Authors: Colleen Quinn
Michael shook his head, refusing to give credence to her words. “Rose, it’s only been a couple of weeks. Don’t you think I know the adjustment this has been for you? I appreciate the effort you’ve made, and you’re doing a wonderful job. But you can’t just give up. Think of our future. Yours, mine, and the baby’s.”
Rosemary sighed. He would never understand, but somehow, she had to try and make him. Something inside her told her that if she didn’t, she stood to lose everything. “I have thought about it,” Rosemary said quietly. “Michael, I’ve been acting, playing a part I don’t really feel. It’s just like the other parts I’ve played—Lorac’s assistant, the clown, the farmwife…whatever it takes.”
“You’re doing a damned good job, then. You’ve fooled everyone,” Michael said coldly. “My mother was just saying how well you fit in, and how much her friends enjoyed your company. And what about last night?” He gestured to the sofa while Rosemary reddened in embarrassment. “Was all that an act, too?”
Rosemary shivered as she recalled their fierce night of love-making. Truthfully, she couldn’t tell him that it meant nothing, for if there was one thing Carney was not, it was a liar. Yet, as much as that meant to her, having him hold her and love her the way he did, she sensed that it was vitally important that she make him listen and understand. She couldn’t keep pretending, not for anyone’s sake, and their future happiness depended on it.
“Don’t you see what this is doing to us?” Rosemary laid a hand on his shoulder, feeling him jump at the contact. His muscles were tense and knotted with emotion. “You aren’t angry because of what I did today,” she said softly. “You’re angry because it showed people what I am, and I don’t think you’ve ever really accepted that.”
“You’re wrong,” Michael said flatly.
Rosemary shook her head, tears shining in her eyes. “No, I’m right and you know it. I am a clown, Michael. I can wear a fancy dress, learn to do my own hair, smile insipidly, and do needlepoint, but none of that changes me. Do you remember that story the Indians told, about Handsome? Clothes fooled her into believing that the man she loved was something other than what he was. I can’t do that. I don’t have a family traceable to the
Mayflower,
I’m not one of the Philadelphia families. I’m Rosemary Carney, and I can make people laugh, make them feel good. That’s who and what I am.”
“I see.” Michael stood next to the fireplace, leaning against the mantel, his expression cold and forbidding. “And what about our child? Is he to be a circus tumbler, a roustabout? Do you plan to limit his choices to the same that were given you?”
Rosemary flinched. “I hadn’t thought—”
“That far ahead,” Michael finished for her. “Rosemary, we’re dealing with a child, now. A new life. Don’t you think he or she deserves the best we can give?”
“And this is it?” Rosemary gestured to the overcrowded room. “Michael, don’t you see? You’re always tired, always working. You’ve become withdrawn, preoccupied, obsessed with business.”
“I can’t help that,” Michael said angrily. “There’s so much to do. There’s the mill investments, the workhouses, the sweatshops…”
“There will always be another crisis, another problem. That’s the nature of your work. I understand that you’re not doing it deliberately.” Rosemary sniffled, choking back a sob. How did she make him see? “But are you really happier now then when you were in the circus? Truthfully?”
Michael slammed his hand on the mantel. “Don’t talk nonsense, Rose. Who wouldn’t prefer a nice house, servants, good clothes, and food? I have a place in society here, an important position, status…”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Rosemary said softly, scuffing the rug with her foot. “Are you happier here than at Carney’s?”
“I can see that this conversation has become pointless,” Michael said brusquely, stalking toward the door. He stopped just a few feet away from her and flexed his fingers as if wanting to shake her. Instead, he took a breath and finished quietly. “Let me just clarify my position. We have a chance to have a normal, decent life here, and I want that. I want you and our child here, to grow up with everything money can buy, all of the advantages. I want stability for all of us. But you have to cooperate. And that means no more seances, card tricks, or Carney stunts. You promised me you’d try, and I’m holding you to that.”
