Defiant Rose (45 page)

“Hae you talked to Michael about this?” Clara questioned softly, leading Rose back toward the house. “The man has a brain, lass. Surely he is not so cold and unfeeling that he wouldn’t understand….”

“He doesn’t talk to me anymore,” Rosemary said, wiping at her face. “Oh, Clara, that is the worst part of it all. I’ve done what he wanted, became what he wanted, and he acts as if I don’t exist. All he cares about is his work. He hates Carney’s and doesn’t want any part of it in his life. He really doesn’t want any part of…”

Her voice trailed off. The rest was too painful to put into words, but Rosemary knew it for the truth. What was wrong between them was real and not getting any better. Every time she thought of those horrible dinners with him, when he treated her with such cold formality, making her feel every faux pas with one uplifted brow, she could die.

It had been so good once. What had happened? Instinctively Rose knew it was this place. Like a field daisy that had been transplanted to a hothouse, she was doomed to failure. She couldn’t thrive here, couldn’t grow. The very things that Michael had loved about her at Carney’s were useless here, unwanted, and an embarrassment. It tore her apart.

Worse, she could see no way to make it better. It had been weeks, and the distance between them had grown. Soon they would be treating each other with the polite cordiality that reigned between other society people. Rose had seen them, the married couples at elegant dinners, sharing a table, yet unable or unwilling to speak to each other all through the meal. She’d shuddered at the scene but found it repeated over and over.

They’d become like that. Soon they, too, would sit at the same table, and she would try valiantly to think of something she could share with him. Failing that, she would turn, as women did everywhere, to other women, filling the loneliness with social callings and teas, while he filled his time with work and, as other society gentlemen, affairs.

The thought made her ill. Thrusting the letter back into her cloak, she walked silently with Clara back toward the mansion. Surely, if she thought and prayed long enough, an answer would come to her….

A carriage waited at the door. Rosemary glanced up without interest, assuming it was one of Catherine’s friends, then her breath caught. It was the widow’s coach. Rosemary recognized the horses, two beautiful bays that had been waiting outside the day she’d visited her house. Frantic, she turned to Clara.

“It’s her. My…mother. Please, Clara, I can’t see her. I won’t.”

Clara clucked, her hooded head peering forth at the sight of the elegant carriage, her mouth pursed in a frown. “I told ye to stay away from that besom! But ye should see what she wants. Mayhap it would do you good—”

“No!” Rosemary’s emphatic tone startled Clara. “No,” the young woman repeated, with a bit more composure. “I’ve heard everything she’s had to say. My God, all this time she couldn’t be bothered with me, and now she comes…”

“She did write.” Clara frowned, torn between loyalty to the girl beside her and the truth. “I took Sean’s letters from the rubbish and answered her. She wanted to know about you.”

“I don’t care.” Rosemary covered her ears, aware of the childishness of the act but unable to listen to any more. “I’m going in the servants’ entrance. Tell her I’m not at home—tell her anything you want.”

Clara nodded, her heart heavy. She watched as Rosemary skittered into the alleyway, then disappeared through the back door. Much as she hated to admit it, the cards had been right. Rosemary needed her mother.

But she wouldn’t allow the woman to come near her.

Night had fallen when Michael returned. He’d spent another frustrating day trying to settle his accounts, poring over endless columns of figures. Another panic was in the air; the bankers were nervous and inclined to question every expenditure. Interest rates were up and money was getting tighter.

God, he was tired of all this. Unbuttoning his cravat, he longed for a hot bath, a good dinner, and maybe a drink. He wanted to forget, wanted to enjoy at least part of the day, and he wanted to see Rose.

He felt badly about the way he’d been treating her. He knew she was trying, but every mistake she made, every social gaffe, made him once again aware that she just didn’t fit in. He tried to teach her, to give her pointers about etiquette and deportment, but she seemed to take his suggestions as criticism. If only she’d forget about that circus…but he knew Carney’s was never far from her mind. It was more important to her than the baby, than him, than anything. It was as if the circus had become a wall between them, one they just couldn’t surmount.

