ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THE RINGMASTER’S WIFE
“In true Kristy Cambron fashion, The Ringmaster’s Wife is packed with emotional depth and characters who charm their way into your heart within the first pages. But perhaps most alluring about this story is the colorful world it’s set in—from England to the Chicago World’s Fair to the ever-moving backdrop of the circus world, I felt fully immersed. Engaging and poignant, this is a must-read!”
—MELISSA TAGG, AUTHOR OF FROM THE START AND LIKE NEVER BEFORE
“A soaring love story! Vibrant with the glamour and awe that flourished under the Big Top in the 1920s, The Ringmaster’s Wife invites the reader to meet the very people whose unique lives brought The Greatest Show on Earth down those rattling tracks. Through each of Rosamund’s and Mable’s stories, author Kristy Cambron offers the rare delight of witnessing a heartrending portrayal of love in the midst of circus life . . . and how one so deeply amplified the other.”
—JOANNE BISCHOF, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE LADY AND THE LIONHEART
“In The Ringmaster’s Wife, Kristy Cambron has created a world that sweeps readers into the circus world of the 1920s with glimpses into the earlier days of vaudeville and the Ringling Brothers. The story is poignant as it shares of breaking free from restraints in an effort to dare to live life. The story is painted with delicate strokes and broad sweeps and will leave readers entranced in the dual-timeline. I highly recommend this novel for lovers of historical romances. Open the pages and be swept away!”
—CARA C. PUTMAN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF SHADOWED BY GRACE AND WHERE TREETOPS GLISTEN
PRAISE FOR THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE NOVELS
“Fans of the author’s first book will gravitate to this tale of the power of faith and love to cope with impossible situations, although the grim realities depicted cannot be ignored. A must for book groups and genocide studies teachers and students.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW, FOR A SPARROW IN TEREZIN
“The second installment of Cambron’s Hidden Masterpiece series is as stunning as the first. Though heartbreaking in many places, this novel never fails to show hope despite dire circumstances. God’s love shines even in the dark.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK! FOR A SPARROW IN TEREZIN
“In her historical series debut, Cambron expertly weaves together multiple plotlines, time lines, and perspectives to produce a poignant tale of the power of love and faith in difficult circumstances. Those interested in stories of survival and the Holocaust, such as Elie Wiesel’s ‘Night,’ will want to read.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL, FOR THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN
“In chapters alternating between past and present, debut novelist Cambron vividly recounts interwoven sagas of heartache and recovery through courage, love, art, and faith.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, FOR THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN
“Alternating points of view skillfully blend contemporary and historical fiction in this debut novel that is almost impossible to put down. Well-researched yet heartbreaking scenes shed light on the horrors of concentration camps, as well as the contrasting beauty behind the prisoner’s artwork. Two stories are carefully intertwined and demonstrate that there is always hope in God despite the monstrosities inflicted by man.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK! FOR THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN
BOOKS BY KRISTY CAMBRON
THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE NOVELS
The Butterfly and the Violin
A Sparrow in Terezin
The Ringmaster’s Wife
Copyright © 2016 by Kristy Cambron
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Published in association with Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, California 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.
Interior Design: Mallory Collins
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.®
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, and places and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.
ISBN 978-0-7180-4190-8 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Cambron, Kristy, author.
Title: The ringmaster's wife / Kristy Cambron.
Description: Nashville, Tennessee: Thomas Nelson, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2015050179 | ISBN 9780718041540 (paperback)
Classification: LCC PS3603.A4468 R56 2016 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015050179
16 17 18 19 20 RRD 5 4 3 2 1
For Brady, Carson, and Colt: Because childhood wonder becomes the treasure of memory.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
EPILOGUE
CHRONOLOGY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOR FURTHER READING
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
—GEORGE ELIOT
PROLOGUE
The LORD gives sight to the blind,
the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down.
—PSALM 146:8
1929
LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY
We only see what we want to see—in people, in love, and in life.
What we see is a choice, as is what we offer the world in return. And it’s only behind the costumes and the masks that we can be who
we truly are.
