Authors: Colleen Quinn
“You certainly don’t look like one,” Percy said honestly. “Will you do an old man pleasure and let me take you in to dinner?”
Rosemary smiled and accepted his arm. Percy had offered just to keep her from walking into the dining room alone. Apparently, Michael was too preoccupied to accompany her, and although she was grateful to Percy, she felt more than a little disappointed in her husband.
Michael was directly behind her when they walked toward the table. Rosemary saw him draw out a chair for Melissa, then he turned to her with an apologetic smile. But his face froze when he saw her dress, and he glanced up at her sharply, obviously upset.
“What’s wrong?” Rosemary asked softly. “Don’t you like the gown?”
“I think it’s perfect, if you want to show every man in the room your charms,” he said coldly. “But then, when did you ever listen to what I thought?”
“That’s not fair—” Rosemary started, but the others came in and her protest died. She didn’t know that he was jealous, that she looked so stunning that he hadn’t been able to take his eyes from her, or that Melissa had entrapped him for her own means while he tried to free himself. Instead, Rosemary took it as another rejection, and she sat beside Percy, determined not to appear upset.
The crowd gathered around the table, taking their places, and ohhing and ahhing over the freshly cut beef, the turkey, the oysters procured from the bay and brought to the dock that morning, and the ham. There were cheeses and fruits, salad and tongue. Rosemary glanced at the groaning sideboard, aware that this meal would feed the troupe for months. She picked at her food, smiling at the men’s words and the ladies’ polite discourse.
This time she knew what fork to use, but it gave her little pleasure. Choosing one correct utensil after another, she found her mind returning time and time again to the show. Wondering how they were doing. Worrying about Griggs. Thinking ahead for the season.
Melissa tried to engage her in conversation, but Rosemary smiled and demurred, the way she’d been taught. Why did Melissa have to be so blond and pretty and sophisticated? She was everything Rose was not, and this night it was terribly apparent. Rose wished the evening was over, especially since Michael seemed to be fighting the urge to look at her. Every time he did he seemed pained, and he returned to his conversation with the people around him.
“…Paris this spring. Oh, you’ve never been there? You must come.”
“Cape May in the summer. We have the most darling little cottage with indoor plumbing…”
“Oh, you must come to the Fitzhughs’ ball next week. I’ll see that you get an invitation, even though it is short notice.”
Rosemary smiled so much her face seemed on the verge of breaking. They were nice, but they were not her kind. They all seemed like polished and sophisticated puppets, talking about nothing. Didn’t they ever think about anything more important than their own pleasure? She was relieved when dinner was over and grateful when Michael came to escort her to the parlor for coffee and brandy.
It felt so good to feel his arm in hers once more. She could see Percy beaming as Michael held her possessively and took her ahead of the other people. Even Catherine seemed relieved as he led her toward the fireplace and went to get her coffee.
Smiling, Rosemary felt she could take anything now. Whatever his displeasure over her dress had been seemed to have vanished, for he fetched her a cup of coffee and a plate of cakes, then stood by her side, helping her to fend off the gossips and the questions. Rosemary relaxed for the first time all evening. From the way he glanced at her when introducing her to an acquaintance, she thought that he may have even been proud of her.
That made her heart swell, and she leaned backward, heedless of the flowing train of her dress. The gentlemen were smiling, and the ladies whispering niceties. It wasn’t until she spotted Clara’s face that Rosemary suspected something was amiss. Sniffing, she noticed the distinct scent of burning fibers. Spinning around quickly, she saw that her dress was on fire!
R
OSEMARY WATCHED IN STUNNED AMAZEMENT
as the flames curled the sapphire material of her gown, enveloping the hem in an orange banner. After a shocked moment Robert and Percy quickly pulled Rosemary forward, away from the Fireplace. They stamped out the flames, halting the fire’s progress.
Staring in dismay at the remains of her dress, Rosemary saw that the fabric had been torn and shredded, and that the sapphire silk had melted under the flame’s intense heat. Most of the back of the dress had been scorched, and a generous quantity of her petticoat and undergarments were painfully exposed.