Tonight, he would talk to her. Clara or no Clara, he would lock them in a room together if necessary, the way they had once been locked in a wagon, and demand that she make a commitment to this life. It was really ridiculous; he was offering her everything: good food, a nice place to live, beautiful dresses. The circus offered her nothing but moldy tents and constant work. She would be a fool not to agree.

Congratulating himself on his plan, he poured himself a drink, completely unaware of what really motivated him. Although he’d never admit it to anyone, even himself, he was jealous of the circus. He’d never worry about Rosemary leaving him for another man, but the show was another matter. He knew she was homesick, that she missed the circus desperately, and that frightened him more than he wanted to think about. Once the child was born, there was nothing to make her stay unless she had grown so accustomed to this lifestyle that she wouldn’t dream of leaving.

He had to convince her, and he wasn’t going about it the right way. The past few weeks had shown him that. They were practically living like strangers. Tonight, he would talk to her. Then he swore as he remembered the party. Dammit! Catherine had invited quite a few of society’s best to a gathering in Rosemary’s honor that evening. Apparently, his mother felt that by introducing Rose to the Philadelphia contingent in a formal way it would help ensure Rosemary’s success.

Michael frowned. The last thing he felt like doing was going to a party, especially in his own house. He wanted to have this out with Rose, and the sooner the better. After the baby was born, she would no longer stay because she needed to.

It would have to be because she wanted to.

“Are ye going to wear that?” Clara gaped at the gown Rosemary wore, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Rosemary nodded, surveying the dress in the mirror. “Yes, and I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Melissa Caldwalder wears dresses like this all the time.”

“Miss Coldwater can wear what she wants.” Clara sniffed disapprovingly. “You’re half dressed!” She glared at the beautiful sapphire-blue gown Rosemary wore. Cut low in the front, the gown fell to an empire waistline that was very flattering to Rosemary’s rounded figure. The square neckline exposed quite a bit of her white skin, while the soft material moved sensually with each step. She looked every inch a beautiful woman, and a far cry from the clown.

“I am not half dressed,” Rosemary said firmly. “The gown is supposed to be like this. I just wonder…do you think Michael will like it?”

“He’d be blind not to,” Clara muttered, aware of her doings. “Although he may not like to see you so displayed to the rest of the world.”

“Bah!” Rosemary said, then peered into the mirror again, examining her eyes. They were still red and swollen, a noticeable testimony to the way she’d been feeling. “Is there something you can do for this?”

Clara nodded, then hastened to her bag and withdrew an ointment. Bidding Rose to lie on the bed, she smoothed the cucumber and aloe mixture around the younger woman’s eyes, clucking to herself as she rubbed the potion into her swollen skin.

“Damned fool notion, seducing your own husband! Bah! What do you think that will get you?”

Rosemary hid a smile. Clara was hitting close to the mark, but not for the reasons she thought. She’d spent the afternoon praying, and this was the best inspiration she’d come up with.

In truth, she just couldn’t take it anymore. Somehow, she had to make Michael listen, had to work out a way that she could find some happiness in their relationship. Coldness hadn’t worked; neither had arguments or anger. It was only when she made love to him that she felt close to him once more.

And she needed him. She felt cold and lonely since the encounter with her mother, and her self-esteem was at an all-time low. Guilt plagued her, for she knew she was needed at the circus, yet she had given Michael her word that she would try to make the best of this life.

Yet even as Clara smoothed the fragrant lotion into her skin, she knew she was kidding herself. Michael would never come around to her point of view—he thought life here was the correct way to bring up their child. He refused to see that it was only driving them apart, and that the only time they’d really been happy was…at the circus.

Rosemary sighed. Was it really so crazy to prefer a life of work to one of leisure? Even as she formed the thought, her mind gave her the answer. The circus wasn’t just any life. It was sawdust and glitter, hardship and applause, danger and breathtaking acceptance. It was part of her very existence, and she could no longer ignore that.