The words echoed in Rosamund’s mind in a tangle of memories collected over the past three years. She waited at the performers’ entrance at the back of the enormous Big Top, trying to ease the racing of her heart before show time.
Waves of riotous applause ebbed and flowed with the breathtaking thrills of the trapeze act. It was a “straw house” tonight—sold out, the bleacher seats packed and the overflow of children lining the edges of the rings on piles of laid-out straw. Rosamund could hear the children now through the call of horns and pops of confetti bursts, squealing in delight at the antics of the clowns. It wouldn’t be long now—the ringmaster’s signal for the horse troop to march in was just moments away.
A breeze caught Rosamund’s attention, perfuming the air around her with the richness of caramel, mixed with the salty scent of popcorn and sweet apples from a wagonette nearby. It was a welcome contrast to the usual smell of animals and churned-up earth in their field lot. All the familiar sounds and smells, the excitement that hung on the air before a performance . . . they reminded her how the three-ring canvas castle had become her home.
The other bareback riders had ushered the troop of show horses from the ring stock tent; they were out in front now, waiting to burst into the ring.
The horses whinnied, and Ingénue, Rosamund’s black Arabian lady, broke into a soft song along with them. The horse stomped her hooves, her happy jitters stirred up by the flash of lights and the lyrical cadence of the band that signaled performance time.
Rosamund stood off to the side, alone—once the glittering star of the show, but now a performer bringing up the rear of the troop in yesterday’s sequins and satin. It was no longer her face splashed about on the circus posters plastering the cities and towns they visited. She wondered if the crowd would still cheer for the bareback rider with the trademark blush of English roses pinned in her hair.
Was she just an afterthought now? Someone forgotten. Perhaps never really known. Would they notice the pair of them, she riding in on her magnificent black madam horse, performing tricks from memory to enchant the crowd?
“Rosamund—here you are.”
Colin Keary’s Irish brogue was light, familiar, his tone of voice soft and laced with feeling.
She tilted her chin to the sound but kept her body squared to the direction of the audience. “We’ve had word then?” She held her breath.
“Yes. I’d read the telegram aloud, but I think you already know what it says.”
Rosamund squeezed her eyelids tight and waited.
“She passed away early this morning.”
It must have been tearing Colin apart on the inside. But how like him to want to tell her himself, despite the pain it would cause them both.
The Big Top rustled in the wind like tissue paper in front of a fan, as if it, too, chose to recoil from the painful news. The crowd erupted in applause just then, marveling at some grand feat of daring from the flyers, oblivious to the fact that anyone’s life had changed outside the tent. The summer breeze continued stirring tiny bits of sawdust about the field, brushing the side of her face like grains of sand on the wind.
Rosamund drew in a deep breath, readying her nerve to perform. “Ingénue and I have a show to give,” she said, and ran a hand down the silk of her horse’s mane.
“Even if it kills you.”
She shook her head, countering, “Never. The ring is home to us. We’ll not fear it.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
Rosamund felt the light touch of his fingertips against the rows of sequins at her shoulder and drew in a deep breath as she notched her chin a touch higher.
“We can’t let them down now, can we?” she whispered, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against the side of Ingénue’s head.
“Rose . . .”
Only Colin called her that—a soft Irish lilt of an endearment that he’d whispered so sweetly once upon a time. She brushed the thought away, like a cobweb caught in the wind. It would do no good to live in yesterdays. Not when everything had changed.
“Listen to me.” He breezed around the front of her, tilted her face to him with a butterfly’s touch of his fingertips to her cheek. “You know if she were still here, she’d tell us that this life is a gift, Rose. It’s given and it’s taken away in a blink. It’s madness to go out and perform now.”
“You can’t protect me,” she whispered, easing his hand back. “Or fix me.”
“It’s not your call this time. I’m your boss, Rose, and I won’t let you go in.”
“The show is in my blood, Colin. Please don’t ask me to be less than who I am.”
He paused, as if absorbing her words and choosing his own that much more carefully. Or boldly. She couldn’t be sure.
“It won’t bring her back.”
Rosamund felt her chin quiver. “I know that. But are you saying it for me or for you?”
