Authors: Colleen Quinn
“Nor you,” Michael responded, seeming amused. If he was angry at the servant’s audacity, he didn’t show it. He was about to comment further when a woman stepped gracefully down the stairs. She was slender and elegant, her hair a polished silver, her body beautifully gowned in a lovely shade of pale blue. She had a patrician face, and in her eyes there was a dreamlike quality, very unlike her practical son. Yet, she was obviously thrilled to see him. She rushed into his arms, ignoring everything else. “Oh, Michael, you’re finally home. I’ve been so worried…let me look at you. Why, darling, you look so thin and pale. You must have some tea right away.”
Michael gently disengaged himself, then turned toward Rosemary, an indulgent smile on his face. “Mother, I want you to meet my wife, Rosemary. And this is her companion, Clara.”
“Rosemary,” Michael’s mother repeated, and her eyes widened at the sight before her. Rosemary stood dressed in one of the gowns Michael had purchased for her, but any attempt at current fashion ended there. Her hair, never tame to begin with, curled riotously around a face that although apprehensive, seemed twinkling with amusement. Green eyes danced, and freckles were sprinkled like cinnamon over a nose that was unfashionably turned up. Instead of appearing shy or retiring, as most women in her predicament, Rosemary seemed about to burst into laughter.
“Carney.” Rosemary took the woman’s proffered hand and shook it heartily. “Like Carney’s Circus. I think you may know of us—your husband was our benefactor.”
“I see.” Michael’s mother looked about to faint, then her eyes fell on Clara. The gypsy fortune-teller was digging feverishly in her bags, displaying noisome bottles and odd, scarred books. Tarot cards fell out onto the floor, their lurid pictures staring up like a witch’s curse. Gasping in delight, Clara retrieved a glass jar and straightened, her sugar-white hair pulled back and revealing a face like a worm-eaten apple.
“Me spiders.” She grinned, indicating the jar. “I thought this boyo had lost them. I need them for me potions.”
Michael’s mother turned a curious shade of gray, then turned quickly to her son. “I don’t feel well, darling. Would you take me to the parlor and order a sherry?”
As Michael obliged, Rosemary fought a giggle as she heard the woman say something about show people.
She wouldn’t have to convince Michael to let them go. Apparently, his mother would do that all by herself.
“This way to your rooms.” James led them up the carpeted stairs, to a hallway choking in cabbage-rose wallpaper. Gaslights dripping in gilt with huge ruby-colored bowls gleamed from the ceilings, while delicate little tables strewn with lace and tiny figurines were displayed in every nook and crevice. Rosemary shuddered. She could just picture the clowns in this setting, and the damage they would wreak.
“I think you will be comfortable here, madam. And if the lady will follow me.” James held open the door for Clara, while the gypsy fortune-teller peered suspiciously into the room. Large oppressive furniture was interspersed with delicate dried flowers, while lace covered everything like an overindustrious spider’s web.
“Humph.” Clara settled into the chamber, opening drawers and closets. But the room was a vast improvement over a tent, and the gypsy found little to complain about.
“This way.” James led Rosemary down the hallway into an adjoining room that seemed a twin of the first. Rosemary glanced at the excessive furnishings and the overabundance of decorations and tried to appear enthusiastic. “It is…unbelievable.”
James glanced at her, and for once his forbidding demeanor lightened, and she could have sworn she saw laughter in his eyes. “I think that is precisely the word.” He hefted her bags inside, then stood very properly at the door. “Will there be anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
“We dress for dinner here. Good afternoon.”
The butler turned and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Rosemary stared at the chamber, observing the horsehair chairs, the thick velvet draperies at the window, the gilt mirrors, and the needlepoint pictures hanging from the walls. Uncertainty filled her. Even the room seemed to echo her lack of welcome, and her one small tattered bag looked sadly out of place on the thick blue carpet.
