The Ringmaster's Wife (24 page)

“See him?” Annaliese pointed out a tall man with a lanky build, white hair, ample beard, and kind eyes behind wire-framed spectacles. He stood by the side of the nearest flat car, tinkering with something on one of the wagon wheels.

“That's Jerry. He's the head machinist. Works with the men on the train cars. He also helps with the wagons. They say he can take just about anything and make a tool out of it.”

Ward wandered in from somewhere along the tracks, then hurried over to Jerry with a toolbox in his hands. He winked at Annaliese and shouted, “Good morning, ladies!” as he trotted by.

Rosamund grinned in spite of herself.

“Jerry's very kind, which is much to his credit since he's charged with keeping young men like Ward Butler in line.” Annaliese waved at Ward, adding, “Oh, that handsome devil.”

Annaliese brought a gloved hand to toy with the amber stud in her earlobe. The sun caught the gold glint of it out from under a violet cloche that perfectly framed her heart-shaped face and eyes that twinkled in Ward's direction.

“How long have you been with the show?”

Annaliese wrinkled her nose, thinking on it. “Two years, I suppose.”

“And you learned all of this in two years? It seems like you know everyone here.”

“You will too,” she said, and slipped her arm through Rosamund's elbow. “Just wait a few weeks. You'll feel right at home.”

Rosamund peered down the line of the cars on the tracks. There
were so many, it seemed she couldn't see an end. They extended back, disappearing into a thick layer of spring fog that the morning sun had yet to burn off.

“Attention,
chérie
,” Annaliese hummed, drawing her back.

She tugged Rosamund by the elbow, halting her steps. And the instant Rosamund looked back down the line, she knew why.

For every child who'd thought the circus held a certain amount of fairy-tale enchantment, the moment would have solidified it for them. Down the line, elephants marched along the tracks, appearing through the mist as if they'd just been dropped out of the clouds. They lumbered in a single-file line, strong and steady, with trunks holding tails. Their handlers led them straight as an arrow, bound for the stock cars in front of where they stood.

“It's not a stampede, but I wouldn't want to explain to Mr. Keary that you were flattened by a line of elephants on the first day.”

“Thank you, I'm sure.”

Rosamund edged back as the great gray animals approached. She watched, noting how strange it was to be so close to an animal she'd only read about in storybooks.

Leading the procession was a large one, with thick leathery skin and spots on its head. It had an abundance of wrinkles overlapping around large, expressive eyes. And as the animal was led by, Rosamund was surprised to see depth in those eyes. Truth be told, Rosamund thought she detected a softness in them that belied the build of such a beast.

“That's Nora out in front.”

“Nora?”

The handler slowed the line for a moment, bringing the elephant to a stop at their side. The elephant stood still and calm.

Rosamund's eyes widened when its trunk curled, reaching out near them.

“
Oui
. This is Nora. And it seems you've made a friend of her.”

Rosamund raised her hand, reaching out with fingertips that trembled ever so slightly. “May I?”

“Of course,” Annaliese answered cheerfully.

Rosamund pulled off her glove, wanting a real touch to Nora's skin. A breath escaped her lungs and a smile burst forth on her lips when the elephant's trunk curled round her hand. The skin wasn't as hard as she'd imagined. It almost felt like an eraser she'd used in her studies as a child, with a funny wet snout at the end that tickled her fingertips.

“Oh, are you hungry, Miss Nora?” Annaliese giggled. “See? She's gentle. Just looking for a treat, I think. Everyone loves her. She may be an elephant, but she's the real pro. You have questions about anything on the lot, you might ask her. Been around the longest. Almost as long as the Ringlings themselves.”

Annaliese winked and leaned in until she was side by side with Rosamund, looking down the line. “And see the little one who stands shorter than the rest?”

There was indeed a smaller one, with a notch in the ear that faced them.

“Yes.”

“That's Mitra. He was born from Nora.”

The thought made Rosamund smile. It was an enchanting idea that the circus really was a family, as Colin had claimed. What a beautiful way to see it.

