The Ringmaster's Wife (29 page)

Owen approached their side.

“Annaliese will ride into ring one with the liberty horses. And you go on to your place in the center ring.” He let out a deep sigh, one tinged with a smile. “There you'll shine. Go dance, the two of you, for every eye in the house.”

Rosamund nodded, biting the corner of her bottom lip over the emotion she read in his face. It was almost paternal in a way, a sense of pride that she hadn't seen anyone use when looking on her in quite some time. Maybe even since Hendrick.

But it was there in Owen's eyes; he believed in her. That was enough.

“And you've got something special for the act tonight? Colin wouldn't say what it is, just that I should be ready for it.”

“Just that we plan to march into the center ring and take the Big Top by storm,” she confirmed, patting Ingénue with a soft rub of the neck. “We're ready.”

“It's your time then,” he said. “And you'll make us proud.”

The ringmaster signaled their entry, and Owen nodded before hurrying out in front of the troop. And with that, the horses rode out and began their part in the show.

Annaliese was pert and engaging as usual, stirring the crowd with tricks and delight, flitting about like a fairy as the liberty horses clipped around their ring in precision. Children marveled as she whisked about in front of her horses, dancing light as air as she ran through the act.

Rosamund would have liked to stay and watch, but the center
ring was calling. She nudged Ingénue forward at a light, high-stepping trot. They'd circle the ring to come to center on the opposite side.

Maybe it was the dimming of the lights over the bleachers. Or perhaps it was the spotlights that shone down, tracing their path. Rosamund was more inclined to believe it was a combination of that and the moments she'd shared with Colin in that very spot the night before. But whatever the reason, fear dulled. And in its place was joy.

Rosamund hopped down and discarded the long tails of ribbons from Ingénue's harness, leaving nothing to the Arabian's costume but the bower of roses braided in her mane.

They began to run through their act, she thinking to guide Ingénue through. But it became clear, as they performed one trick after another, that Ingénue required no firm hand and no calming of nerves. Sawdust became the field grasses at Easling Park and the Big Top no longer canvas, but the North Yorkshire sky. And there they rode together, having lost all notion of anything but dancing in the fields that for years had been their haven.

Rosamund didn't notice the hush that had fallen over the crowd until the halfway point in the act. But the circus band had faded into silence, replaced by the sounds of Ingénue's hooves hitting sawdust and their cadence of breathing in tune.

Not knowing why the music had stopped, and unable to see past the bright spotlights shining down, Rosamund's only thought was to continue.

Then, without warning, life came back with the gentle cry of new notes.

The amplified sound of a single violin cut through the tangles of rope and wire in the vault above their heads, owning the air with the most beautiful music she'd ever heard. Rosamund recognized it at once as “Roses of Picardy”—her beloved British wartime song.

She looked from left to right, still nearly blinded by the spotlights. She wondered as they rode—
Who? Where?

Someone was playing the violin under the Big Top, and playing it for her. It sang out, its rich tones filling the air. Coursing through them, sending her heart to soar higher than their canvas sky.

Together with Ingénue, she was lost. Just as Colin predicted and Owen had hoped.

As she popped up to stand tall on Ingénue's back, she reached up and unthreaded the string of roses from her hair. It fell in a dark curtain against her back, soaring out behind her, mixing with the sweet notes of the violin and falling rose petals.

She performed vaulting—the elaborate dance on horseback—while Ingénue cantered round the ring. Her balance was flawless. Her limbs fluid. Light as air. Supporting her through her somersaulting, giving her wings. And her signature move—the backbend to backward flip from Ingénue's back—she flew through without an ounce of trepidation, her feet planting in the center of the ring, the dismount the perfection Colin had always known she could display.

It wasn't until the performance had ended that Rosamund realized they were still in front of the crowd.

Thousands of hands clapped.

Voices erupted with unencumbered shouts and applause, thundering like clouds pouring rain.

Rosamund eased Ingénue to the side of the ring and stood there, arm braced under the horse's head, cradling her nose to bring their foreheads to touch. And together, they took a bow, with Rosamund's hair spilling over her shoulders and happy tears running down her face.

She pulled roses from Ingénue's mane and tossed them to the children in straw alley.

It was then that she dipped her head enough to catch the glow
of another spotlight. It was positioned in front of the crowd, shining down on a man who'd been shrouded in shadow until that moment. He, too, was used to the ring, but never before as a musician.

There stood Colin Keary, with a violin and bow in hand.

The behind-the-scenes lifeblood of the show, the Irishman turned ringmaster, was staring back at her now with pride alive in his eyes.

He nodded once, slowly. A gesture of respect.

For the courage to go back in the ring when she'd once failed so miserably before him. And for family even, for the ring had become their home and the performers in it part of their heart, never to go back.

Colin swept an arm out in her direction, presenting the Ringling Brothers' English Rose, and the crowd erupted in adoration. There was nothing to do but laugh. And cry. And take in the glorious moment that she knew would forever be engraved upon her memory. Hendrick had once played for her; it was Colin who'd taken the reins now.

She'd be Lady Rosamund Easling no longer.

She'd found her home as the Ringlings' English Rose.

R
OSAMUND BOUNDED OUT THE BACK ENTRANCE OF THE TENT
, somehow knowing that he'd be waiting. She fell into Colin's arms, and he picked her up, twirling around with a smile of pride upon his face.

“You did it! I knew you could do it, Rose, and you did.”

“But how?” She covered her smile with her hand, fingertips shaking. Feeling her heart could burst. “You never said anything. Not even after what I told you about Hendrick.”

“Would you have believed me?” he asked, the most genuine grin she could imagine spreading wide across his face.

“Probably not.”

“And what a performance you gave in there. You've got them eating out of your hand. As they will in every town we stop at from now on.”

