The Ringmaster's Wife (8 page)

It wasn't until days later—when the smoke had faded and the building lay in charred ruins—that the fair returned to normal. The city
mourned more than a dozen brave firefighters and three unfortunate fairgoers who lost their lives that day. And with every day that passed after it, Mable tried not to think about the events of that afternoon. She fought the urge to look up every time the bell rang at the café's front door, expecting John to walk through it.

She tried not to remember his eyes. The familiarity of his hand holding hers. The way he'd smiled at her as no one had before and led her through a sea of uncertainty back to safety. From loneliness to the hope of something more, even though he'd disappeared into the crowd and not looked back.

Even though she now knew who he was.

The day she'd met him, Mable had taken her cigar box down from the top shelf in the tiny rooming house apartment she shared with Sally. The fan John had purchased for her was but a penny treasure—but she wanted to save it nonetheless. Her hands had fumbled, dropping the box outright, and her catalog clipping dreams drifted down to the floor like snowflakes in winter.

She bent to pick them up, annoyed at her own clumsiness.

Clumsiness to think that a gentleman would ever be truly interested in a lowly shopgirl. Or hostess. Or farmer's daughter from Ohio. She wiped her tears, and as she hurriedly repacked her photos and newspaper clippings, something caught her eye.

Mable froze, then slid down to sit on the floor.

There before her, in an article chronicling the Ringling Brothers' circus royalty, was a familiar face. Staring back at her were the eyes that had greeted her at the Café de la Marine. The same mouth that had offered a generous smile in response to her chatter on the Midway. The same hand that rested atop a black cane in the newspaper photo before her had intentionally grasped hers and had led her to safety, away from the fire.

He wasn't just John
, she thought.
He was John Ringling?

It was the most notable thing she'd leave out of her letters to the family back home . . .

She shook her head, feeling hot tears escape to roll down her cheeks.

Mable Burton had once walked with a king.

1926

N
ORTH
Y
ORKSHIRE
, E
NGLAND

The early-morning air was crisp and cold—just the way Rosamund and Ingénue preferred it.

A haze of fog had drifted in overnight, painting the moor beyond Easling Park in a thick layer of mist. It mingled along the tree line, curling around skinny poplars and the knobby trunks of aged walnut trees. The landscape was bathed in ink-blue with streaks of orange and yellow as early-morning sun filtered along the fields' borders.

Ingénue stretched her legs wide, pounding her hooves against the soft earth.

She was a beautiful black Arabian, with a smooth gait and low withers and a broad, sturdy back—perfect for riding bareback when no one was looking. Just as no one was looking now. Rosamund leaned into the wind and they sailed over the ridge together, the horse creating a cadence in hoof and breath sounds that ticked like clockwork.

Rosamund had slipped down the stairs before daybreak, her long waves tucked into a loose chignon, riding gloves in hand, and had fairly flown to the stables. If she hurried, one last thrilling taste of freedom could be hers. And should any other early riser happen
to see her from a window, her observer would see nothing but a properly dressed young lady riding sidesaddle, with a horse moving at a permissible trot over the hill.

Underneath her wrap skirt and herringbone jacket she wore a breathable silk blouse and the trousers her maid had washed and dried. Once they were out of sight and a safe distance from the stables, she brought Ingénue to a halt. She peeled off her outer riding habit and removed the horse's saddle. Ingénue's hooves danced about, the mare just as hungry as the rider for the moments of shared bliss as they flew over the fields.

And so it was a morning like hundreds of others they'd passed before, save for the one terrible pang of hurt twisting in Rosamund's middle: this was to be their last ride.

The after-dinner conversation with her parents had proved one-sided at best. And firm. In fact, they'd known more about her riding habits than she'd realized. The motor had been returned to the manor, but it was in such a state of disrepair that she'd never have been able to keep the ruse going. Thankfully, they knew nothing of Mr. Keary's or Mr. Butler's involvement. But the horse that kept her engaged in such activities was merely the last straw, and her insubordination was to halt with its sale.

