Authors: Colleen Quinn
That part hurt, but Rosemary had to face it. As she snuggled into her cloak, feeling the slight rounding of her stomach, she sighed as she thought of the child growing up with just one parent, as she had. Perhaps Michael wouldn’t be so unyielding. Maybe, with the right kind of persuasion, she could even visit once in a while….
“Let’s be off, then.” Clara saw the emotions choking Rosemary and hastened her toward the stairs. “We have to go before he wakes up.”
Nodding, Rosemary tied on her bonnet and followed Clara noiselessly down the stairs.
Outside, it was as cold and grim as it looked. Rosemary took one last glance at the mansion, saw it shrouded in dying leaves and frosted ivy vines. It seemed symbolic that all of her visions of this home would always be like this: desolate, cold, and unfriendly.
“Where to, miss?” The carriage driver yawned, not too happy with being wakened so soon. Rosemary handed him an address. “The Widow Naylor’s. And be quick about it.”
“What!” Clara started from her sleep and turned to Rosemary with an expression that clearly said the young woman had lost her mind. “What are ye thinking of, visiting that besom? Hae ye not enough pain?”
“I want to see her,” Rosemary said softly as the carriage rumbled down the frozen cobbles. “I just need to tell her something.”
“Bah!” Clara scowled, wrapping her cloak around her for protection. “Just remember, girl. When ye sup with the devil ye need a long spoon.” Then, softening, she said, “Don’t open yourself for more heartache.”
Rosemary nodded, aware that Clara was worried for several reasons. But this would be the last time she’d see her mother.
And she wanted to tell her that she finally understood.
The widow came down to the parlor, looking pale and much more fragile than the last time Rosemary had seen her. Glancing at the two odd inhabitants of the room, she rang for tea, then joined them at the fire.
“There isn’t something wrong? I’m so glad to see you, but it’s so early—”
“I’m leaving,” Rosemary said quietly.
There was no surprise on the widow’s face. Instead, she nodded as if expecting this, that it had only been a matter of time. “When?”
“Now.” Rosemary accepted the tea, grateful for the steaming warmth and the fortification from the chill. “I just wanted to see you before I left. To tell you that…I’m sorry, and that I understand. And I’d like to write, if you’ll permit me.”
The widow stared at Rose incredulously, then glanced at Clara, who was rocking back and forth on her heels indignantly. Tears sprung into the older woman’s eyes, and she embraced Rose joyously, hugging her with a fierceness that surprised even Clara.
“If you knew how much I’ve wanted this, prayed for this…”
“I’m not much of a letter writer,” Rosemary said with a smile. “And there’s so much to do at the show. But I will try.”
“Cable. I’ll pay for it,” Ella said enthusiastically. “There’s a telegraph office in every town you play in. Please, Rose. It’s been so long that you’ve been out of my life, that now I want it all. Tell me about the baby, about what you’re doing and feeling.” The widow smiled through her tears, then glanced once more at Clara. “Michael. Is he—”
“He doesn’t know yet.” Rosemary got to her feet, handing Ella the teacup. “I would ask one favor of you there. Would you see him, perhaps try to explain? I think maybe only you can.”
Ella nodded, more than aware that Rosemary spoke the truth. “What changed you, dear? You wouldn’t even see me before.”
“I know,” Rosemary said, giving her a pugnacious grin. “But I have inherited some of Sean Carney’s stubbornness, you have to allow. I was so hurt for so long, thinking that you didn’t want me, that I just couldn’t see your side of it. Recent events, however, have made them very clear.”
Ella nodded sadly. “You were meant for the circus, Rose. It’s in your blood. Sean gave you that, and I wouldn’t begrudge him.” After slipping off a gold locket from her neck, the widow pressed it into Rosemary’s hand, then forced open the clasp.
Rosemary glanced down at the warm metal and stared in amazement at the pictures. One was of Sean, a tiny picture that looked as if it had been clipped from a newspaper and carefully preserved; the other was of her. Gazing at the widow in amazement, the older woman nodded, smiling through her tears.