“I don't know about that,” she said as she bit the corner of her bottom lip. “But I do know that it felt wonderful, just as you said it would.”

Colin stopped their circular dance and stood still, holding her in his arms.

Then, perhaps remembering that he was the boss and they were embracing in the entrance within view of any number of circus hands and performers, he dropped her feet back on the ground and took a step away from her.

“Where did you learn to play like that?”

“Mr. Charlie taught me. All the Ringling brothers were talented. They played instruments and performed in the show in its beginnings. John Ringling was even a clown in the early days—and a good one, I'm told. But Charles traveled with every show and continued performing with the band on occasion. He took time with me just because it was who he was.”

“But when?”

“There's a lot of time to burn when you're traveling on a train, Rose. And sitting around a campfire.”

“But don't you—” Rosamund paused, shifting her words. She looked him in the eyes. “I mean, didn't you sleep?”

“Sleep is overrated when you've got a show to plan.”

At that moment she didn't see him as the show boss standing in front of her. Not with the openness with which he was looking at her now. And especially not after what he'd just done for her.

She flashed a grateful smile. “I don't know how to thank you, Colin. You made me feel at home in there, and that's something I never expected.”

“Just doing my job, Rose.” He whispered her name, the name no one else called her, lacing it with feeling. “Now get back to work, eh? We've got the rest of the show to get through.”

He offered a hint of a smile before turning to stalk off through the tent alley.

He'd go his way, no doubt answering questions and lending a hand wherever needed so the show would roll without a hitch. She was sure of that. Colin was a man of uncommon kindness, willing to do what was necessary for the good of others, even up to surprising a bareback rider with a special gift under the Big Top sky.

“English Rose?”

It hardly seemed possible anyone knew to call her that already, but Rosamund turned.

A young girl of no more than six or seven years bounded up behind her. She trotted along with bouncing braids of gold and a smattering of freckles dotting the bridge of her nose.

“Hello, darling.” Rosamund stooped down to her level. “And what can I do for you?”

“This is for you—the English Rose.”

She held out an envelope with a delicate rosebud design penned on the outside.

“Thank you, dear. How sweet.”

Rosamund ran her finger through the edge, splitting the envelope open. She took out the heavy cardstock paper from inside and unfolded it.

A single word was scrawled in the center:
Morte.

She turned the paper over.

Blank.

Just the one word, and it was meant for her. The English Rose.

“I'm sorry, but who—”

Rosamund glanced up, but the little girl was skipping away
through the crowd. The few instinctive steps Rosamund took weren't likely to be enough to catch her, so she shouted out, “Excuse me,” drawing the eye of several onlookers down the alley. “Little girl? Where did you get this?”

“Some lady.” The child shrugged with a jostle of the braids on her shoulder. “She said to give it to the English Rose. And she gave me this!”

She held up a silver five-cent piece, flashing it between her finger and thumb before turning back to run off.

The little girl fled to spend her spoils, disappearing into the sea of performers and circus-goers swarming beyond the tent alley.

There was no opportunity for Rosamund to ask more questions. No chance to find out if her instincts were right.

Bella Rossi wanted her out of the show. And she wanted it badly enough to send Rosamund the omen of a single word.

Morte.
Italian for “death.”

1927

S
ARASOTA
, F
LORIDA

They'd made it through the end of the season, with Rose a shining star in the center ring.

The winter lodgings were just as Colin had predicted they would be—expansive and bustling for the grand opening celebration on Christmas Day. There was ample room for performers, their charge of exotic animals, and the crowds of eager tourists who had come and now jam-packed the lot.

The wind blew, carrying the scent of popcorn and cotton candy. The palms fanned in the breeze. They even had the old Ringling Brothers' 1892 bell wagon drawn back and forth through the streets, chiming out with the happy tunes of the circus. And the animals sang out all around, roaring or neighing just as loud as they pleased.

It was a resounding success. A grand opening that should have catapulted Colin into a sense of satisfaction at all they'd accomplished.

Instead, he was on edge.

Colin stood with Owen at the back of the ring practice area, watching from a distance as a long line of eager children and parents snaked along the side of the horse training barns. They
seemed content to wait for their chance to meet with the popular English Rose.

Little girls of all ages were gathered around Rose. They absorbed every smile from the bareback riding star, laughing and asking for autographs in a delighted swarm of swishing skirts, ankle socks, and black buckle shoes.

She took time with every one, patting heads and letting little fingers touch the long sequined ribbons of her skirt. She handed out roses from a basket near Ingénue's hooves. And she knelt at their level, making it a point to value each little face, dotting a few button noses with her fingertip and lavishing smiles on each little girl who breezed through the line.

Rose would flip up on Ingénue's back and hoist a young one up with her, holding tight as they learned to stand just like a real bareback rider.

The sight was impressive, though not altogether surprising.

In the last months, Rose's star power had grown seemingly without effort. And by the time the show closed in October, it was the young bareback riding star who had helped to pack the Big Top to capacity for each performance.

“Look at her—Rosamund's enchanting them.” Owen cut into his thoughts. “Watch out, my boy. Or she might do the same to you.”

Colin coughed, suddenly aware that his attention was far too fixed on Rose, instead of just in the general direction of paying tourists.

“She is enchanting them. I've no doubt. She's doing her job.”

“Colin. Look at them. They're all waiting. In the hot sun. Wild animals all around, yet they're waiting to see
her
. That's more than just doing a job, and you know it.” Owen motioned to the line of patrons waiting to greet the circus's newest star, the long display wrapping around the side of the stables to the road. “It's time to tell her. She's the star of the show.”

“It's a heavy burden.”

“Yes,” Owen agreed, tapping a finger against his chin. “But I've seen everything I need to since she first stepped off that train. She's proven herself. It's a burden she's able to carry.”