The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  Rose was caught up in the fray of England’s more traditional world, where a patriarch’s buying and selling was often done without regard to the wishes of the female members of his family. He knew it wasn’t always the case, but it seemed to be the rule at Easling Park. If it wouldn’t have complicated things, Colin might have liked to give the earl a swift kick in his tailored trousers for so callously breaking his daughter’s heart.

  Colin shook his head and walked over to pull a bucket of water from the corner of the stall. He knelt and began to bathe the horse, washing the mud from her legs up to the hock—anything to keep from looking back at the pain in Rose’s eyes.

  “I should have known how much you care for Ingénue. The communion the two of you have is rare, and I apologize for not realizing it sooner.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see if she’d heard him.

  “You’re apologizing to me?” she asked, clearly surprised.

  “I am. And if it were up to me now, I’d leave her right here in this stall.”

  “But it’s not up to you.”

  “No. By his own admission, if your father doesn’t sell her to my employer, he’ll sell her to someone else. If she has to go, I’d rather she sail with me.” He picked up what remained of the apple and offered it to Ingénue, who munched on it without hesitation.

  He patted her nose in return, as if to punctuate his last words before turning back around. What he didn’t expect to find was Rose, all five feet two inches of her, standing but a few steps behind him, blocking his path through the stall door.

  She met his gaze head-on.

  Few men Colin had ever worked with had issued a glare so direct it stopped him in his tracks. But she’d managed it. So much so that his knees nearly buckled.

  He’d never admit to that, of course.

  “Is your employer a good man?” she asked, strength underscoring her voice.

  “The best I’ve ever known.”

  “And you’ll send word if anything should happen to her?”

  Rose’s countenance changed. The light coming through the window cast shadows on the contours of her face, framing high cheekbones and a barely noticeable crease of concern that had begun to edge across her brow.

  He nodded. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  “And you’ll . . .” Rose paused to pinch the bridge of her nose, her voice crumbling again. “You’ll give her a taste of freedom every now and then, won’t you? You’ll let her roam those American fields just enough to stroke her spirit?”

  “We have more marsh than fields in Florida, but yes. I’ll let her roam when I can. She has spirit—that I can see. I believe it’s what makes her special.” He paused, choosing his words. “But we’ll have to find someone else to stand on her back. I’m afraid I’m terribly unbalanced in trick riding.”

  Rose blinked and took a step backward into the aisle between the stalls.

  “Knobby knees, you see,” he teased, allowing a grin to spread wide on his face.

  Rose cleared her throat.

  “I might as well be honest. I was awake early this morning and saw you slip out of the manor. My curiosity got the better of my feet, so they were forced to follow.”

  Rose closed her eyes for a few seconds, the embarrassment acute on her face.

  “How . . . much did you see?”

  “From the time you rode out and took this saddle off once you were over the hill? Enough to understand why you were wearing a stable hand’s clothes yesterday, and why you were so startled by my admission at dinner last evening. And when I said I knew you on sight yesterday, I meant that too. I’d come to Linton in part because of a trick riding show I knew to be there. It just so happens that an earl’s daughter isn’t quite as unrecognizable as she thinks she is.”

  Rose turned and sat again.

  Instead of replying, she busied herself by removing her riding gloves. He stood still, absently running his hand through Ingénue’s mane, still smiling that he’d called her on what she thought was a superior level of trickery.

  “You’re blushing,” he said, amused by her swift change in attitude.

  “It’s early still.” Rose fumbled with her gloves, refusing to look up at him. “I assure you it’s the effects of the cold morning air in Yorkshire, Mr. Keary.”

  Colin had to remind himself that the years after the war had changed much. Only a few years before, this woman would scarcely have been allowed in the same room with a man who would become her husband. Now she was alone in a stable with a man of little acquaintance, talking about blushes and gentlemen’s attire.

  He cleared his throat, forcing the smile from his lips. They’d get nowhere if she thought he was mocking her.

  He crossed to the end of the row of stalls, deposited the bit on a wall hook, and turned, stopping a few feet away from her chair.

  “Mind telling me where in the world you learned to ride like that?”

  She paused, thinking on it, then answered, “Hendrick.”

  He furrowed his brow. “And how did he learn?”

  Rose shook her head. “He never did. Just said I was a natural.” She sniffed and swiped at a stray tear that had eased down her cheek. “He used to goad me into standing on horseback as a childhood dare. And I couldn’t let him win, so I always did it. He said I was fearless on a horse.”

  “Fearless,” Colin repeated.

  Rosamund nodded.

  “Mr. Archer is our stable master here at the estate. He’s taught me more in the last eight years. His father once traveled with a menagerie show, and he learned about trick riding from him. And then he worked with us until it became second nature. But no one else knows.”

  “How often do you ride like that?”