So her future was set. They'd had an offer and would accept. Rosamund was to marry Lord Brentwood in the spring. In her parents' estimation, it was long past time to put off the childishness of her riding excursions and take her rightful place in society.

Rosamund tried not to think about what it would mean to marry. To move away. To have the one limb of freedom she possessed severed from her life, and the last connection she had to the happy memories of her brother stolen away with it.

She wiped a tear that had managed to slide down her cheek, whisking it away with a gloved hand.

The day wasn't so long ago that she'd forgotten.

Even at eleven years old, Rosamund had known what was happening. It was the face of war she'd looked at, in the manner in which a child would. Not with blood and bombs. Nor with trenches or barren battlefields. War simply came and stole away the better part of one's heart, replacing it with fear. And missing. A form of missing that only grew worse with a war department telegram.

He'd been a gentleman, her older brother—quite dapper, she thought, in his captain's uniform. In his typical way of edging up against authority, Hendrick had tipped his hat just off one eyebrow to give her a comical smile the last time he climbed in the motor bound for King's Cross Station.

Rosamund had forgotten that a lady should never throw off constraint and fall into the arms of anyone before her. But perhaps she wasn't destined to become a lady. Fear had come over her with a vengeance as she wound her arms around her brother's neck, crying unstoppable tears, begging him not to go.

His words flooded her memory now, even over the pounding of Ingénue's hooves to the ground.

“But who will ride with you while you're gone?”

“I'll find someone,” Hendrick answered cheerfully.

“But I'm your partner. You said—”

He'd offered a smile, a brave one, she knew.

“And you are, little Rose. You'll have to keep up your riding until I can join you again. And when I return, we'll get you a proper horse. One with enough fire to keep up with you.”

“Then I won't ride until you come home.”

“No, you cannot do that. I've already spoken with Mr. Archer.” He winked, letting her know he'd shared the entirety of their secret with the stable master. “He's promised to look after you until I return.”

“When will that be?”

He'd glanced up at their father, drawing her eyes, too, in his direction. The glare she'd met said,
Enough of that
. Lady Denton had looked on with glazed eyes and a shadow of a brave smile, but said nothing to their father's silent reproach.

“Soon, little Rose. I'll return very soon.” Hendrick leaned in to brush his forehead with hers. “I promise.”

And she'd believed him.

Even as he stepped into the auto that April morning of 1916. Even as the chauffer closed the door and Hendrick tipped his hat to them one more time. She and Ingénue fought the pain together now, hearts beating in sync over the fields. Forgetting. Finding their heaven in the fields of Easling Park, riding away from long-ago memories for what felt like hours.

Rosamund allowed the horse to flex her will just a bit, taking turns and galloping as fast as she cared to. Ingénue would just as quickly fall back into submission, with her power stores just restrained enough that Rosamund could lead for a while.

She'd keep her eyes fixed out on the span of fields ahead of them, balancing high on the horse's back and keeping heels lower than her toes, using her calves to hold tight to invisible stirrups. When she turned her head, Ingénue would respond by taking them where Rosamund wished to go. And when she laughed, the mare would reply with whinnying breaths that froze in the crisp air like puffs of smoke.

On a whim Rosamund reached back and pulled the long pin from the coil at her nape, allowing her hair to fall in a gleaming curtain around her shoulders and back. They slowed then, taking time to play about, trick riding in the fields.

Rosamund switched Ingénue's steps, executing lead changes that swapped the canter from the right lead to the left. She slowed the horse to quick stops, even bringing her to a rearing position, all
for old time's sake. They circled and danced as the wind picked up, whipping her hair around and tousling the silk of Ingénue's mane. Rosamund even popped up, using some of their last moments together to ride standing on her mare's back. She'd jump down, then run and pull up into a mount again, unafraid because of the number of times they'd done it before.

