The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  Best to get ahead while they could.

  “Expecting a big day?” Sally smirked at the flow of foot traffic that had now jammed the crossway over the canal. “I suppose it looks like it from where we’re standing. So many people.”

  Wagons stood still along with their jittering horses. Men yelled back and forth behind a wagonette that had tipped onto its side, dumping a load of food stuffs in a heap smack-dab in the middle of the walkway. The crowds parted around it, with a few young scamps making off with a pilfered treat.

  Sally shoved the popcorn concoction under Mable’s nose, drawing her attention back to napkin folding.

  “Mable. I’m telling you—you’ll love it. Just give it a try.”

  Mable wrinkled her nose. “You know I don’t care for that stuff. Too sticky-sweet.”

  “Too sweet?” Sally balked. “It’s incredible. Some crackerjack named Rueckheim has been selling it out of a tent down by the canal. He’s had folks lined up all along the causeway. Even ran out yesterday.” She tossed another couple molasses-glazed kernels into her mouth. “But I can still get it because of some gents I met last night. They liked the set I sang. All I had to do was bat my eyelashes at the right pocket and I had two bags delivered to me this morning.”

  Mable’s friend was a live wire, even for Chicago.

  Sally had stars in her eyes bigger than the saucers they set out on the tables each day and auburn hair coiffed to accent her deep gold, come-hither eyes. She sang like a lark too, and never seemed to have the slightest trouble attracting a man’s attentions. It seemed to be the keeping part that caused her particular angst.

  Sally wrinkled her nose at Mable’s task. “Folding napkins is such a tiresome chore.”

  “Really? I came all the way from Ohio just to do it. It’s been very thrilling for me.”

  “Ha-ha,” Sally tossed out. “So much cheek. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “If you’re asking whether I plan to be a hostess and cashier for the rest of my life, then the answer is no. But I suppose it’s good enough that I know where I am right now.” Mable watched as the gondolas floated by in front of the windows. “Look at our view. You couldn’t ask for more than that.”

  “A gondola?” Sally laughed, charmed by the notion. “That’s your big plan?”

  “Yes! No—” Mable joined in the playfulness by tossing a napkin at her friend. “You know what I mean. Why are you laughing?”

  “If that’s your dream and it’s floating by, then you’d better be quick to reach for it.”

  Sally leaned across the counter, the black-and-white piping of her dress reflected in the glass.

  Mable traced her index finger along the polished edge of the counter. “I want more, Sal.”

  “More than what? What could be more than a life of security in a wedding ring?”

  Mable knew the answer; it was a cigar box full of dreams.

  “Sally Rivers! Where are you?”

  Their attention shifted to the deep gravel of the restaurant manager’s voice booming across the dining room. His bellow fairly shook the crystal in the chandeliers.

  Sally slid down behind the counter, hiding behind the rows of cigars lining the glass shelves. “That’s Mr. Morgan, and I’m late. Supposed to be waiting the high-roller tables in the dining room.”

  Mable exhaled. “Sal . . .”

  “What?” She tapped a manicured nail against her bottom teeth, sneaking a glance out from the side of the counter. “I didn’t want to have my new dress smelling like a fisherman’s wharf just because he wants cocktail orders filled for a few suits. I have a set to sing.”

  Mable knelt down, meeting her friend eye to eye.

  “You look beautiful, as always,” she said. “But there’s more to us than this. You know that, right?”

  Sally seemed to let those words prick her heart, for she breathed deep and squared her shoulders. “I suppose those tables aren’t going to wait themselves.”

  “Then you’d better hop to it,” Mable said. She peered around the corner to see if the manager was headed their way. “The coast is clear. Run through the back dining room and come out the other side of the kitchen. If he comes this way I’ll tell him I haven’t seen you.”

  “You’re a doll,” Sally whispered and kissed her index finger to dot it to the back of Mable’s hand. “I’ll talk to you after the lunch rush. I’ll have to sidestep him the rest of the afternoon if I want to keep my job.”

  “Good luck,” Mable whispered, watching as her friend disappeared round the corner.

  She stood again, just as she heard the clang of the brass bell above the front doors signaling a patron’s entrance. She glanced up, expecting to find a gentleman in the same dark suit and bowler hat that the majority of men wore.

  But the man who’d strolled in was tall as she—taller even, which didn’t happen often. And after the months Mable had spent in the high-end establishment, she knew a tailored suit when she saw one. This gentleman was impeccably dressed in a crisp, three-piece summer suit in tan linen, with a cream-and-gray silk tie that gleamed against his white shirt, and cream-and-black wingtips that boasted a clean polish. He kept his straw hat on over dark hair that curled at the ears.

  The man leaned against a gold-capped black cane as he scanned the expansive dining room.

  He owned a presence that easily dominated the space. But whatever judgments Mable could make about the gentleman’s dress, there was something different in the eyes. They were serious, no-nonsense, but kind somehow—and in the seconds since he’d walked through the door, those eyes had found their way to rest on the exact spot in which she stood.