Rosemary crossed her arms over her chest, trying hard not to cry. He lifted her face to his and peered into her eyes, seeing the soft green mist and the mouth which struggled to hide mutiny. “Do I have your word?”
Rosemary nodded reluctantly, closing her eyes and, unable to stop them, letting the tears spill forth. He released her quickly, then strode from the room, fighting the impulse he had to comfort her. But if he did, he might weaken, and he knew that Rosemary had to come around to his point of view.
For everyone’s sake.
“I know the changes seem practical, and for the mills, they are,” Morris said, shoving a thick ledger at Michael. “But you have to understand something, my boy. Investors are interested in short-term profits. The industrial economy is too new for anything else.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Michael slammed the book shut and glared at the banker. He hadn’t slept at all the previous night, after his argument with Rosemary, and he felt too tired for this. Nevertheless, Morris had been waiting for him when he arrived at his office, and the man couldn’t be put off. “I’ve got the numbers to prove my theory, and we can use the mill as a test case. By the end of the year we should have some cold hard facts….”
“The end of the year.” Morris smiled. “That in banking terms means nothing. You know this, Michael, I’m not telling you anything new. Today, investors only care about the most recent quarter’s profits. No one gives a damn about next year. There could be another panic, cotton prices are unstable, war could break out overseas. All of these things affect business, and no one wants to risk a plan that might pay off in the future. No, the banks are clamoring for profit now, and they want to see larger dividends this quarter. Your plans would cut too deeply into their earnings.”
“But just temporarily!” Michael slammed his fist in frustration. “Morris, goddammit, you know I’m right. Eventually they can make even more money. And these are people we’re talking about, lives. You know I’m right. The changes we’ve made at the mill can be made all over. We can improve the existence of the people working for us and at the same time structure a long-term business plan that will be profitable for everyone. It’s called responsibility, man. Someone has to speak up for these people and to help them.”
Morris shook his head. “I know, my boy, but the bankers won’t buy it. You and I have more control over the mill investments, simply by owning a majority of the holdings. The rest of the investments aren’t structured that way. I’ve met with the bankers several times, and your proposal falls on deaf ears. A few of them,” Morris said cautiously, “even suggested that your time away at the circus has affected you adversely. That you’ve lost your edge.”
Michael glared at the rotund banker in disbelief, though the logical part of him warned him not to be surprised. “That’s ridiculous,” he said harshly.
“Whether or not, it’s something we have to deal with,” Morris said evenly. “I don’t have to tell you that investors are a fickle lot and have always thought in terms of payback. Concepts like incentive management, increased productivity, motivating the work force through a better standard of living and education, holds no meaning for them. The dollar does. They want instant gratification.”
Michael paced the room in frustration. He knew Morris spoke the truth. Immigrants, by and large, were viewed by the bankers as a nameless sea of bodies, easily replaceable and less than human. No one cared if they dropped dead from exhaustion, that their children didn’t have enough to eat, that they were freezing and tired in the name of ten more shirts or a new building. He had known all that, yet somehow had been fooled into thinking he could make a difference.
“I can’t believe this.” He turned slowly and faced Morris, his face pale. “How can we know that a more humane way of doing business will not only increase profit but help others, and yet be unable to implement it?”
“That’s the world, Michael. I didn’t make it, and neither did you.” The banker smiled sympathetically. “Don’t take it so hard. Your holdings are doing extremely well. I understand you have a wife and a new baby on the way.” When Michael nodded briefly, Morris’s smile disappeared. “Let me give you some advice. I’ve known you and your family for a long time, and you’ve done a tremendous job in restoring your father’s holdings. Don’t jeopardize all that by some new radical ideals. You’ve worked hard, you’ve earned your place. Stay within the confines of the elite, and you’ll continue to prosper.”
Michael’s eyes grew like steel. “You mean you want me to sell out, to keep my mouth shut, even though I know I’m right?”
