, I will leave you ladies to visit.”

Mable watched as he gathered the things he'd brought with him that morning—a newspaper, his cane and bowler hat—and moved to leave. He passed by the bed and swept his fingertips across the back of Mable's hand.

“I believe this room could use some pink roses,” he said, putting on his hat. “There's a flower shop nearby. I won't be long.”

Rosamund tipped her head to the sound of his shoes clipping the linoleum floor, and a smile swept the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Ringling.”

Mable watched him pause on Rosamund's words. He looked over the back of her head to Mable, meeting her gaze with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

“You are most welcome, young lady,” he whispered back.

Mable watched him go, forcing himself out of the confines of a room they'd been in together for the last two days. He'd never left her side. And now, feeling the need to give her a private visit
with Rosamund, he was stepping out to buy her flowers. Just as he always did.

She sighed, turning her attention to Rosamund.

The young lady stared ahead blankly, her green eyes stunning but fixed, not moving from their attention on the far wall. Mable felt the same regret that John seemed to feel wash over her. It reminded her why she'd asked Rosamund to visit her in the sanitarium.

She swallowed over the emotion in her throat, hoping to add cheer to her voice. “Well, this is not the Cà d'Zan, I can tell you that. But they are being kind to me.”

Rosamund's lips eased into a faint but polite smile. “I didn't want to pry and ask how you are.”

Mable flitted the idea away with a light shrug. “Diabetes is not strong enough to take the spring out of my step,” she said.

She wasn't walking then, of course, but illness wasn't something she had time for—and she certainly would not give it ownership of her thoughts. She allowed a smile to warm her voice. “You know, I visited someone in a sanitarium once.”

“I imagine they're not the most endearing of places to go.”

“I agree. They are not. But I was visiting a friend and I wanted her to see my wedding dress. So I marched through the halls in my satin and lace, staring down every doctor who dared to give me a sideways glance.”

Rosamund's chin tipped ever so slightly. “You visited a sick friend on your wedding day?”

Mable nodded, then realized Rosamund couldn't see it.

“People have done crazier things on a wedding day, I'm sure.” She cleared her throat. “But yes. I did. Her name was Sally. And believe it or not, you remind me of her just a bit. Though not in your coloring—she had hair red as fire and a temper to match.”

Rosamund's face broke into an unconscious smile. “I must admit to having a temper as well.”

“And you'll be better for it, my dear. I'm sure of it. We have to get riled every now and then. It reminds us that we're still alive.”

Mable watched Rosamund's face, seeing each polite smile. Noting the way she sat pin-straight in her chair, with posture that held strength despite the affliction of near-blindness.

“There's been no change in your condition?”

The smile dropped from Rosamund's lips.

“No. The doctors are optimistic that my vision could improve with time, but they caution me against setting too much hope in it. I can see some light though. Shadows around objects. Enough to avoid bumping into anything too dangerous. But as for performing . . .” She shook her head. “I'll never see the ring again.”

Mable sank her tone to one of seriousness. “This spring was the first time in two years the circus opened and you weren't with it.”

Rosamund nodded, adding a soft, “Yes.”

“Rosamund, I realize accidents are a circumstance of the job. Performers know the risks they undertake in the ring. They've fallen before and it's likely to happen again. But this is different. It's something that's been done to you. It wasn't by your choosing.”

“No, it wasn't. But they're not certain it was a result of the accident in the stables or even the attack in the circus back lot. The doctors believe the damage to my eyesight may go as far back as the fall I sustained in my very first performance. Either way, it's happened.”

She held her head high, but Mable saw the shreds of vulnerability as her eyes glazed.

“You're not going home?”

“Not for the moment, no. I . . .”

Mable watched as Rosamund grimaced, finding pain in what she was trying so hard not to say.

“That's all changed now. And I fear, to be blunt, I cannot go back and be the blind spinster haunting the drawing room of Easling Park. Even if they'd extend forgiveness and take me back, I won't do that to my parents or to myself. My aunt in New York is being exceedingly kind. She's allowed me to stay with her, ensuring I'm taken care of. While the doctors look after my progress.”

“I see.” Mable looked over Rosamund's face, searching it without the young lady's knowledge. She sighed, keenly feeling the weight of sadness at what had happened. And if there was anything she could do now—even from a hospital bed—she meant to make things right for the beauty who sat before her.

“Rosamund, it takes a special kind of courage to dare to dream of a different life. Of something extraordinary. I thought I had that courage in spades when I was young. I was born in a small farming community to good parents and a loving family. It's important that you know I could have had a wonderful life had I stayed there. But I felt called to more. Not to wealth or privilege, and certainly not to power or success. I didn't flee a normal life. I know now that I wasn't running away; I was running toward something. But what I had to learn was the difference between having a dream and cultivating the courage to live it out day after day.”

Mable reached across the bed, extending her hand. “Give me your hand, please.”

Rosamund obeyed, reaching out with her fingers splayed on air.

Mable took her hand, turning it over until her palm faced the ceiling. In it she placed a watch and chain, gleaming gold. Mable watched as Rosamund felt the coolness of the metal on her skin, saw how her fingertips trembled.