The Ringmaster's Wife (23 page)

“Perhaps,” she said, imagining a bower of blooms exploding in color before her eyes. Lining walkways. Stretching their leaves to be kissed by the warm Florida sun. The roses were everywhere in her mind, perfuming the air with their scent and frosting the landscape in vibrancy.

Mable stood in her bright white day dress covered with a bevy of botanical blooms, surveying the span of land at their disposal. If this was to be their winter paradise, it couldn't be such without the one thing she knew it needed—a spectacular rose garden. One she'd tend herself. One she'd dreamed about since the day she'd become Mrs. John Ringling. And one that was necessary for her now.

“I am amazed,” he said.

“Really? Then you like the idea?”

Ah. Success!
Mable gave a satisfied nod.

“Amazed that the first thing you decide to do when we finish repairs to the house is build a rose garden. You've had your nose stuck in books for days, looking for who knows what kind of ideas. I knew a project was forthcoming, but I thought surely you wanted to talk about building a new estate house on the grounds,” John revealed. “You mean to tell me all you want is a garden?”

“That's right. But not just any garden—a
rose
garden, Mr. Ringling.”

“And that's it?”

“Your pocketbook is safe for now,” she declared, returning a wicked smile to his quizzical one. She felt the light tease adding a little pick-me-up to her excitement. “Maybe we'll start with Old Garden roses on the borders. Then rows of hybrid teas, because their pink is so vibrant. I'd also like ivory floribundas and red
grandifloras. And we must have miniature roses and shrubbery to create elegant walls.”

John listened. And as usual, quiet was his way. He paused for several long seconds, thinking on the idea.

“Well?” Mable nudged, eyebrows arched.

“Mable, I want to ask you something before I agree to this.”

Her excitement was tempered a bit, brought into submission by the serious tone of his voice. “Of course.”

“Is all this because of yesterday? What the doctor said?”

She tried to shake her head, but he cut off her reply before she could speak.

“The truth,” he demanded. “Why do you want to be surrounded by roses all of a sudden? You could have any size estate you want, and instead you're asking me for a few flowers.”

“I love roses. I always have.”

“But you haven't asked me for roses in some time.”

Mable looked down at the tips of her shoes. “Not since our wedding day . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered it. “You bought them for me. Took me to Venice for our honeymoon. And when we got home? You had a lovely Tiffany vase waiting for me. Another gift, Mr. Ringling. You shower me with them.”

He paused. Waited. Perhaps fighting inside to choose the right words—any words that would heal instead of hurt.

“I know what you're thinking. You don't want roses to fill your vase. Not really. You want laughter to fill our home.” He tilted his head, watching her. She noticed it out of the corner of her eye, but kept her gaze fixed to sweep out over the landscape. “We need to talk about this, Mable. It's on your mind. Always. And now we know for certain that we won't have our own children.”

It was so like to him, to understand her heart before Mable had herself.

And yes, it made sense now.

To have received the news that she would never bear him children, that the smiling little cherub faces in the Big Top's crowd would never include one of their own—it had indeed sent twinges of pain to her heart. But she'd not shared that with him. Maybe she'd been too afraid. Too ridden with guilt over the entire matter to ask for anything but the simple gesture of flowers.

Had she failed him as a wife? Did he believe so?

I won't let this limitation define me,
she'd thought at hearing the doctor's summary of her medical condition.
I'll still tend a rose garden.

Mable cleared her throat before speaking. “I am a strong woman, John. I will not fall into tears over this. I will simply find something else to do.”

“I know you're strong. But you also have a heart, Mable. And right now, I think it's broken.” John reached out for her hand, gently lifted it, and opened her palm to the sky. He placed the wagon wheel garden image in it, curling her fingers around the photo. He kept her hand in the warmth of his.

“Tell me the truth,” he whispered. “Is it troubling you?”

“Addison's disease is a death sentence.”

“It doesn't have to be.” John shook his head. “And not in this case. We'll manage it.”

“Adrenal gland insufficiency? Too little cortisol?” She waved off the diagnosis with a flick of her wrist. “That's just fancy physician talk to explain the bouts of weakness. The faint feelings and the lack of appetite. If it were those things alone, I could manage them. And they wouldn't matter one bit if we had some hope. If there were a chance for a child, I could accept it all. I could weather any diagnosis but this one.” She stiffened her spine, willing courage to keep hold of her. “This is heart failure, John.
My
heart.”

He exhaled low.

Not in frustration, she knew, but rather in a show of solidarity.

Perhaps he suffered from heart failure now too.

“I didn't marry you for the children you'd bear me.”

“And I didn't marry you for your money,” she fired back, unconscious tears glazing her eyes. “You know that. But I must be of some worth as your wife. Where will the sound of laughter come from, John? Who will fill our halls with it now?”

John was always strong. Tall and solid.

Mable had always loved that about him. But for the first time, his shoulders seemed to slump. He reached for her. As if he realized it was a problem he couldn't think or buy his way out of. One they'd weather, but would never be able to fix.

She buried her face against the lapel of his suit coat, hiding her tears from the sun.

“We can still have the sound of children here,” he whispered. “Do you hear me? The circus is full of laughter. And didn't Ralph Waldo Emerson say that the earth laughs in flowers?”

Mable nodded against his chest.

“Well then, I ask you—why would you ever doubt my answer about a garden full of them? Mable, we have a million children all around the world, and we're making them laugh every day. We take them on every adventure we have. How many couples can say that?”

“Few, I know.”

“None that I know of. And you've sworn to stay out of my work boots, haven't you? You pledged not to get involved in the circus, but here you are, building gardens only to bring happiness to everyone who comes here.”

He paused. Reached a hand up to caress the side of her brow. She felt the heat of his palm warming her skin.