  They looked—and now lingered—on her.

  He smiled.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?” Mable opened the leather-bound reservation book on the counter.

  “No.”

  She felt a twinge of nervousness creep into her midsection.

  A walk-in to Café de la Marine didn’t happen—no matter how a person was dressed. The only time they’d accommodated an unscheduled guest that summer was when the youngest child of Queen Isabella II of Spain had requested a lunch there, and even that had taken some wrangling with the management.

  The rule was: no reservation, no table. She’d have no choice but to turn him and his smile away.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But without a reservation I’m afraid—”

  “What is your name?” He cut in easily. Still politely, but with clear intention.

  She blinked back, startled by the sense of familiarity in his voice. “It’s Mable, sir.”

  “Good afternoon, Mable. I’m John.”

  Mable glanced from him to the dining room, finding the open connection of those eyes to hers unnerving at best.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, sir.” She couldn’t dare call him simply John. “Perhaps if you’d like to make a reservation and come back on another day . . .” She took a pen out of the drawer and opened an inkwell on the counter, dipping the nib inside.

  “I’d like to speak with the owner.”

  “The owner’s not here. But I can fetch the manager for you if you’d like.”

  “I would.”

  A man of few words.

  Mable nodded. “Very well. Just a moment, please.”

  Something told her not to keep him waiting.

  Mable flew by Sally, who was chatting with a gentleman patron but looked up with a furrowed brow at her friend’s pace toward the kitchen. She gave Sally a shake of the head that said, I’ll explain later and kept moving.

  She found Mr. Morgan and sent him to the gentleman at the front door, then returned to her post. Other customers streamed in the doors. The lunch rush was in full swing
. Mable saw several parties to their tables, stealing the occasional glance over at “John,” who was still in conversation with the manager by the door.

  When she’d seated the fifth reservation on her list and come back, he was gone.

  Mable felt a twinge of disappointment that he’d been sent back out the door. But the patrons kept filing in, one by one, families and couples alike, looking for a jolly midday meal during their excursion at the fair. She forgot about the encounter with the gentleman by the door.

  “Mable, you won’t believe it.” Sally practically pounced on her.

  “Believe what?” She checked off the last two names from the reservation book and bent down to arrange a stack of menus.

  “That man—you know, the one who came in wearing the tan suit?”

  Mable didn’t try to pretend she hadn’t noticed him. She lowered her voice and whispered, “You saw him too?”

  Sally nodded. “Yes. And he got the best table in the house.” She grabbed Mable by the shoulders, shaking lightly before letting go to cover her mouth with her hands. “The best one. Without a reservation. He ordered the chef’s catch and the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu without even glancing at the price. His bill’s already totaled a small fortune and he’s still adding to it. I’d have asked Mr. Morgan who he is, but our manager is too disgruntled with me right now to answer.”

  Mable wasn’t surprised on either count.

  “We’ve had wealthy patrons in here before. Is this news to get so excited about?”

  “You bet it is. I walked over to his table, and you know what? He asked about you.”

  Mable swallowed hard and glanced past Sally to the full dining room. She could just see the elbow of the gentleman’s linen suit, leaning against the edge of the table.

  “Me?”

  Don’t think about those eyes . . .

  “Yes, my lovely napkin-folding friend. You.”

  “But what in the world could he want with me?” Mable whispered, trying not to tie her hands in knots at her waist.

  “He wanted to know when your shift ends.”

  “But I’m here all day. I have to close tonight.”

  Sally reached out and hooked a wavy lock of Mable’s dark hair behind her ear.

  “You did have to close tonight, Mable. You’re off when Mr. Linen Suit finishes his lunch. He told the manager that your shift would end the moment you agreed to take a walk with him across the canal bridge.”

  MABLE HAD AGREED TO THE WALK, THOUGH SHE DIDN’T KNOW exactly why.

  Everything had happened so fast. One moment she’d learned the gentleman wanted to step out with her, and seemingly in the next instant Sally was tilting a navy plumed hat on her head, fiddling with the coiffed curls at her brow, and pouring advice on her as she shoved Mable out the door.

  “What would you like to see?” Mable asked, hoping to draw John into conversation.

  They’d walked all the way from the café, past the lagoon, to the bright sights and sounds of the game booths and foreign attractions lining the Midway. He hadn’t said much, just walked along at a steady pace, allowing her to lead them.

  “What would you suggest?”

  “The Turkish Village isn’t very far and the admission is free. The Ferris wheel is another favorite with visitors. And there are some camels on Cairo Street right over there. They’re one of the most popular attractions at the fair.” She pointed to a multistory replica of an Egyptian temple just beyond the gates before them. “If you’ve never seen an exotic animal, they’re quite a treat.”

  “But you don’t seem very impressed,” John noted, a half grin evident on his face.

  Mable smiled too, noting his ability to read her thoughts. It felt as if her secret was out—she’d seen the camels a hundred times, and they seemed more like big, ill-tempered cows than anything truly exotic to her.