“I carried that with me for years. It made you seem more real to me and helped me remember. Keep it. I won’t need it anymore.”
Rosemary nodded, putting the locket around her own throat and feeling the metal caress her skin. “I will. Thank you…Mother.”
Ella hugged her once more while Clara clucked. “We hae a train to catch….”
The widow nodded, releasing Rose and giving Clara a hug as well. “Take care of her, as you always have. No one could have done a finer job with her than you. I can never thank you, but know that I have always been grateful. God be with you.”
Clara pushed away in embarrassment, but Rosemary could tell she was pleased. As they left the house, Rosemary felt as if her heart would break. She had her mother back once more.
But her husband was forever lost to her.
“What the hell do you mean, she’s gone?” Michael stared at his mother in disbelief while Catherine wrung her hands.
“I took her tea in to her this morning,” Catherine tried to explain while Michael glared. “And she was gone. Clara, too. All of their belongings, everything except the nice dresses you bought her. Oh, Michael, she’s pregnant, and it’s so cold and dangerous out there!”
“She can’t have gone far,” Michael reasoned, fighting the fury that threatened to overwhelm him. “Did you ask the carriage driver?”
Catherine nodded painfully. “He said he took them to…the widow’s house first, then to the train depot. Michael, you don’t think—”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Grabbing his coat from the butler, he ignored James’s cold expression and started for the door. Inside, he was furious and shaking from disbelief. Why? Why had Rosemary done this? She’d given him her word, and yet she was gone, leaving no note, no explanation, nothing.
She couldn’t have gone home. Some of his anxiety dissipated as he realized she wouldn’t have dared make such a journey, pregnant as she was. No woman would undertake such doings. Then he remembered it was Rosemary Carney, Rosemary who’d stood on top of a horse at the beginning of her pregnancy, who’d taken a fall that could have seriously injured her or the child—
His blood ran cold as he knew that’s exactly what she’d done. Guilt assailed him. He’d done this, driven her away from him. He’d all but shown her the door. He didn’t know where she went, but he had to find her. And he knew where to start.
The carriage stopped at the widow’s house. Michael leapt from the coach, taking the steps two at a time. He pounded on the door, then, when the butler answered, strode past him to find the elegant woman seated before the fire in her parlor. Ignoring the butler’s indignant protests, he confronted the widow angrily.
“Where is she? Where has she gone?”
The widow smiled, then nodded to the servant, indicating that he could leave. When they were alone, Michael shaking with impatience, she spoke softly.
“I suppose you mean your wife?” At his furious nod she continued. “She was here, but she left several hours ago. I’m afraid it’s impossible for you to catch her.”
Sinking into a chair, Michael stared at the woman incredulously. “Then she’s gone back. To Carney’s.”
The widow nodded sympathetically. “Yes. She came to see me early this morning and had already purchased a ticket. She wants to go home, Michael. It’s where she belongs.”
“She belongs with me!” he said furiously. “Didn’t you try to stop her? Why didn’t you send for me? I would have—”
“You would have what?” the widow asked coldly. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m on her side in this. She doesn’t belong here. She tried to be a Wharton, but it just about defeated her.”
“So what are you saying?” Michael sneered. “You can’t make a silk purse?”
“No,” the widow said firmly. “What she wants isn’t wrong, Michael. There comes a time when you have to stop thinking in terms of dollars and cents. The affluent life you lead isn’t the one that makes Rosemary Carney happy. It would never have made her father happy, either.”
Michael stared at the widow, remembering Rosemary’s recent unhappiness and the way the older woman had run out at the seance upon hearing Sean’s name. An eerie premonition came to him, and he asked accusingly. “Who are you?”
The widow smiled. “Ella Foster. You’ve known me and my family for ages. What you don’t know is that I’m also Rosemary’s mother.”
