The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  “So Ingénue and I stay here, training with Owen?”

  “That’s right. You need to learn to ride in a ring.”

  “And for how long?”

  “Well, you said you wanted to spend Christmas with your aunt in New York, then go back to England in the spring. Why not give it time—make your decision by Christmas?”

  It sounded reasonable enough.

  Rosamund accepted with a smile. “By Christmas it is,” she said, and extended her hand to shake his.

  He pulled his hands from his pockets, but hesitated, falling just short of accepting her open palm. If she’d consent to stay, it had to be for the right reasons.

  “Satisfy me on one thing more, Rose, and we have a deal.”

  “Of course. What?”

  “You whispered something to Ingénue before you came back out here. What was it you said to her?”

  Rosamund smiled, tipping her shoulders in a light shrug.

  She leaned forward and shook hands with him, whispering, “Only what I’d want someone to say to me—I told her to have fun.”

  CHAPTER 11

  1926

  SARASOTA, FLORIDA

  Evening was Rosamund’s favorite time of day.

  The sun would set over the bay, creating millions of tiny diamond flashes across the water. The pace of living would wind down. There’d be no more riding. No backbreaking training or worrying about tomorrow once the sun had set low in the sky.

  It was her time to be still.

  She sat on the dock in front of the Ringlings’ yellow farmhouse-style cottage in which she’d been staying, hanging her legs over the side, swinging her bare feet in the breeze, watching fish make their intermittent jumps to pick off mayflies hovering over the water.

  As soon as the training day was done, she’d come back to the cottage still wearing riding trousers and her white blouse with a wide sailor’s collar. She wrapped her favorite plum, thick-weave sweater round her shoulders and went to her favorite evening spot by the water.

  The telegram Rosamund had received that day she’d kept hidden from Owen’s notice. She folded it gently and now held it between her palms.

  The sounds of the day were all she heard, until an engine’s sputter turned her attention to the drive in front of the house. A Model T had come to a stop, and a gentleman hopped out and went up the cottage’s front steps.

  He wore gray trousers, a white shirt, and a jacket draped over one arm. Hat and tie, if he had such, had been abandoned along the way. The weight on Rosamund’s shoulders lightened when she saw the trademark mop of dark hair, wind-tousled as it always seemed to be.

  “Colin,” she shouted and waved, drawing his attention to the dock.

  He turned from the porch and tossed his jacket through the open window of the car, then trotted in her direction.

  A slow smile built on his face as he drew near. “Owen said you’d gone back to the cottage early today.”

  She wrapped the sweater tighter around her middle and breathed deep. “Ingénue and I were both tired. So I came back and have been out here enjoying the view.”

  Colin wrinkled his nose, whether from the sunlight bouncing back in his eyes or because he didn’t fully believe her, she couldn’t know. He nodded and sat down, hanging his legs over the edge of the dock alongside her.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay at the Ringling Hotel downtown? Or in one of their other properties? They have a bigger home on South Washington Drive.”

  Rosamund shook her head. “I like it here. By the water. It’s so nice that the Ringlings have allowed me to stay in the cottage. I don’t mind that it’s small at all. It’s a change from what I’m used to, and I find that somehow it suits me.”

  He looked out over the water. Listening. Nodding as she talked.

  The setting sun edged his profile in soft light, and Rosamund tried not to think of how she’d missed him during the last couple of weeks.

  She tore her eyes away, landing on polite conversation instead. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “I think so. We managed to get a few things worked out for the show, so I’m glad about that. But the weather was about as good as can be expected for Connecticut in November.” He grinned through a mock shiver. “Bridgeport can be unforgiving at this time of year. And to be stuck in it for three weeks. I couldn’t wait to get back here to you.”

  Rosamund’s gaze fluttered to his.

  “Or to this—you know,” he added, rubbing a hand to his neck. He tilted his head to the bay. “I’m just sorry I had to leave you alone so soon after you got here. But at least it was here in Florida. It’s really beautiful this time of year, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t say that I know what it’s like the rest of the year, but I think I’m ready to find out.”

  Colin turned to her, his brow furrowed in question. The shadow of a hopeful smile seemed close by. “You’ve already made your decision then?”

  Rosamund nodded. “I received a telegram today. From Easling Park.” She stared down into the depths of the water beneath their feet. “It was quite enough to help me make up my mind.”

  “I see,” he offered, leaning in ever so slightly. “Not bad news, I hope.”

  Rosamund handed him the telegram without looking up. She could hear the crease of the paper when he’d unfolded it, and the deep sigh when he’d obviously read what it said.

  “He wasted no time, did he?” Colin slapped the paper against his leg. “Golly, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s for the best, but it would’ve been nice to have made the decision myself.”

  Embarrassment prevented her from looking him in the eye. She chose the easier option of gazing out across the bay.

  “But I think you did, Rose, when you got on the train at King’s Cross. There was no going back after that first leap of faith. Remember that you chose to step on that train, and your life is your own from here on out.”