She didn’t belong here. Rosemary thought of Michael’s mother, and how elegant and graceful she appeared. The epitome of the woman who had always snubbed her, his mother was like one of those graceful feminine wonders that Rosemary longed to be like but could never feel comfortable around. There was no way the woman would ever accept her, nor their situation. Idly Rosemary wondered if Michael had told her about the child, then realized almost certainly that he hadn’t. One shock at a time was enough. Mischievously, she grinned, picturing the woman’s reaction when she found out that her son had fathered a would-be clown, then her smile faded. God, she didn’t want that rejection for the child or herself. If only Clara had a potion that could transport her back to the circus, to her own people.
We dress for dinner here.
Her nose scrunching, Rosemary wondered what on earth the butler could have meant. Didn’t everyone?
“But she’s a clown, for God’s sake!”
Michael poured out another glass of sherry as Catherine Wharton fanned herself frantically, gazing at him in horror.
“Mother, it isn’t all that bad—”
“Not that bad! Think about what you’re saying! My God, what has happened to you?” She stared impeachingly at her son, who had always done the right, proper thing. “Show people! Michael, you have such a future ahead of you. Half the eligible young women in Philadelphia adore you, women from good families with connections, women with dowries…”
“I know,” Michael said soothingly. “I know how this must seem to you. I’m not even sure how it all happened myself. But it did. Now she’s carrying a child—my child. What should I have done, just left her there?”
His mother turned even whiter and gulped the sherry. “You say she’s…in a family way?”
“That’s right,” Michael said calmly. His mother averted her eyes in mortification and fanned herself so hard that her hair blew softly around her face. “I didn’t plan any of this. It just happened. But now you can see, I can’t just ignore my responsibilities.”
“No, of course not.” Catherine put the glass down and refused to meet his eyes. “A child. Dear God, how could this have happened?”
“The way it usually does,” Michael said softly, hiding his amusement. “Mother, it’s been known to happen, even in the upper classes. It isn’t a tragedy.”
“Michael, I don’t know how to say this, but so much is at stake…” His mother took a deep breath, then plunged in. “There are ways to avert…an unplanned child.”
“Good God, you aren’t suggesting—” He stared at her in shock, while his mother shrugged.
“I’m just thinking of you. Whatever decisions you make now will affect the rest of your life. Darling, think about it. You have an excellent chance of being made partner at the bank. You’ve made so much money, your brother is completing his education, thanks to you, and you’ve worked so hard. You should be able to enjoy some of that.”
“Mother, my marriage to Rosemary will not stop all that.”
“No?” Catherine turned back to him, her soft eyes losing their dreamy quality. “What will happen the first time we have guests? Or when you introduce your wife to the Board as Carney the clown? My God, Michael, don’t pretend to be so naive as to ignore the implications! We are accepted into society here, your father was well respected, if not rich. You enjoy all of that and you should. Do you really want to throw it away just because of an unfortunate accident?”
Michael ran his fingers through his hair impatiently. He was prepared for this, had known that his mother’s reaction wouldn’t be favorable. But somehow, hearing all of his own trepidations voiced made them that much more formidable.
“It wasn’t just an accident. She means something to me. I don’t know how to describe it, but she does. I’ve known more happiness in the last few months with her than I have in my entire life. Mother, I know this won’t be an easy adjustment for you, but it is going to be difficult for Rose, as well. I only ask that you do your best to help her feel comfortable, and that you respect my wishes in this.”
“I see.” Catherine stood up with a rigid finality. “Then I suppose I have little choice. But let me remind you of one more thing, Michael. What makes you so certain she’ll be happy here? She’s led a very different life.”
“How could she not? She’s had nothing, and here she’ll have everything. The best doctors, nice clothes, good food. Mother, she lived in a tent. This will seem like heaven after that.”
“One person’s heaven is another’s hell. I will do my best to make her feel at home since you can’t be persuaded. But this is a dreadful mistake. Just mark my words.”
