The Ringmaster's Wife (20 page)

“I've done nothing, Sally. Nothing but dreamed of what I wanted my life to be. That's all. Having a dream is easy. It's being brave enough to walk the journey every day that sets you apart from the crowd.”

The clock on the far wall chimed low, ringing with the call of midday.

They both turned to it.

“It's time for you to go, isn't it?” Sally asked.

Mable nodded. “John's waiting in the car downstairs.”

“Those are your wedding bells, friend. You go answer their call.” Sally patted her hand, nudging her on.

Mable rose, finding it easier to turn and go quickly rather than
linger in the moment. She told herself that they were being silly. That Sally's illness was temporary. That it was December now, but surely the warmth of the coming spring would help her condition. And the sea air would enliven her again. She'd be back onstage to sing a set in no time.

She told herself that this was just good-bye for now. So she could gather more pictures in her cigar box and bring them back home to share.

“Mable Burton?”

Mable stopped in her tracks, one hand braced on the doorframe. Realizing it might be the last time she'd hear that name, save for when she'd speak her vows.

She held up the side of her dress, keeping the yards of lace away from the danger of her heel. She turned, head held high, taking the sting of death like a Gibson girl would—with strength and poise and not an ounce of regret.

“Yes, Sally?”

“What kind of bouquet will you carry? I want to picture it.”

“Our favorite, of course. Pink roses.” She lavished a smile on her friend. “I promise I'll always have them around. I'll have a rose garden for us. And I'll tend those blooms with my own hands. There will never be a rose that comes into my life that will be overlooked. Not on my watch. Not if I can help it grow. I promise you that. There will never be a single dream lost in any garden I tend.”

“You know what? I believe that. And I'm not angry anymore. I've had a lot of time to think about it,” Sally whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek with a graceful hand. “I think I was shown favor too. God hasn't forgotten me. Not in Chicago, and certainly not here. Something was always at work behind the scenes, because He brought me a friend like you.”

Mable took an instinctive step forward, but Sally shook her
head softly, as though she were the bearer of wisdom and not the other way around.

“No, Mable Ringling. You go board your ship of dreams. Go to Venice. See everything your heart has been waiting for. I'll want to hear about it when you get back.”

“I
KNEW
I
SHOULD HAVE GONE IN WITH YOU
,” J
OHN ADMITTED
, shaking his head when she joined him in the backseat of the car.

“No. I'm fine.” Mable waved him off, flipping her wrist as if she hadn't any tears still glazing her eyes. She fought with the rows of lace on her gown, pulling and smoothing to ensure it was all inside before the driver closed the door.

“How is Miss Rivers?” John asked as the car began lumbering down the half-moon circle in front of the sanitarium.

Mable glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

John had turned toward her, those eyes she'd always remembered serious and empathetic at the same time. Mable liked to believe he'd only ever show that look to her, and no one else. Knowing his reputation for indifference and a staunch level of seriousness in his relationships, she was warmed to see that he could debunk that myth with a single glance her way.

She leaned in, dropping a soft kiss to his lips.

“Let's go get married,” she whispered, grinning wide.

“Driver,” he half shouted, tapping his cane to the floor of the automobile. “You heard my fiancée. To the courthouse.”

“But we have one stop to make along the way.”

John turned to her, an easy smile tipped on the lips she'd just warmed with her own.

“Already it starts. Every man is driven by the woman behind him.”

“Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Mr. Ringling. I shall never interfere with your business dealings.”

His eyes widened, heavy brows lifted in a look of genuine surprise. “Is that so?”

She gave a quick nod. “Of course. The circus is your world to manage, and I'll leave you to it. But I will always walk
beside
you. That I can promise. I'm not a walk-behind-anyone kind of woman.”

“I see.”

Her soon-to-be-husband was indeed a man of few words. But it was his actions that could speak louder. He surprised her by pulling a bag from the floorboard on the other side of the car and placing it in her lap.

“Then what in the world will I do with this?”

Her heart could have burst right there. “What is it?”

He lifted his shoulders, tipping the wide collar of his wool coat as if he hadn't a clue.

Mable bit the edge of her bottom lip on a rush of excitement that tumbled in all at once, making her feel like a child at Christmas. The package was wrapped in pink tissue paper, which she delighted in tearing into.

And there in her lap, shielded by a bevy of airy pink tissue, was an oilcloth briefcase of meticulous tailored design. It looked handcrafted. And what's more, it was stamped with the initials MBR in gold leaf, plain as day on the front.

“I thought you'd like it.” He placed a hand atop hers. “When I saw your cigar box that day on the pier, I thought you'd need something better to carry your treasures in.”

Mable smiled, delighting in the quiet ways he managed to compliment who she was.

It was as if he alone knew what had been in her heart, even as far back as the memory of a tea parlor in Cincinnati. And now he'd
bought a satchel for her dreams from that point on. The dreams they'd share together.

“Look inside.”

She opened the flap and, with a gloved hand shaking ever so slightly, plucked an old, worn souvenir fan and two ocean liner tickets from the inside pouch.

“The boat won't wait. So, my dear, where are we stopping on our way to this wedding?”

Mable wiped at her eyes, laughing to think of how her afternoon mixture of tears had likely damaged any paint on her face beyond repair. But it didn't matter. Wedding days were made for smiling and tears. They'd welcome both.

She hugged the briefcase to her chest.