Melissa gasped in horror, and several of the other ladies looked askance. Rosemary glanced up at them, then back to the dress.
Any other woman would have been mortified. Any other woman would have politely slunk from the room, buried herself in embarrassment, and shunned future invitations for a good long time.
Any other woman wasn’t a clown.
Rosemary burst into laughter, the humorous aspects of the situation striking her fully. At first several of the gentlemen beside her looked as if she were mad, but then Percy began to chuckle, Robert joined him, and within a few moments, everyone was discreetly laughing or openly guffawing.
It was simply the best pratfall she’d ever performed. Not only was the audience perfect, but the stunt itself couldn’t be topped. Rosemary laughed so hard she cried. Every time she looked behind her, saw the blackened silk and the snow-white bloomers peeking out beneath, she dissolved into giggles again. The room echoed with laughter as the incident was repeated over and over, embellishing each time, and her dress reexamined to further peals of amusement.
For the society folk the joke was a relief. Steeped in boredom, used to their own company and the predictability of their parties, the incident caught all of them off-guard and produced welcome merriment. Rosemary grinned, grateful that they shared in the joke, that she’d been able to do what she loved most—make people laugh. Wiping at her eyes, she searched the room for her husband, wanting to share her triumph with him. She spotted him a moment later, standing directly across from her. His expression made her smile die.
He looked disappointed. Their eyes held and locked for one brief moment, but it was more than enough. Disapproval and chagrin reigned there, along with a veiled accusation. He glanced down to his elegant companion, one of the Girard sisters, and she saw that he was making excuses, that he was embarrassed for her.
Rosemary’s throat tightened with tears. It didn’t matter—it never would. She would never fit his ideal, never live up to what he wanted from her. She was a clown, she could make people laugh, she wanted to tumble and have a good time, to enjoy the applause of the crowd—she wasn’t what Michael wanted in a wife. It was that simple.
In that one moment she saw it all with a crystal-clear clarity, and she realized something she’d known for some time—she just couldn’t do this anymore. She’d been primped and prodded, schooled and practiced, but she’d never be what Michael Wharton wanted. She would always be a dismal failure to him.
And that, she just couldn’t take. Turning, she gave her excuses while Percy insisted on escorting her to her room, walking in back of her to shield her from prying eyes. She managed to keep her composure until she reached the quiet hallway, then she turned to him with tears in her eyes.
“Thank you, I can make it from here. I appreciate everything you’ve done….”
Percy’s arm tightened on hers, and he looked into her whimsical face with a plea. “You mustn’t give up, Rose. He’ll come around. He just doesn’t understand….”
She shook her head. If Percy noticed, others must have. The thought was so painful that the tears stung her green eyes. “No, he’ll never come around. Don’t you see, Percy? It isn’t him, it’s me. I’m an embarrassment to him. I’m a clown. That’s what I was and what I am. I’ll never be a society matron, no matter how many nice dresses I wear. It will never change.”
“Then you’re going home.” It was more a statement of fact than a question.
Rosemary nodded. “What choice do I have? I’ll suffocate if I stay here. I’ve given it my best, Percy. I guess it just isn’t good enough.”
She leaned closer and placed a kiss on his cheek, then disappeared into her room, the burned dress trailing behind her. Outside, Percy clenched his fists, wanting nothing more than to give his young, stupid friend a thrashing he wouldn’t forget. He’d given him a chance at real happiness when he’d wagered him about Carney’s. Percy had known that Rosemary, of all women, would make him happy, and it was well worth a thousand dollars in his estimation. But it was senseless, the older man realized.
If Michael was intent on ruining his life, there wasn’t anything anyone could do to stop him.
Clara joined Rose a few minutes later, then stood aghast at the sight of the young woman tossing her clown clothes into a bag, sniffling loudly. “Ye don’t mean—”
“I’m leaving.” Rosemary smiled through her tears, her expression strangely relieved. “Clara, I can’t stay here any longer. I’m sorry to have hauled you all the way out here for nothing.”