“D
INNER WILL BE SERVED SHORTLY
,” James announced when Rosemary opened the door in answer to his knock. She’d spent the last two hours sleeping and then bathing, growing more astonished by the moment at the amount of money these Whartons apparently possessed. There was running water in the house, and of all things, a water closet. One of the dour-faced maids had pointed out its use when she asked for a chamber pot, and Rosemary expressed her incredulity at a system that seemed downright unsanitary, if not much more comfortable.
It explained a lot, Rosemary thought. Michael had almost lost all of this, due to faulty investments and the panic of 1873. No wonder he was so determined to see that it never happened again. He had become wrapped up in his business, to the detriment of all else, because of that loss. It was something Rosemary could understand and sympathize with, if not applaud.
Nodding at the servant, Rosemary frowned at her reflection in the mirror. The emerald gown she wore was clean and becoming, but she was a far cry from a real lady in spite of the butler’s nod of approval.
Why did it matter? Rosemary knew the answer even as she tried to smooth her unruly hair. It was pride, that damnable Carney pride that would not let her admit defeat. She’d been rejected by fashionable women for most of her life for being different, a clown, a jester. She just couldn’t let them do it again.
“James, I need to ask you something.” Rosemary stopped the servant, who was about to depart. Giving him a conspiratorial smile, she leaned closer and asked seriously, “Do you have any idea how real women do their hair?”
The question was so earnest that he paused, aware of the reason for her bewilderment. “I suppose you mean like Mrs. Wharton’s?”
Rosemary nodded, relieved. “Yes. The way she makes it all stay up. I can’t make mine do anything of the sort.”
His mouth twitched as he gazed at the riot of carroty curls that framed her face. It was like a living flame, refusing to be tamed. He was about to reply indignantly, but something about her expression stopped him. This Irish gypsy might have been a tramp and a jester, but there was a compelling warmth in her green eyes and a womanly urgency that told him everything. Breaking every rule he ever lived by, he stepped inside her room, shut the door, and nodded. “There are all sorts of devices that real women use. There are hair pieces and pins, tongs and nets. Although I am a far cry from a lady’s maid, I think I can offer some assistance. But I must beg a favor in return.”
“What?” Rosemary’s nose wrinkled in confusion.
“You must never tell a soul that I did this. And if you do, I will deny it accordingly.”
Rosemary grinned, putting out her hand and shaking his heartily. “Deal.”
“Now, young woman"—he picked up her brush, his eyes twinkling in a way the Whartons would never have recognized—"let’s make you presentable. If one must do battle, one must have the appropriate armor.”
Rosemary grinned. After all, it was just dinner. How bad could it be?
It was a disaster. If the parlor had been intimidating, the dining room was doubly so. Rosemary stood in the doorway, gazing at the white linen tablecloth, the gaslights dressed with crystal and glass globes, the thick velvet draperies pulled back to reveal a little table here, a vase of flowers there. Creamy china plates bordered in royal blue gleamed from the table, while a bewildering assortment of glasses and silver framed each setting. Candles added to the dazzle, and even the wine lent its own sparkle to a table that already scintillated.
Michael stood beside the fireplace, his head bent, talking quietly with a younger man. He glanced up at her and gave her an approving smile. Catherine Wharton was poised and beautiful on a small love seat, gowned in silver this time. She was sitting beside an older man, who smiled at her and rose to his feet.
“Rosemary.” Catherine acknowledged her presence politely. “Do come in. We were just talking about you. This is our friend, Percy Atwater, and my other son, Robert.”
“Mrs. Wharton.” The younger man broke into a grin as he acknowledged the introduction, taking in her appearance with surprise. Shorter than Michael but with the same coloring, he seemed much more at ease and far less serious than his brother. “How do you find our fair city?”
“Cold,” Rosemary responded, thinking of her initial impression. It seemed so strange to be introduced as Michael’s wife, and she couldn’t help but notice that his mother’s lips tightened.