Morris shrugged. “I’m only advising you as a friend. People in this business can turn on you very quickly if they see you as a threat. Already the changes we’ve made at the mills have caused some rumblings. Riots are nothing new to Philadelphia, and the workers’ unrest is every banker’s nightmare. You’re giving them ideas, Michael. Once these immigrants think they’re entitled to certain benefits, they’ll want them across the board. And that’s when the trouble will begin.”
Morris picked up his polished hat and his greatcoat, then stood beside the door. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d strongly advise you to listen. You have entirely too much at risk not to.”
The banker stepped through the oak door and was gone. Michael sank down into his chair and buried his head in his hands. My God, he couldn’t believe this. If he believed what Morris said, and he had no reason not to, he was doomed to making his money at the expense of others or suffering just like them. It was worse than that story about the emperor’s new clothes, where a boy was the only one who dared tell the truth. He would be effectively silenced, and his only choice was to go down fighting and lose everything—or stand by quietly and let business run as usual.
“Mr. Wharton, Mr. Whitman is here to see you.”
Michael ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Business waited for no one and had no conscience. It was a fact he was just beginning to appreciate.
“How did she know Sean Carney?” Rosemary demanded as Clara sifted through her book of chants and potions, trying to ignore the young clown. “She knew him, I could tell by her face. And she ran out right after that.”
“You’re daft,” Clara said bluntly, although her eyes strayed from Rose uneasily. “That widow woman was just upset by the seance. It always happens, as you know. Do you remember that time in the circus—”
“But it was Sean’s name that did it,” Rosemary interrupted, refusing to be diverted. “I’ve been thinking about it all night—I can’t get that woman’s face from my mind. And there was something else, something about the way she looked at us. You acted strangely when you met her, as well.”
“Bah.” Clara slammed the book shut and glared at Rose. “I have work to do, girl, and you’re worse than a dozen Englishmen. The woman got upset because a ghost appeared. That is all.”
“I don’t think so,” Rosemary said, unconvinced. Rising from her seat in the parlor, she put aside her badly done needlepoint and reached for her cloak. “I’m going to see her.”
“Are you mad?” Clara’s eyes bulged, and the older woman glared. “You’re carrying a wee one, and you want to barge into some woman’s house like a vagabond? I thought you were trying to fit in here, to act like a lady.”
“There’s nothing wrong with visiting her,” Rose said defensively. “Catherine said we should begin calling on everyone we’ve met, with or without her. She even made me up some cards.” Rosemary displayed a package of white linen cards decorated with shamrocks. “She said it would only help to get to know everyone. And since the seance, they’re all eager to meet us.”
“I want no part of this.” Clara gave Rose a compelling look. “And I have a feeling that your husband will be no more pleased with the idea than I am. Have you told him your plan?”
“No,” Rosemary said uneasily. She had a feeling that Clara was right on that point. Michael had been cold and withdrawn since their argument about the seance, and he’d been adamant about upsetting the widow. He’d been dead-set against anything that might unnerve her further.
But Rosemary just couldn’t let it go. There was something about that woman, something vaguely compelling and, if she had to be honest, familiar. She had a feeling that Clara knew much more than she was saying, and that only piqued her curiosity even more. After days of painting, playing piano, and sewing, the prospect of intrigue was like a balm to Rosemary’s active mind. She had to find out what Sean Carney meant to the widow, and why she’d acted so strangely.
“I’ll be back before Michael returns. There’s no reason he has to know,” Rosemary said, her brows lifting. “Unless you tell?”
“I’ll not be tattling on you.” Clara sighed in resignation. “If you’re determined to do this fool thing, I canna’ stop you. I never could. But be careful, lass. I’ll be waiting for you to get home.”
Rosemary nodded, then gave Clara a quick kiss on her tired cheek. Wrapping her cloak around her, she stepped into the street and hailed a carriage. She didn’t look behind her, nor did she see the twitch of a lace curtain as Clara watched her with a worried gaze.
Returning to her cards, Clara flipped over the one with the woman and the stars. She had seen this coming. There was no point in going with the girl—it had to play itself out. She could do little to stop the Fates.