Unafraid now because she'd tucked away old memories of Hendrick, of the rides that had brought them closer. She and Ingénue were honoring him now by making a lifetime of memories fit into one last morning ride.

The row of leaded glass oil lamps cut a ghostly path to the back of the stable. They flickered with the gust of wind that breezed in the stable's back doors.

Colin watched as Rose peeked inside, then led Ingénue in behind her. She closed the doors again and shivered against the icy bite that lingered in the morning air.

“Are mornings always this cold here?”

She turned with a fright.

“Mr. Keary,” she choked out with a hand to her collar. “You startled me. I didn't expect anyone to be out here this early.”

“So I gathered.”

Colin leaned back in a chair against a stall at the end of the row, the top of his vest unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up on his forearms, his boot-clad legs stretched out. He bit into the flesh of a ripe Pippin apple, just as casual as he pleased.

“Found my coat.” He tipped his head toward the coat he'd hung over the top of the stall door. “Your maid had one of the footmen slip it into my chamber this morning.”

Rose cleared her throat, then looked to each end of the expansive stable.

“Good. Then I assume you and Mr. Butler will be about your day.”

“We will. It's a bit early for breakfast, but I'd say he's already getting his fill of mealy pudding and fig jam. I believe he's taken a sincere liking to your English food. Even the kippers. Far be it from him to miss a meal in any country.”

“I'd have thought you'd join him at breakfast.”

“You too,” he answered. “But I see your time has been better spent.”

“Our last ride,” she said, patting Ingénue's neck. “I wanted it to be special.”

He blinked back, making no mention of it, but it piqued his interest that Rose didn't try to shadow the truth.

“So she's an early riser, is she? I'll have to remember that.”

Colin surveyed the pair of them, Rose holding Ingénue steady in the patch of dawn-mixed sunlight that streamed in through the windows. He couldn't help but imagine the soft glow as a spotlight, the straw-covered ground as a circus ring, and the beamed ceiling over their heads as the vault of the towering Big Top.

He brushed the image away, remembering that Rose had no idea about the deliberation going on in his mind. Hers was a rare talent. But it was a raw and innocent one as well—one that might not be ready for the harshness of circus life. It wouldn't be drawing rooms and dinner parties anymore. She'd be toughing it out with hundreds of other performers on a packed circus train, laboring from sunup to sundown, working her fingers raw in a new town nearly every day.

If he was going to bring her into that life, Colin had to be sure she could handle it.

“Anything else I should know about her?”

“She's spirited,” Rose added. “That part of her won't be broken no matter how you might try.”

“Well, I don't think there will be any danger of that.” He got
to his feet. “What little I know of horses is that you don't break the spirit. Just bend the will if necessary. Kind of like dealing with people, I expect.”

Rose had pulled her hair back, but some strands had escaped and fallen down around her face. She was still winded too, and her cheeks were red from the crisp morning air.

Colin placed his half-eaten apple on the top of the stall and reached out, easing the reins from her gloved hand.

“You're tired. Here.” He nodded toward the chair. “Have a seat.”

To his surprise she obeyed, tucking her skirt underneath her and crossing her legs at the ankles. Colin noticed how she studied him as he opened the stall door and led the horse in.

The mare's gentle murmuring neighs were the only sound to cut the silence that had fallen between them. Colin busied himself by easing the bit from Ingénue's mouth, then unhooking the girth and slipping the saddle from her back. He edged out of the stall, depositing the saddle on the stand near the wall.

“You must think me spoiled, to fall apart over the sale of a horse.”

Colin paused, hands still on the saddle. “I think nothing of the sort.”

“Ingénue was a gift from my late brother. He had her shipped to me shortly before he was killed in the war. And now you're here to buy her . . . so that's why . . .” She tore her gaze to something out the window nearby, trying to withstand the emotion that had hitched in her words. “We were very close,” she added. “He was the one who always called me Rose.”