“We have to find a flower shop. I should have a bouquet, shouldn't I? Pink roses. That's what we need now. Pink roses to say ‘I do.' ”

“You may have all the roses you can carry, Mable. And collect all the dreams you want,” John whispered. “We'll live them together.”

1927

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

Crowds had never bothered Rosamund.

Though she had only performed at small street fairs and local village carnivals, some were large enough to amass an audience of a hundred or more, and she'd performed well each time.

This was very different.

The roar of the crowd was like nothing she'd ever heard.

It was a sea of thousands, shouting and clapping through every spectacle before them. The vault of blue sky she and Ingénue were used to performing under had been transformed into a bower of rope, steel, and electric lights, every bulb flashing down on the great circus rings like spotlights on an immense stage.

She waited in the wings with Annaliese and Owen, watching the Rossi Family Flyers thrill the crowd with spectacular feats of daring through the Garden's iron sky.

Frankie and Enzo had been perfectly paired, soaring in ice-blue sequined jumpsuits that flashed with each toss and catch of the bars, the spotlights following their majestic dance through the air. Marvio, too, was distinguished in his performance. He led the
troop with gusto, tossing and catching the magnificent Bella Rossi as if she were a weightless bird. And the crowd was mesmerized.

Even Rosamund found herself watching, her jaw dropping at the artistry and absolute flawlessness of Bella's performance.

Bella soared. Smiling. Dancing on air. Proving she was the queen of the center ring. And even down to her final flips through the air it was clear as day: the star had drawn a line in the sawdust, proving her worth.

Bella bowed low, accepting the thunderous applause, fawning under the adoration of the crowd. She turned luxurious circles in the ring, still pandering with bows as the next act began to move in.

The cue of the circus band couldn't drown out the roar.

Rosamund stood waiting in the wings, transfixed, as Bella exited the ring and sauntered in her direction.

“Where is your costume, dear Rosamund?” Bella tossed back over her shoulder, freezing Rosamund with her glare. “You were supposed to be in yellow, were you not?”

Rosamund's heart catapulted in her chest, throwing her mind into a bevy of destructive thoughts. She watched Bella disappear into the shadows beyond the performers' entrance, swishing the blue satin cape she'd pulled across her shoulders.

“Rosamund!” Owen shouted, snapping attention away from the icy vision who'd just left her gaping in her wake.

“Get your head out of the clouds. That's us!”

Annaliese had pushed her mount forward at the band's cue and was already following a line of liberty horses trotting out under the lights.

“Right.” Rosamund nodded, seeing the gap she'd allowed, and nudged Ingénue forward into the spotlight.

“Ring three,” Owen called out, then left her as he led a group of liberty horses out to their place in the center ring.

For the possibly thousands of times she'd ridden bareback before, this was the one time Rosamund was most keenly aware of every step her horse took. Their trotting was clipped and rough. She noticed a tenseness to the muscles in Ingénue's back, could feel the rise and fall of her thighs with the horse's shallow breathing.

Ingénue jerked her head up after every few footfalls, fighting against the bit in her mouth.

“I know, lady,” Rosamund whispered between her teeth, trying to show a smile to the face of the crowd. “I know. I'm just as scared as you are.”

Rosamund smoothed her hand against Ingénue's back, rubbing in a circular motion by the withers, trying her best to keep her horse calm. Even if her own heart was thundering in her chest. She breathed in and out, fighting for focus as the lights bore down.

“We can do this,” she said, as much for her benefit as for the mare's.

They moved through the motions, rolling through the act Owen had choreographed for them in the months they'd spent training in Sarasota.

First, riding round the ring balancing in a standing position. She'd raise her leg to a pointed perch while Ingénue soared, turning them into ballerinas dancing in circles.

Rosamund stooped, kneeling for her forward somersault.

It was a trick she'd never worried about before. But this time—her breathing was choppy. Her legs shaking. She flipped up and over, grateful when her feet found Ingénue's back again instead of finding that they'd tumbled to hard ground.

The crowd responded with applause. They roared, mesmerized to a fever pitch.

Rosamund might have liked it, even might have had time to notice as Bella did. But her palms were growing moist, slipping
against any hold she sought. She felt her legs grow even shakier with each trick, her confidence more and more unsteady. Until the moment arrived for a backbend, in which she'd stand and fall back in an arch midstride, then carry through with a backflip dismount.

She told herself to focus.

To put Bella's performance and the veiled malice she'd shown out of her mind.

Rosamund tried to envision the fields of Easling Park instead of the sea of faces whizzing past. But the lights and the show—her every thought—jumbled together in a fog, muddling her senses until her focus finally snapped and she felt her arms unable to hold fast any longer.

Without warning her hands slipped from the bridge of Ingénue's back and she fell from her backbend down to the sawdust beneath the horse's hooves, jarring her head against the ground.

The crowd released a chorused gasp.

Rosamund shook her head. She tried to see through the fog that had overtaken her vision. Everything was a haze of color and sound. And though Rosamund had several more tricks to run in their routine, nothing made sense except to crawl on all fours to find what safety she could at the side of the ring.

A pair of arms wrapped around her middle.

Dark arms, belonging to Owen, picking her up from the ground. He shouted at her to get out of the ring before she was trampled.

It took but a second to fall from Ingénue's back. Another to stumble out of the ring with the knowledge that Bella Rossi had proved her place in the show.

Winning the crowd as the “English Rose” wouldn't happen on this night.

Any star power she might have possessed wilted before it had been given the chance to bloom.