“’Tis naught that.” Clara waved a clawlike hand, then peered more closely at her. “Are ye sure this is what ye want?”
Rosemary nodded. “It’s not a spur-of-the-moment decision, though it may seem that way. Actually, it’s been a long time in coming. I’ve tried, Clara. No one knows that better than you. But tonight showed me that I’ll never win in Michael’s eyes. That’s a failure I just can’t accept.”
Clara clucked wisely, patting Rosemary’s arm. “I know, I know. Mercenary! You can never change a tiger’s stripes. Ah, I wish Elsa had taken a big bite out of him.” Shaking her head, she indicated the bags. “You finish packing, and I’ll fetch train tickets. Bring those warm quilts.” Clara indicated the luxuriant spreads on the Whartons’ bed.
Rosemary shook her head. “I thought to take only what we brought—”
“Don’t be daft!” Clara said brusquely. “It’s the dead of winter! We’ve got a few months until spring, and I’m not seeing you catch your death. Take the damned quilts. And whatever else you think we’ll need.”
Rosemary added the quilts to her packing. It made sense, and she was sure Michael wouldn’t mind, especially since she was protecting their baby. Tears started, and she held them back. The decision had been made some time ago. Now, she was merely acting it out. Within the week she would be back home.
At Carney’s.
Michael sat in the parlor, twirling a glass of brandy. It was dark and all the guests had departed, leaving the smells of perfume, whiskey, and coffee as a reminder of their presence.
It had been a good party, he had to admit that. His mother had invited the right people, people important to his business and his future. True, Melissa had captured him for the better part of the night, but he’d also been able to spend a few moments with Jay Fisk, an investor who seemed genuinely interested in some of his plans.
But then Rosemary had to embarrass him. His hand tightened on the glass as he thought of her dress catching on fire and the uproar that followed. In all the times he’d been to parties or any other winter gathering, he’d never seen a woman’s dress ignite the way hers did. And worse was her reaction.
Cringing as he thought of the people whispering behind her back, he wanted to strangle her. Rosemary always had a unique way of getting under his skin. He wondered if she wasn’t trying to tease him, if this wasn’t some other Carney trick designed to mortify and humiliate him. If so, she was doing a very good job and could now add subtlety to her resume.
Why in the hell couldn’t she be like other women? A small voice reminded him that he’d avoided these other women for years, that it was Rosemary’s very difference that made her so appealing, but he ignored it. Fired up in his righteous rage with the fortification of brandy, Michael felt the injured party and was in no mood to consider another point of view. She would have to be brought into line.
After downing his drink, he placed his glass aside with grim satisfaction. For too long Rosemary called the shots. He knew he was right, wanting a better life for her and their child. He’d have to lay down the law and make her understand that it was for everyone’s good.
He’d have to change her. Before it was too late.
Clara muttered and grumbled when Rosemary appeared like a specter, a candle in one hand and her finger on her lips. Startled, Clara rose up in the bed, then glanced grumpily at the stark gray scenery outside.
“The train doesna’ leave until noon. What in the name of God—”
“I have something I want to do first,” Rosemary said, pulling down the covers and forcing Clara out of bed. “And we want to get to the train on time. Are you coming, or do you want to stay here and be a Wharton?”
That was more than enough to rouse Clara. Muttering and cackling, she slipped into her clothes, talking almost to herself.
“Rich man, poor man, banker, and thief; we will be gone and leave you to grief.”
Rosemary shot her a stern look while Clara cackled, obviously anticipating Michael’s reaction when he discovered they’d fled. That thought erased any smile from Rosemary’s face as she envisioned the scene.
He would be furious. She had no doubt that he would storm and curse Carney and everything she stood for, but other than that, she really didn’t believe he’d come after her. Knowing Michael, his pride hurt, he would turn cold and formidable, making life as difficult as possible for whoever crossed him. He would probably refuse her letters and ignore the child.