“There now.” Clara hauled her up and handed her a mirror. “I think it’s done the trick, though you’ve been crying so much these past few days. I ne’er saw you shed a tear as a wee one, no matter how bad you hurt. Here you’ve done nothing but.”

“I’m through with crying,” Rosemary said resolutely as she stared into the mirror, satisfied. “It’s time to act. Tonight, I will try to be just what Michael wants—a real lady, proper and elegant. Maybe then I can make him proud of me.”

Clara patted her hand, though her face was worried. It was pathetic to hear Rose talk like this, and the cards hadn’t boded well. She couldn’t picture Rosemary Carney fitting into society, especially here. Still, stranger things had happened.

Clara just couldn’t remember when.

The parlor was filled to overflowing when Rosemary came down. She was already dizzy, having passed at least a dozen people in the hall or on the steps, all of them claiming to know her or know of her. Rosemary smiled and nodded, made polite murmurings, then hastened on. It was much harder to be a society matron than she thought, and it was not nearly as much fun as it looked.

“There you are.” Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and extended her hands to Rosemary. “I was just telling everyone about you. Percy, you already know. Let me introduce you to the Armitages, the Girards, the Pasleys, and the Ellsworths.”

Rosemary smiled and nodded as the ladies fluttered and the gentlemen sought to give her gallant compliments, all of which were enhanced when their eyes fell to her gown. Rosemary accepted a glass of wine, grateful that the dress seemed to have been well chosen. At least it was producing the desired effect in other men. Now if it could just do the same for Michael…

“Do you miss the show very much?”

Rosemary glanced up, startled that someone had been speaking to her. She’d been so preoccupied thinking about Michael that she hadn’t heard anything but the last comment. She smiled in relief when she saw it was Percy, and she nodded truthfully.

“Yes. I got a letter from them today. Griggs is ill—I’m really worried.”

“Ah. You are referring to the older clown.” Percy grinned at Rosemary’s look of surprise. “Remember, I’ve followed your show for some time. I recall Griggs; he was with Carney’s for a good long time.”

Rosemary nodded. “He’s one of the original players. Griggs always had a heart condition. I hear it has gotten much worse.”

“I am sorry,” Percy said sincerely. “Please send him my regards.”

Rosemary smiled. He was so different from the rest of them. Even Catherine, though she tried to be kind, was still very much a society person. Only Percy seemed genuinely interested in her real life, and not the frosted veneer she’d assumed since arriving in Philadelphia.

“Where is your husband?” Percy continued, glancing around the room. “I could have sworn I saw the dear boy’s carriage.”

Rosemary was wondering much the same thing. As she glanced around the room, through the swarm of beautiful gowns, glittering jewels, and snow-white shirts, she finally spotted him. Seated at the far end of the room, he was talking with Melissa Caldwalder, looking unbearably handsome in a midnight-blue jacket and a sparkling white cravat.

When would he ever stop affecting her? She had merely to glance at him, and her heart pounded faster and her breath came short. He was leaning toward Melissa, his expression serious, his face intent, when something she said made him laugh, and he was suddenly transformed. He looked young, carefree, and vital. He hadn’t appeared that way in days.

Rosemary frowned, twirling the glass in her hand. She’d made him look like that at Carney’s. But here, it seemed only Melissa could break him out of his work and make him laugh. Or perhaps it was her pregnancy. Worried, she glanced down at the gown, at her rounded belly and her swollen breasts. Maybe it was her shape that had caused him to lose interest in her.

Percy saw her expression and leaned closer. “Melissa has been a spoiled brat of a chit since the day she was born. She’s trying to annoy you, and apparently, doing a damned good job. Don’t let it show.”

Smiling tremulously, Rosemary turned to Michael’s friend. “I’ll try, but she has an advantage. She isn’t pregnant and trying to look attractive. I feel like one of Zachery’s elephants.”