  “Every day.” She tipped her shoulders in a light shrug. “Why?”

  Colin knelt down, meeting her eye to eye.

  “Lady Rosamund—”

  “It’s just Rosamund,” she cut in with a soft shake of the head. “I don’t require all of what my father does. Titles don’t mean anything to me. Not anymore.”

  “Okay then. Rose,” he offered. “Your father is a good man. He wouldn’t do this just to hurt you.”

  “My father is a man of propriety, Mr. Keary. Please do not confuse the two.”

  “Was he harsh with you because of what happened at dinner last night?”

  “My parents spoke with me, yes. But they weren’t cruel, if that’s what you’re implying. They merely stated what’s happening as fact. You are buying my horse and she ships out tomorrow. That’s to be the end of it.”

  He paused, choosing his words carefully.

  “You have a good life here. People who care about you. I know I don’t need to tell you how important that is.”

  “And you think I should marry and live happily with my wealth? I should want nothing more than a title and stacks of money?”

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t have put it to you quite so bluntly.”

  “And what if I told you that my father is in trouble? That he’s doing more than just selling a horse to you?” She lifted her chin. “He has gambling debts that are overtaking the family finances. With Hendrick’s death, our estate will revert to a cousin on my father’s side. He’s already married, so there’s no hope of a family alliance. And through bad investments and my mother’s refusal to live as though we have a rapidly dwindling fortune, their only recourse is to sell their only daughter to the highest bidder. And Lord Brentwood is buying, Mr. Keary. He has quite a fortune with which to do so. Because I have a good name, that makes for a favorable match for future heirs.”

  “And does he know of your father’s debts?”

  “Of course not. I’m not even sure why I told you, except to say that I know more a
bout how Ingénue feels right now than you might give me credit for.”

  Colin’s jaw seemed to flex on its own. He stood and backed away for a moment, afraid if he didn’t, she’d see anger seep out over his face.

  He shoved his hands down in his pockets.

  “One day you’ll be mistress of a grand manor, and you’ll be glad to revisit the memories of time spent with your brother. And with Ingénue. You’ll see someday when you look back on your life that you’ve been given a wonderful opportunity. The kind of life most people only dream of.”

  Rose sat frozen for a moment, staring back at him. “And you truly believe that?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “Then forgive me, Mr. Keary, as it’s none of your affair, but the prospect that I could live content married to Oliver Brentwood is a fairy tale of my mother’s invention. Frittering away my days with garden parties and afternoon teas at the Spencer estates may sound like heaven to some, but it will be my lifelong prison. I have no option but to accept the life they’ve chosen for me. So at the very least, I’d ask that you not judge me in it. As an outsider looking in, you could never fully understand my reasons for needing the daily escape of rides with Ingénue.”

  Rose paused, no doubt considering the impasse that had formed between them. “Tell me, what would your counsel be if Mr. Butler came to you, wishing for a different life?”

  Colin sighed. Somehow he’d known that was coming.

  “You couldn’t stop him, Mr. Keary. Not if he knew what he wanted. He’d find his own way to get it.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.”

  Her honesty reached something inside that Colin had once felt himself. But it still precipitated an equally honest answer, one that would either dissuade her or convince her. She deserved that much.

  “What would you say to him then?”

  What would I say?

  I’d have to be sure you want this. That you’re strong enough to take this leap of faith and change your entire world . . .

  “I’d say no,” he whispered. Not uncaring, but firm. “That it’s a big thing to give up your whole life on a whim. And if he tried to do it anyway, I’d march him straight back and deposit him on the front step of his father’s estate the very same day.”

  He could see it in her face; Rose’s heart sank.

  She nodded, like she’d given up.

  “I apologize to have taken so much of your time this morning. Good luck to you, Mr. Keary.”

  Rosamund stood, wiping the back of her skirt to free it of any straw that may have caught up on the wool, then turned to leave the stable.

  Colin sighed. Ran his hand through his hair as he stood behind her, feeling the acute stab of regret as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

  “Rose, wait.”

  He stepped up behind her.

  Reached for her hand.

  Never anticipating it would be the warmth of his fingers clasping hers that would draw her back. Not having expected she’d drop her gloves to the ground in the haste of his action and turn to face him with a look of true understanding alive upon her features.

  Colin knew his hair must have been mussed—he’d just run a hand through it. She looked up at his brow, a tiny flicker of notice flashing in her eyes.

  It spoke volumes.

  “I’m not finished,” he added, holding her hand a few seconds longer than he should. “I’d also say that if you’re quite sure living your own life is what you mean to do, then your wish can be granted.”

  “My wish?” she breathed out.

  “You’ve heard of the Circus Kings, in America?”

  He knew she probably had, even as far off the path as North Yorkshire.