“Will you look at me, Mable?”

She raised her eyes up to meet his, unashamed of the evidence of tears she'd shed onto the collar of his coat.

“Don't ever try to go through anything alone again. Understand?”

“I do,” she breathed out. “I really do understand you, John.”

He nodded. “Good,” he said, clearing his throat over a hitch of emotion. It was replaced quickly, customary strength returning to his posture even then. “Now, Mrs. Ringling, is that all you wanted? A rose garden?”

“As I said, Mr. Ringling.” She swept her fingertips under her eyes, ridding her cheeks of stubborn tears that had gathered there. “That's all for now. But you've given me the idea for an estate house . . .”

Mable stood with her chin in her hand, mulling over the prospect of building a new house in the place where the white clapboard Palms Elysian now stood. “You have to admit, the idea holds merit.”

“Your ideas always seem to hold merit,” he sighed, feigning annoyance. “Well, what will this grand estate house look like? Should I expect the usual grand undertaking?”

Mable felt the smile return to her face. She stooped and retrieved her oilcloth briefcase, hugging it in her arms.

“I suppose we'll have to collect some more ideas to find out. I think it would be lovely to build a house that's born of laughter. With a rose garden. A wonderfully tended rose garden. Perhaps we could bring a little bit of our beloved Venice to Sarasota. What do you think?”

“Whatever you think.” He nodded, agreeing to the idea. “Maybe we could name it after you.”

She shook her head.

“No. I may design it, but an estate like that sounds like an enchanted castle and should be named for a king. We'll call it
Cà d'Zan
—the House of John.”

1927

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

“
Voilà
. You see? Those are the animal stock cars. And behind them, the flat cars with the Big Top equipment.”

Annaliese pointed out the steel-faced cars close behind the locomotive. She drew a gloved hand up to her brow, the purple leather shielding her eyes from the early-morning sun streaming in on the train platform. She and Rosamund watched as workmen loaded circus wagons onto the steel flat cars farther down the line.

They'd awakened early and packed light—taking only what they could carry from the hotel to the train. They stood off to the side with the rest of the acrobats and horse showmen, Rosamund's fox-trimmed coat complementing Annaliese's purple-and-gold one. Their show trunks were already loaded on the train, and within the day the circus would arrive at their first scheduled stop in New Jersey. Their eight-month-long nomadic life had begun.

“The stock cars will be packed with the elephants, big cats—any of the larger animals in the menagerie.”

“And Ingénue will be loaded with them?”

Annaliese nodded.

“The liberty and high school horses are loaded in the cars
immediately after the big stock. See? And the baggage horses go in the cars behind that. Those are the horses for work. They set up. Tear down. Help with the Big Top. They pull the equipment wagons down from the flat cars, so they are always kept close.”

“And what about all the animals? Is it . . . safe for them?”

“Of course. The elephants go two to a car, facing each other. So they do not get lonely,” Annaliese advised, her playful French accent adding a light singsong to her voice. “That way, they have plenty of room and access to water and food through the night. The big cats are caged in their own cars. And the handlers are always nearby—even for the
petit
ones. The monkeys, dogs, birds . . .” Annaliese's energetic nature carried through in her dimpled smile. “So it's safe for us too—in case you were wondering.”

Dogs and birds were one thing. But Rosamund couldn't help thinking about the scary possibility of a lion or tiger getting loose, and just what that would mean for a circus grounds teeming with people. It was a lot of trust to put in a great number of people—that every precaution was taken for safety and for the best care of the animals.

“It's hard to believe everything could fit on one train.”

“But we have near a hundred cars now, so it's quite possible.”

Performers weaved in front of them, lugging suitcases and colorful carryall bags in their arms.

It never ceased to surprise Rosamund now, how normal the sight of oddities in dress and mannerism had become. There were sideshow performers who mingled in with the rest of the circus crowd as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about them at all.

Rosamund had been quite shocked when she'd first laid eyes on the many peculiarities of the circus. A tall man of more than seven feet could be seen walking alongside his friend—a man of a probable four-hundred-pound girth. They wove through the
crowd, drawing no particular attention on the way to their assigned train car.

Rosamund saw Rebecca Lyon, a bearded lady who was following close behind. It was odd that the first thing she'd ever heard about the woman was not that she had the mature whiskers of a man, but rather that she was widely regarded as the best cook traveling with the show. She was often found in the dining tent, instructing the cooks on ways to improve their served meals. And Edith, another in the sideshow, boasted elaborate tattoos that snaked up her limbs to her neck. She was quite a sight to behold, though when Rosamund knocked over a trunk at the Garden and hands belonging to tattoo-covered arms reached out to help her pick up the spilled wares, she had found Edith sweet and perfectly normal.

Edith spotted her now and waved from across the platform.

Rosamund lifted her gloved hand in response, smiling and thinking all the while how peculiar it was that her surroundings weren't so peculiar after all. They included real people. With real hearts and giving natures few ever saw.

The circus was a world within the world, and the packing of it into a train really was one of the most thrilling things she'd ever been a part of.

“You see, everything runs like a machine. It has to if we're going to raise the Big Top night after night. Everyone pitches in.”

“We travel every day?”

Annaliese nodded, adding, “Most days.
Oui
. We move from city to city, sleeping on the train and waking in a new place. The Big Top goes up and we chase thrills. Then it comes down again after the show. That's almost more impressive than watching the tent city go up. All of it goes back on the train—fitting in like a jigsaw puzzle. Then we speed away with a few stray programs left behind in the fields as the only evidence that we were ever there. We are
performing ghosts now, Rosamund. We even have agreements with the towns we visit to remove the advertising posters when we roll out. A week later, no one would ever know we were there.”

A crowd of workmen passed by then, moving to and fro, each seeing to his job loading the flat cars.