“You don’t get to know a lot about the people you work with?”
Rosamund toyed with the button on her coat, thinking how little she actually knew about anyone there, including Colin. In all the months they’d known each other, he’d not once mentioned anything about having a family or a life outside of the circus.
“Oui, you do, especially if you’re in close quarters like we shall be. But not with the Rossi family. They stick only together.”
Rosamund watched as Bella turned to find Colin standing with the group. She seemed cool as ever, but greeted him by pressing a welcoming kiss to his cheek.
She doesn’t seem to have trouble sticking to Colin, she thought.
“Célèbre. Maybe one day we will be stars too.” Annaliese shrugged, a layer of longing thrown into it. “But they are today. They have a private train car and their own tents when we travel.”
“We don’t get our own tents?”
Annaliese shook her head.
“Not unless you count a tent full of horses. But I traveled with a riding troop from Marseilles, so it’s really no different here. You do the show.”
“I made Bella’s acquaintance in England,” Rosamund whispered, thoughts trailing off as she watched the group. Colin greeted Enzo and Marvio with steady handshakes, then hurried off somewhere, disappearing into the activity before them. “We, um . . . we traveled into New York Harbor in October. Along with Colin and Ward.”
“So I have heard. Or so everyone has heard.”
“Heard what?”
“You were recruited all the way from England with your Arabian in tow. And you are replacing May Wirth, non? You’re the next big thing around here. And whether that information is from Ward’s wagging tongue”—Annaliese cocked her eyebrows and offered a dimpled smile—“or from the preparations Colin made for you both, that is tantalizing. Potins!”
Rosamund had taken enough French to know exactly what that was: gossip. And by the look on Annaliese’s face, it seemed Rosamund was topic number one.
“But no one even knows me, Annaliese. What could they have to gossip about?”
Annaliese shrugged her shoulders, as if the answer was easy as pie. “You’re the English Rose, and you’re going to be a star. That is quite enough.”
Rosamund shook her head. Politely, but firmly.
Joining the show was one thing. Being told she’d be a star was something entirely different.
“But you mustn’t worry about that now. We shall be sisters.” Annaliese bounced, pecking a kiss to Rosamund’s cheek. “We have a show to give! And you, dear, need a new costume.”
“I suppose I do.”
Annaliese hooked her elbow around Rosamund’s. “Yes. I will introduce you to Minnie, our costume mistress. And as the way of things in the circus, the unexpected has happened. She needs to see you to take your measurements.”
Annaliese had an almost sinister tilt to one eyebrow, like a petite detective ready to scope out her next suspect for a crime.
Rosamund almost laughed. “The unexpected?”
“Minnie designed a costume for you already—a lovely satin number. Satin and tulle in canary yellow. And you would have looked like soleil in the ring. Truly. Every bit of sunshine.”
“Would have looked? You mean the costume . . . Something happened to it?”
Annaliese nodded. “I thought you knew,” she whispered, daring to look over at Bella Rossi before continuing. “More gossip. We found it hanging in the costume wagon, cut to shreds.”
CHAPTER 15
1905
HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY
Mable had never worn a wedding dress before, and certainly not as she walked through the halls of a sanitarium, trying to angle stiff crinolines and yards of lace around the metal wheels of hospital beds positioned as fabric traps the length of the walls.
The staff at St. Mary’s Hospital bustled about in the care of their patients. Mable ignored their curious looks, holding her head high and continuing on as though it were the most common of occurrences.
“It’s right here, Miss Burton. Room 24,” the nurse leading her advised.
“Thank you.”
Mable stood just outside the open door, perched in the confines of the hall.
She exhaled a breath she’d been holding since she’d stepped from John’s car and crossed the threshold of the sanitarium’s front doors. And of all times to find herself afflicted, she stood frozen now. Unwilling to turn around and leave, but unable to take a step forward.
The effects of influenza had forever weakened Sally’s heart. No longer able to sing, she was in and out of the sanitarium regularly. And though drinking cough syrup had been an aid to Sally’s frayed sensibilities for years, she’d transitioned to find open comfort in strong drink for the many months that had followed her collapse during a set at the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel.
Now Mable’s friend languished in the sanitarium, humming tunes under her breath while she stared out the window, watching the sky float by.
Meanwhile, John had breezed back into Mable’s life. And he was staying. The exquisite lace dress and pompadour hairstyle she wore were evidence of that now—it was her wedding day, and her groom cared enough to make this stop on their way to the Hudson County courthouse. Yet there she was, hiding in the hallway of a busy hospital in a perfectly elegant gown, reluctant to face the possibility that the moments ahead might very well be the last she’d share with her friend.