  “The Ringling Brothers?” She narrowed her eyes in question. “I’ve heard of them, yes.”

  “My employers—and Ingénue’s new owners—are Charles and John Ringling. I’m John Ringling’s agent, both on the road during the performance months and to recruit acts for the Ringling Brothers’ show in the off-season.”

  “So that’s why you’re in England? To recruit acts for a circus?” She eased back, pulling her fingers from his.

  He felt the absence of warmth when she let go.

  “Yes. But in particular, I’ve come to make Ingénue a part of the Ringlings’ world. I think she could be a high school horse, one that is so finely trained that she can perform with little to no direction. I witnessed her do so this morning, with you as her rider. If you wish it, I’ll take you to see that new world for yourself.”

  “Why would you do that?” she breathed out.

  Colin stooped and picked up her gloves, dusting off tiny bits of straw from the soft leather. He stood, then held them out before her.

  “Because I know what’s it’s like to wish more than anything that you could change your life. And I’m here to say that if you really want it, you can see what it’s like to live a different life. You can have adventure, if that’s what you need, before you make a decision about your future.”

  She shook her head. “But how?”

  “Come to America and find out.”

  CHAPTER 8

  1904

  ATLANTIC CITY, NEW JERSEY

  It was hot backstage.

  Too hot.

  A pressure cooker, according to Sally.

  Mable could feel the humidity rising, making her skin sticky and wet. Her friend’s last set wasn’t scheduled for another half hour, so the two sat in the backstage area of the newly built grand ballroom at the elegant Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel, baking through their break while they waited for show time.

  “Remind me again why I agreed to two performances in one evening?”

  Sally flounced back in a baby-blue chaise lounge, fanning her hand at her face while she laid her head back in dramatic fashion.

  “You’d think sea air would be better in summer. But look—” Sally pointed to the vase of pink roses—her favorite—on the dressing table nearby. Their petals were wilted and sad, having gradually succumbed to the heat. “Even our roses lose their luster in this heat.”

  Mable stuck her index finger in her copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall to hold her place. She looked over the top of the binding to the withered roses, then to where her friend lay stretched out on the chaise.

  Sally was staring up at the filigree ceiling vaults, with her hair pulled back in wavy tendrils that spilled about the high collar of the marvelous buttercup-yellow dress she wore. It was indeed hot, but not so much as to justify the drama Sally was making of it. Especially when she wasn’t the one wearing a woolen uniform skirt in the mid-July heat.

  The thought made Mable grin. Her friend certainly was suited for the stage.

  “But we can’t really complain, can we? It’s a full house tonight.” Mable winked at her. “We’re poised to see some greenbacks, dearie. And if your gentlemen callers keep sending roses backstage, you can’t claim the evening as a total loss.”

  “Don’t be pert.” Sally tossed a velvet bolster pillow at her. It bounced off the top of Mable’s chair and fell down, sliding across the floor. “You’re a cashier who’s not interested in greenbacks. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “I’m not a cashier anymore. I’m a management candidate now, remember? And maybe I’m not interested because there are more important things in life than money.”

  With that, she turned back to her book.

  “Like what?”

  Mable breathed in deep, letting out a sigh of mock exasperation. “Freedom, for one. And beautiful experiences. Like sitting in an elegant room at the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel on the iron pier, talking with a friend. How many people would love to be in our shoes right this very moment?”

  Sally attempt
ed a laugh, though the action drove her into a near coughing fit.

  “You talk of freedom? But money can buy that too,” she said, wiping a hand at moisture the coughing had brought to the corner of her eyes.

  Mable sighed and looked around, feeling the weight of Sally’s growing bitterness against what she viewed as the confines of their downtrodden lot.

  The backstage area was immaculate, as was everything in the Queen Anne–style castle of a hotel. The sheer size and opulence of their surroundings just couldn’t make Mable feel anything less than grateful, even if she merely worked at the hotel instead of being a guest in it. Life hadn’t issued her the same trials that her friend had been through, but still, being around the grandeur, she couldn’t allow her thoughts to dip to the level of resentment that Sally had developed over the past few years.

  “Money can buy just about anything, can’t it? Except love, of course. The one thing it can never lay claim to,” Sally breathed out on a sort of tragic whisper. “You seem to be the only one not plagued by the want of it.”

  “Of love?”

  Mable held the book in her hands, but lost interest and gazed off into the distance, soon curling the binding under her palms. The other side of the room faded into a crowd of revelers, with the great White City behind them. And she saw in the foreground the same thing she always did: an impeccably dressed man with serious eyes, a hard-won smile, and an aura of mystery all around him. A man whose presence dwarfed any bowler-hatted suitors who had waltzed her way in the years since.

  It was the vision of what might have been from many years before that still pricked her heart, asking, What if?