  “I never thought I’d be jilted before I even made it to the altar. But I suppose it’s too much to marry a woman who’s run off to the circus. How would that work in an English drawing room? It sounds odd even when I say it aloud, and I’m the one living it.”

  Colin squinted, shielding his eyes from the sun setting low in front of them.

  “Well, forget the drawing rooms. And despicable former fiancés. You’ll have men lining up to court you in every town on the map from now on. You sure you’re ready for that?”

  The quip made her smile, especially when she looked up and saw the twinkle in his eye.

  Rosamund wasn’t sure how, but they’d eased into a friendship without looking. Colin had become an unexpected source of stability and comfort. She could take teasing, even at a moment like this, if it came from him.

  “You know, I did tell Bella you were innocent that day we boarded the train at King’s Cross. But it wasn’t meant to be an insult.”

  She smiled, having known that already.

  “I had a bit of Italian in my tutorials as a girl.” Rosamund rolled her eyes. “Enough to understand what she’d said and try not to take offense at it. It’s still not the most flattering thing a girl can think to be called, though.”

  “I know. And I’ll do everything I can to ensure things go smoothly when you meet up with Bella and the rest of the performers. We’ll ease you in. That’s a promise, all right?”

  “Okay,” she said, exhaling long and low. “So what now?”

  “The show must go on. And we know you’ll be a part of it. Welcome to the family—” He smiled, then handed the telegram back to her. “Officially this time.”

  Rosamund’s fingers brushed against his, a light touch of skin that startled her. She fumbled the telegram, almost dropped it, then shoved it down into
the pocket of her sweater.

  “And to the newest member of the family, I come bearing gifts.”

  “Gifts?”

  “It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

  “Not for weeks it’s not.” She shook her head, watching as he hopped up and jogged back to the car. From it he pulled two long poles and a can, a look of victory on his face.

  He walked back in her direction with the gear. “Then we’re celebrating early. All the way from Connecticut.”

  Rosamund jumped to her feet, almost dancing at the thought of doing something as thrilling—and normal—as fishing on the bay. Never in a million years would her mother have allowed something so earthy and unrefined. She’d have been shocked out of her very fancy shoes to see her daughter standing on a dock now, barefoot, gloveless, and happy, exclaiming over the gift of a split cane rod and a can of wiggling worms.

  “Ever fished before?” Colin asked.

  “Hendrick used to, but I never did.” She shook her head and bit her bottom lip, thinking it impossible to keep the smile from her face now.

  Not when he’d brought her something so perfect.

  “Then you’re in for a treat. And after I teach you how to put a worm on a hook, Lady Easling, I’ve got another surprise for you. One I think you’ll enjoy even more.”

  Rosamund cocked an eyebrow, feeling altogether playful now instead of heart-sore. “What could be better than this? High-wire walking?”

  “Nope. Better.” He tossed an easy grin her way. “Dancing.”

  “Dancing where? On the dock?”

  He leaned down until his head was level with hers, then pointed out across the bay. “Right there. At the Cà d’Zan.”

  “You can’t be serious. I thought performers didn’t visit the Ringlings’ home.”

  “Not usually, no. Family. Friends, yes. And now you’re both. I told Mable about you, and she wants to meet you. They’re planning a holiday party—the grandest this town’s likely ever seen. All to open the mansion to visitors. With yachts coming up along the bay. Music and dancing. You’ll be used to it, I’m sure, with the parties your mother gives.”

  “It sounds clever—but at the Cà d’Zan? Sarasota’s a world away from Yorkshire and Easling Park. How do you even know I’ll fit in?”

  “You could never fit in, Rose. You were made to stand out.”

  She wasn’t given time to consider a response. A car lumbered down the short drive to the cottage, its driver blowing the horn.

  “Is there a Mr. Keary here?” he shouted. “Colin Keary?”

  “Stay here,” he whispered, handing her his fishing rod and placing the can of worms on the dock.

  “I’m Keary,” he shouted back through cupped hands.

  “You’re needed, sir. Right now.”

  Colin looked back to Rosamund.

  He pursed his lips. Furrowed his brow in a manner that suggested his thoughts had transitioned from lighthearted fishing and dancing to everything related to business in one fell swoop.

  “What’s happened?” he called back.

  “Mr. Charlie, sir. He’s dead.”

  Rosamund’s breath escaped her at the man’s words. She reached out on instinct, touching her fingertips to Colin’s forearm.

  He didn’t shrink back from the contact. Colin stood still for a long moment, then whispered a simple, “Excuse me, Rose.”

  Colin walked the length of the pier, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck all the way up to the car. It was painful to watch, enough that Rosamund laid the fishing rods on the dock, thinking to edge forward.

  Maybe go to him.

  To comfort him somehow.

  She watched as he spoke with the man, saying little himself, only nodding here and there.

  If Colin had traveled with the circus as long as she imagined he had, this loss would hit him very hard. No doubt Charles Ringling was a friend and mentor. They’d traveled from town to town all over the country for years. Managing the lives of animals and performers everywhere they went. And as Colin had never mentioned a family of his own, she suspected the Ringlings were the closest thing he had to it.

  Now that delicate world had shattered; Mr. Charlie was gone.