  “I might have been impressed the first time I saw them. But I’ve been here on the grounds for months and, well, you get used to such things. Except for the wedding procession, of course. That’s always beautiful. I try to time my breaks so I can step out and watch it.”

  “Hmm. I’ve heard about it. And you watch the same show time and again?”

  “Of course.”

  “But what keeps you coming back, if it’s not the mystique of the camels?”

  “There’s some razzmatazz about the show out front. The visitors like the music and the scandal of belly dancing. And those horrible spitting camels. But I like to see behind the scenes.” Mable leaned in, whispering low. “You know, if you peek behind the street, just there—” She pointed down the alley behind the grand temple. “See? It’s all bowler hats instead of turbans. That’s where the real activity is. They’ve got a small army keeping everything running behind the stage, and nobody even knows it.”

  He smiled wide. “Is that right?”

  “Of course. They also have ‘The Arrival from Mecca.’ They really make a show of it. The tourists just love it.” She paused, thinking that she knew very little about him, except that he was smiling as they watched the hidden alleyway behind Cairo Street. Was he a tourist? What if she was telling him all about the fair and he lived in Chicago too?

  “Are you a tourist, by chance?” she asked.

  “I am, of sorts.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “Here and there. I’m in Chicago part of the year.”

  And he left it at that.

  John wasn’t easy to figure out. He was quiet. Almost serious. And while she droned on about the German village they passed, the exquisite rose garden she loved, and the music lilting up from the Viennese exhibit, he said little. Just nodded or looked on as they walked farther down the Midway.

  “May I ask—what did you say to him?” she asked.

  Caught up in the sights around them, he asked, “Who?”

  He paused as they passed the Russian furs exhibit, a long aisle with stuffed bears on hind legs and snow dogs positioned under a bower of hanging furs.

  “Mr. Morgan. You must have said something for him to allow me out of my shift. He’d never agree to such a thing unless you said something quite convincing. I wondered what it was.”

  “Whatever it was, it’s not worth telling now.” John pointed his cane down the direction of the aisle teeming with animal furs and lush food smells. “And what do you make of this one? You must have an opinion.”

  Mable was surprised by the question. It wasn’t a normal occurrence for her opinion to be sought after by anyone. She looked at the Russian exhibit and smiled. She had an opinion, all right. And since this stranger appeared to want to know, she’d oblige with an honest answer.

  “I think it’s fun.”

  “Fun?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not scary or grotesque? Those bears have fangs.”

  “No. Not scary. They’re just . . .” She laughed. “Fun. I have the oddest idea that they’d look charming with a tutu or a suit and bright red boutonnière instead of just standing there glaring at everyone. What if they were dancing instead of menacing?”

  “A dancing bear with a boutonnière? The idea has merit.” He nodded, eyes smiling at the corners, giving away his amusement. He tilted his head as if considering it. “And look at the children.” John took a step back as a group of eager youngsters flooded in front of them, making for a souvenir stand. “No doubt they’d enjoy your dancing bears.”

  “Maybe they would,” she said, stepping back so the children could swarm in around the toys.

  Mable watched as the children played, laughing and dancing about, and adults picked out mementos from displays of engraved commemorative glassware and rows of painted ornamental fans. The fans were inexpensive and lackluster in their artistic appeal—not like the grand Cassatt ar
t exhibit at the fair. But still, she liked their whimsy and pointed out the bright colors and beautiful botanical scenes painted on them.

  “Pick one,” John said.

  Mable smiled. “Are you sure?”

  He was already paying the man, so he must have been. It seemed that when John made a decision, he was sure of himself in it.

  Mable happily agreed to accept the gift. She chose a nature scene with palm trees, a blue sky, and a hill with colorful stucco houses built into the side. It was hot out, so she spread the beautiful gift wide and fanned it back and forth as they walked. The peace was broken, however, the instant they heard a commotion arise across the Midway.

  Children bolted past them in a clattering rush.

  Men in suits began to shout and point, drawing attention from the crowd and sparking gasps and shrieks from the ladies.

  Over the bustle of international music and the reveling crowds they heard shouts of “Fire!” and “The Cold Storage Building is on fire!”

  Mable tore her glance from left to right, searching for flames that would surely overtake them.

  She’d heard too much about the effects of the Great Fire in 1871. Chicago was still rebuilding. What would happen if fire overtook the White City a second time, and in the grandest spectacle the world had ever seen? She prayed nothing like that could happen again. Not in the city where dreams came true.

  The children they’d just seen—were they safe? Were all accounted for?

  She glanced back at the vendor tables they’d passed.

  The patrons had scattered, the children with them. The vendor was hastily packing up his wares. He didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to notice anything but shoving souvenirs into the crates beneath the cart.

  “Mable?”

  John gripped her elbow, gently but with intention, and edged her forward. “We need to keep moving.”

  She nodded but the action felt foreign, as if she were watching the events playing out on a stage.