“Mitra,” she breathed out. “What does it mean?”

“It's Indian for ‘friend,' ” Annaliese said, and leaned in to Rosamund's side, hugging her elbow. “Which we are to be as well.
Allons-y
, eh?”

“Let's go,” Rosamund repeated, proving she was learning more of Annaliese's French colloquialisms every day.

“
Oui
, because our car is down the line and the boss will have our hides if we miss the train. Let's make tracks.”

“A
RE YOU LOST
?”

Rosamund stood at the top of the metal steps, wedged in the space between two cars. She whirled around to find herself face-to-face with Enzo Rossi. He stood with arms crossed over his chest, looking down on her with the unwavering glare of a security guard watching a vault of diamonds.

“No, not lost. I—” Flustered, Rosamund dropped her satchel in her haste to keep both it, her coat, and her suitcase bundled in her arms. “I was looking for my car.”

Rosamund glanced behind her, looking for Annaliese to follow as she had said she would. But it appeared as though the holdup was Ward's doing, as he'd pulled her friend off to the side, holding her hostage with an animated tale of something they both found amusing. Because of that, Rosamund was left alone with the looming figure blocking her path and her satchel on the step at her feet.

“You're new,” Enzo exhaled, and bent to help her collect her bag. “And you are lost if you're standing here.”

He had the classic good looks of his sister—dark hair and eyes, a firm jaw and slender build. Except for the fact that he wasn't given to the narrow-eyed greetings Bella now preferred when she saw Rosamund, they might've been twins.

“Yes.” She took the bag, grateful that though he was direct, Enzo's manner didn't seem to indicate blatant unkindness.

He rose to standing again, tilting his head toward the car behind him.

“These are private cars, miss.”

Rosamund looked past, just able to see through the frosted
glass door into the compartment. She saw their uncle, Marvio, sitting at a card table in the center of the room. He smoked a cigar while playing cards with two other men. There was ample space behind them, with a wooden desk mounted on the far wall and two green velvet benches on the opposite side. She could see through to what looked like a sleeping compartment, lit by exquisite, Tiffany-style lamps hanging from the ceiling.

“I'm sorry,” she offered, pulling back out of view of the gentlemen in the car. “I was looking for the shared passenger car.”

“Which one?”

“There's more than one?”

A svelte figure appeared in the doorway, slinking past.

Rosamund recognized her as Frankie because of both her exquisite beauty and her aloof, chin-up attitude. She wore an elaborate beaded gown in lavender and silver, with a luscious head-to-toe mink draped over her shoulders.

“You bet there's more than one,” the icy blonde cooed, pecking a kiss to her husband's cheek before stalking past into the confines of the car. She left the door open, hanging there so she could drop the mink from her shoulders and smooth it into her hands. “You'd best march right down those stairs and get back to your car before we shove off. The train won't wait.”

“You're Enzo,” Rosamund said, attempting a familiarity. “And you're Frankie? It's nice to meet you both. I'm Rosamund. I traveled with Bella on our passage from England.”

The blonde stared through her introduction, offering the warmth of a glacier.

“My name is Frances Rossi—to low-rungs,” she asserted. “And you really shouldn't be here.”

Enzo cleared his throat, leaning into the private car enough to whisper something in his wife's ear. Whatever he said had enough
bite that she closed her mouth and moved deeper into the car. She eased into the background, peeling the gray leather gloves from her arms with jerky movements, looking incensed.

Enzo turned back to Rosamund, pointing down the steps to the train platform beyond.

“What she means is, if you go down the stairs back to the platform, the shared passenger cars start two back from this one—directly behind the privileged car. You'll find other performers back there who can show you to which one you're assigned.”

He nodded, as if that were that, and stepped back into his compartment. He clicked the door closed and, without missing a beat, pulled the shade in her face.

“Thank you,” she added under her breath. But he'd already gone.