  “Rose—I’m sorry,” he called out to her. “I have to go. But I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.”

  Rosamund nodded understanding, even as he hopped in the car with the gentleman and they sped down the road.

  And just like that, she was left alone again.

  Even the sun ducked behind the horizon, leaving reaching streaks of orange and ink-blue to paint the sky. The fish had calmed. The wind stilled. As if nature itself knew an ill wind had just passed over them all.

  She looked down, watching the water again. This time not feeling so afraid.

  It felt easy to take the telegram from her pocket and, without an ounce of regret, allow it to slip from her fingertips.

  The telegram floated down to kiss the water of the bay. Drifting out from where she stood. Leaving her behind.

  No need to watch it, she thought.

  Rosamund walked back up to the cottage, keenly feeling the filter of dusk that had fallen over the bay. And all thoughts of fishing and dancing—and even of a home and former fiancé very far away—were forgotten.

  So was the Western Union telegram that read: LORD OLIVER BRENTWOOD, VISCOUNT SPENCER, MARRIED TO LONDON HEIRESS LADY VICTORIA NORTHAM. NO NEED TO RETURN.

  Rosamund was ready to let go.

  For more reasons than one, everything was about to change. And the great John Ringling was now the last of the Ringling Brothers, and she was to perform in the Circus King’s show.

  CHAPTER 12

  1905

  TRENTON, NEW JERSEY

  If Mable were to rank the experience, her afternoon at the Ringling Brothers’ circus was more amazing than any visit to the Chicago World’s Fair. Here, in a once lonely field outside Trenton, was a makeshift world within a world, one in which the inhabitants of a rural community could step through the gates into a collection of wonders the likes of which only J. M. Barrie could have dreamt up, for one of his Neverland plays.

  A rainbow of balloons pointed to the sky around sundry wagonettes. The singsong melody of chiming bells filled the air, mingling with children’s delighted laughter. These were echoed by the errant roars and deep-chested grunts of exotic animals that weren’t far off. Dazzling sequined costumes caught the sunlight, flashing as performers passed by. Carnival game masters shouted through the crowd, inviting guests to stop in and show their strength at the high-striker game or their skill in toppling a tower of milk bottles in a single throw.

  This was her introduction to John’s world—a remarkable oddity of sights and sounds, tinged with the sweet smells of candied apples and the molasses popcorn Sally would have favored. Tents with intricately painted façades lined the field path along which they now walked, drawing curious minds into their innermost canvas rooms with promise of the mysterious and strange.

  “Have your eye on something?” John asked. She was gazing at the image of a snake-charmer painted in a leafy-green jungle vignette spanning the length of a nearby façade.

  Mable was intrigued, but not by the sideshow oddities. Not primarily, anyway.

  “I might.” She laughed. “But not here. I want to see the gears turning, Mr. Ringling. Show me how it all works.”

  The shadow of a grin spread on his lips and he nodded, pointing the way with his cane.

  They waltzed in the autumn sun as he granted her wish, leading them to the behind-the-scenes action of the back lot. There Mable could ask questions and see every detail of the performers and animals in the show, including clowns without makeup and the unglamorous cleaning up after animals on the lot.


  The Midway was full of delights—games, treats, and a sideshow that held some interest—but all that paled in comparison to the cogs and gears that kept running behind the Big Top’s drawn curtain. Mable much preferred watching the making of fun, in all of its raw nature, versus watching the fun itself.

  They passed a considerable wagon—the largest she’d seen yet—vivid in red, yellow, and white paint, with gilded lion engravings peeking out from the base. It was painstakingly detailed, with carvings all around an inner, iron-barred cage. There were rich filigree designs and painted discs that covered the spokes on the wheels.

  “This one is for the lions,” she guessed, looking up to see John’s reaction. “Yes?”

  “How did you know that?”

  She pointed to the lion engravings. “Gives it away every time, Mr. Ringling.”

  “And that one?”

  Mable shook her head. “Easy. Rhinoceros.” She pointed out the carved designs of turban-wearing hunters and the engraving of a large rhino head bursting through grasses shining out from the edge of the iron bars.

  A canvas curtain shielded the animal inside.

  “Would you like to see her?”

  Mable laughed. What an oddity. He talked about rare animals as one would a member of the family. “Her?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Mary is her name. She was our first rhino. We acquired her just two years ago. Can you believe it—all 4,800 of her pounds are supported by that wagon.”

  “I think we should leave her in peace, poor Mary. No doubt she’s got a long evening of delighting patrons in the menagerie tent. She’ll need her rest.”

  “Too right. But our animals are treated well. She’s not overworked, I assure you. But since you prefer to judge matters for yourself, I’ll take you to the menagerie. Try to prove me wrong if you’d like.”

  “Now there’s an idea.” She found herself smiling. Too much. Even biting the edge of her bottom lip like a schoolgirl every moment or so. The sights were too much. Too exhilarating. And she had to admit—it was wonderful to see it all with him. “But I would like to see the birds if we could. I’ve always had a fondness for them and have yet to see any truly unusual ones.”