They stood in agonizing silence. Her heart beating wild. Wondering if his was doing the same unrestrained somersaulting in his chest.
Their circus world toiled beyond, the tent bursting to life with the vibrancy of the band playing “Roses of Picardy,” a jaunty version of the song that had always signaled her entrance.
“It’s time to go,” she thought aloud. “Colin, I . . .” She swallowed hard, fighting against the mental image of him standing just outside, looking on from the shadows while she performed under the bright lights.
She flipped up on Ingénue’s back as she’d done countless times before.
“I can’t be a caged bird with a broken wing.” She wiped at tears that had gathered in secret but now threatened to tumble down her cheeks. “I know now I’d never survive that kind of love,” she whispered. “And neither would you.”
The band played their cue, and Rosamund nudged Ingénue forward with a gentle squeeze of her ankles to both sides of the horse’s body. And forward they trotted, leaving the breath of wind toiling behind as they went in to give their last performance.
“Just like Mable said . . .” She straightened her shoulders and raised her head to the elation of the crowd. “They’ll only see what we want them to.”
CHAPTER 1
THREE YEARS EARLIER
NORTH YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND
Air turned to water.
It rushed over Rosamund’s head in a torrent, curling and mocking as it dragged her with the current. She flailed her legs in a bevy of kicks as it rolled, fighting to keep her head above water.
Hers was a foe of muddy brown, a once peaceful brook that flowed under the old cobblestone bridge on the road to Linton. But it had swollen to a near raging river with the last heavy rain, engulfing her the instant her motor had veered off the country road and tumbled down the embankment with a great splash.
How fortunate it was that she still wore men’s riding trousers. At least it afforded her some movement of her legs in the water, though not enough that she believed she could reach safety.
The current surged, plunging Rosamund into its depths again. It continued surging. Tugging at her legs first and then pulling her along like a rag doll tossed in the open sea. Her back went deeper. Then her shoulders. Her head. She felt her hair billowing around her neck like thick twines of seaweed.
The rush of water, then fear.
Her thoughts were urgent, her mind signaling the deepest sense of danger. Was this it, she wondered, the blackness of one’s thoughts at death?
Exhaustion in body, mind, even her soul, threatening to be called away.
The brown murkiness deadened the burning pain in her legs, fighting to muddle her mind and body into submission.
“Hello—you there!”
The shout rocked her senses.
Thoug
h still bobbing about like a cork in a bucket, Rosamund felt renewed strength to nudge her chin up out of the water. She scanned the banks on either side, frantically looking for anything that stood out beyond roiling water and dense thickets of autumn-painted trees.
“Over here!”
Another shout. This one was closer. Bold. Echoing from up ahead.
Thank You, God . . .
She’d heard the voice clearly this time and met a man’s fixed stare from the bank on her right.
He’d braced himself against a felled tree, one arm hooked around the trunk and the other reaching toward her, tense and ready to grasp her as she was swept by.
He shouted again. “Take hold of my hand, all right?”
Rosamund tried to nod as a rush of the current splashed in her face. She shook her head out of it, coughing as her hair splayed across the bridge of her nose. She brushed it back with the swipe of a hand.
He seemed to pause for a second when his eyes fell upon her face up close. Yet he responded with determination, willing her hand to connect with his. Though her energy stores were all but tapped clean, Rosamund reached out and locked hands with his at the wrist. His grip was iron.
“Good. Now swim to me,” he shouted, willing her to accept his word. “I’ll not let go of you.”
Rosamund lunged forward, falling into his grip.
The felled tree extended from a mossy bank, with water that grew shallower as it edged to shore. The man carefully maneuvered the pair of them back, trekking his free hand along the trunk.
When Rosamund felt the familiar sensation of stones beneath the soles of her boots, she lurched forward, drifting with the softening current until they were out of the water. She fell upon the bank on all fours, coughing against the ground as if mud and scrubby brush were her long-lost friends.
She untangled the long ropes of hair from one of her suspenders and swept them over her shoulder, then collapsed on the ground, relishing the glorious feel of earth beneath her.
“Miss? Are you all right?”
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