The thought occurred to Rosamund as she trekked down the stairs that she could have given them a piece of her mind and been in the right place for it. Had they been in England, the tables would have been remarkably turned. She'd have been recognized as Lady Easling there, the wealthy daughter of an earl with vast holdings. And as the daughter of a rumrunner, Frances Rossi would have been seen as unfit to polish her boots—according to the pecking order Rosamund's mother would have outlined in the moment.

But she sighed, thinking that wasn't who she was. Or not who she wanted to be now. Her old life had faded away, and if this was the new social order of things, then Rosamund decided she'd just have to get used to it—unwelcome airs or not.

She blew out a breath on the busy platform.

Rosamund scanned the crowd of people and animals hurrying toward the train, looking for Annaliese's petite figure. She walked alongside the cars, looking up to see the Rossi family through the windows, moving about in their private car while she walked with the low-rungs out on the platform.

Enzo looked to be engaged in a passionate exchange of words with Frankie. Marvio stood behind, hand raised to defuse whatever had passed between his nephew and his wife. And though Rosamund hadn't known she was in the car at all, Bella was tucked away in the window of their private car's sleeping quarters. Rosamund could see her reflection through the glass, light hitting her jet-black locks and olive skin with a warm glow. She gazed off in the distance, eyes fixed on nothing or no one in particular.

Rosamund lowered her head and kept walking.

So much for the family atmosphere Colin had advocated.

It wasn't the sweetness of friends like Annaliese or kind, lumbering beasts like Nora that Rosamund recognized as family-like. This time it was the boiling over of family dynamics in the Rossi car that took center stage. The jockeying for position was familiar. As was showing off wealth and privilege to anyone with a pair of eyes . . .

That was the world of Easling Park, and she understood it well.

Rosamund gripped the rail two cars down and climbed the steps up to the shared passenger car. She stood behind several other performers, all waiting in line to find their fold-down cot space on the sleeper train.

It was with arms full and aching from the load she carried that Rosamund promised herself one thing—she'd be different from that day on. She wouldn't let the pecking order of the Rossi family or anyone else define her. And if she had to, she'd work harder than any other performer in the show.

If that's what it took, she'd prove her worth.

1927

Y
OUNGSTOWN
, O
HIO

This was poised to go badly.

As sure as he had instincts about anything, Colin knew how it would play out.

Enduring a conversation to tell Bella her contract wouldn't be renewed was about the last thing he wanted to do that day. He almost wished he was headed to the big cats' wagon rather than walking into a den of lions bearing the last name Rossi.

Colin trudged up the stairs to his wagon.

It was dark still. Early enough that all the lights were out, and the enameled metal coffeepot stood cold and untended on a back shelf.

Figures.

It was one of Ward's simple tasks to fetch the coffee. One he never seemed to remember on the best of days. And this—a rainy, unseasonably cool summer morning—looked to be among the worst.

And on the morning I really need a cup . . .

He crossed the wagon in a huff and flipped on the desk lamp.

It illuminated Mr. Charlie's old desk, casting shadows on every nick and crevice in the aged wood.

The administrative wagon was the way the Ringling Brothers' operating manager had always preferred it: clean and orderly, minus superfluous detail. It was the same now, save for the stacks of mail and the endless paper ledgers Colin despised gathered in a haphazard pile that spilled out from the bin on the desk.

He'd squeezed a canvas cot up against the wall in the corner, his if he slept at all. He traveled with his stacks of books too, just like John Ringling and Mr. Charlie had. And the case for the prized violin Colin now owned held its perch with a worn leather strap keeping it secured on a high shelf. An oversized map of the United States hung on the wall, pins marking all of the circus's show stops through the end of the season.

These were all his worldly possessions, squeezed within four walls. He couldn't help but wonder what it all amounted to.

The brass wall clock ticked, drawing his attention.

Nearly seven o'clock.

Within minutes, four passionate personalities would be in his wagon, all more than ready for a fight. Best to clear the desk now and remove anything that could become a flying missile aimed at his head.