Michael felt the blood pound within him as he searched the woman’s face for possible deception. Yet she held her head proudly, obviously speaking the truth and not at all unhappy about it. “So it’s you. You left her when she was a baby—”
“And came back home,” Ella said simply. “Rosemary’s doing the exact same thing. She was never meant to be an heiress. She’s a clown.”
Stunned, Michael sank back in his seat while Ella rose, fetching the china doll from the corner and bringing it to him. “She was here once, as a child. The show was playing in Philadelphia and Clara—God knows how—convinced Sean to bring her here so that I could see her. Odd that Rosemary remembered it all! They gave her my doll to play with. Rosemary sat where you are sitting and played with this, while my father explained to Sean that I would never be at home to him. Can you imagine what that did to them?” Ella shuddered visibly. “Rosemary was too little to understand what took place that day, but like most children, she knew something was very wrong. They left, and it was years before my father told me they’d been here at all.”
“My God.” Michael stared at the doll in his hands. It had blue eyes and brown hair, but otherwise, looked remarkably like Rose. “So that’s why she’s been so upset!”
“You mean she didn’t tell you?” Ella turned from the fire and looked at Michael perceptively. “It must have been a terrible shock. Imagine how she felt, alone in this cold city, pregnant with your child, scared and insecure. Then to discover this! I’m amazed you didn’t notice something was wrong.”
Michael flinched, well aware that he’d been too obsessed with business to come to her aid. Defensively he glared at Ella. “Rosemary keeps her problems to herself. She doesn’t tell me anything.”
Ella nodded. “She has that Carney pride—I saw it in her when we met. In any case, Sean took her away and groomed her for the circus. I’m afraid he also discouraged anything feminine about her, since it must have been a constant reminder of me. It wouldn’t have worked except that Rosemary is so much like him. She was made for the show. It’s where she belongs.”
“So I’m to be condemned for wanting to take her away from all that, to give her a better life? All I wanted to do was to make her happy, to give her everything…”
“What you just said is a contradiction in terms where Rosemary is concerned,” the widow said cautiously. “To give her everything is not what would make her happy. Carney’s does that. You knew that when you took her away.”
Michael glared at the woman, rising to his feet. “I see. Then if your daughter is so content with a life as a circus bawd, then let her. She didn’t even have the decency to leave me a note, though that shouldn’t surprise me. Manners aren’t Carney’s strong suit. She’s chosen her life—I hope she’s damned happy in it.”
Michael stormed from the house while Ella trembled, her heart sinking. She had hoped she could make Michael understand, but that seemed more impossible than ever. It was as if they were forever doomed to repeat the past, and worse, could do little to stop it.
M
ICHAEL HATED THE WINTER
. He returned to his home, scraping his feet on the icy steps. For a moment he forgot that Rosemary was gone, and he caught himself listening for her laughter. But the house was silent. It had been several months since Rosemary left, since he’d had that horrible conversation with her mother. Michael wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he felt…ragged inside, as if something had torn and was bleeding. This loss hurt even worse than his father’s death, for that was something he couldn’t control. Rosemary, he had driven away himself.
If he’d but one word from her, he would send for her immediately. He only needed an indication that he was wanted, that there was room for him in her life. But knowing Rosemary, she’d cling to the ridiculous notion that the circus was her home. It was an impasse he didn’t know how to cross, a problem without a compromise.
James appeared for his cloak, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Irritably Michael handed the servant his greatcoat, then gestured to the parlor.
“Has my mother gone out?”
“Yes,” James responded coldly. “I believe she went on errands. She says the house is too lonely and quiet for her, now that the young lady has gone. She took the pram with her and sent it by train to the circus.”
Accusation was in the servant’s voice, and Michael glanced at James in disbelief. In all the time he’d known the man, James had never openly expressed an opinion or seemed to hold one regarding any of their relations. He had always been the quintessential servant—aloof, proper, and uncaring. It seemed doubly odd that Rosemary, should have made a difference to the servant, but there it was. James radiated disapproval and, without saying a word, made his point clearly felt.