She rapped lightly on the door.
Sally turned from the bower of winter clouds outside the window and smiled, seeing her friend in the doorway.
Mable moved to walk in.
“No,” Sally said, raising a hand to stop her. “I want to marvel at you from there. Can you spin?”
Sally’s auburn hair, so rich and fiery once, hung in lifeless tendrils about her shoulders. The porcelain complexion Mable had always admired had now dimmed to a soft gray, one that colored the skin on the underside of her eyes with dark, sunken-in patches of purple. And she was terribly thin. Why, it looked as though a light wind could blow her from the surface of the bed.
Mable swallowed hard, pushing down the emotion that welled up from the confines of her chest. “Oh, what good would spinning do but make me dizzy?”
“Humor me.”
Mable sighed in mock exasperation and did as she was asked, turning in a quick pirouette on the edge of her heel.
“A thirty-year-old woman just danced like a grammar-school ballerina in your room. I hope you’re happy.”
“I am. And let me guess. You’re on your way to vote? Or to sit for a Gibson magazine cover shoot?”
“You know very well that if women had the vote, I’d have worn twice the amount of lace.” Mable smiled, cocking an eyebrow at her. “I’d want to dress the part—Gibson magazine cover or not.”
Sally’s face warmed in a smile.
The kind that Mable had always admired about her.
“Come,” she invited, waving Mable into the room. She patted the side of her bed. “Sit with me. We’ll watch the world fly by outside the window. Unless you have somewhere else more important to be today?”
Mable shook her head and edged into the room, taking slow steps that clipped her heels against the linoleum flooring.
“Nowhere more important than here. Than right now,” she answered, and swept her long skirt underneath her to sit at Sally’s side. “Well, look at us. Both dressed in white.” She winked.
“White . . . Yes. There’s a lot of white around here. Everywhere you look. I wish they could see fit to introduce another color . . .” Sally’s voice faded away for the briefest of moments. Then she seemed revived, saying, “They say my heart is giving out, you know.”
She ref
used to look at Mable as she bluntly changed the subject, instead opting to twist the edges of a white cotton blanket on the bed round the tip of her index finger.
“Sally . . .” Mable sniffed, wiping her nose on a handkerchief.
“All of them say it.” Sally attempted to tease, rolling misty eyes to the ceiling. “I could have told those doctors it gave out a long time ago. What girl can keep a ticker in her chest when it’s ripped out time and time again?”
“Don’t talk like this,” Mable urged. “I’ll be back soon. Very soon. And we’ll take another one of our walks along the pier. You’ll see every color in the rainbow then. There’s a Ferris wheel now—just like the one we saw at the Exposition in Chicago ages ago. Even the Marlborough has added a new wing. It’s the crowning glory of the steel pier. John and I will take you to see it all.”
Sally looked like she almost believed her. “A walk on the pier would be lovely.” She closed her eyes. Shutting out pain, squeezing a tear between her beautiful long lashes. “Tell me, Mable Ringling—what will you see on your honeymoon?” she asked in an embattled whisper.
“We sail for Europe this evening.”
“And will you visit the Venetian opera house we once talked about?”
“Perhaps.” Mable nodded, licking her lips and blinking over tears that fought with her own lashes too. Even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Had promised them both she’d be strong if this was good-bye. “If I find it. I’ll go there and bring you back some memories.”
“Tell me again? About the opera house. The one you saw when you walked into the Shamrock Club in Chicago?”
“Hmm.” Mable laughed. “My memory is a bit hazy, but I recall it had something to do with a stylish young stage-stealer who could sing like a lark. I was transfixed—an Ohio farm girl who walked into a Chicago club looking for a job, and instead was taken halfway round the world by a friend’s gift of song.”
“Keep going,” Sally whispered, laying her head back on the pillow.
“I saw a singer—Sally was her name. Standing onstage, wearing the finest silk this side of the Orient. In her very favorite shade of pink. And her voice? It carried up to kiss the gilding on the grand auditorium’s ceiling. That girl reminded us all that having a dream is a special thing. She reminded me that it’s okay to carry a cigar box around, as long as you don’t live in it.”
Sally opened her eyes to gaze back at Mable. “And what do you carry in it?”
“A lifetime of memories,” Mable mouthed, having lost her battle with her tears, which had begun a trail down her cheeks. “They’re what dreams become.”
“Yes. Memories. That’s what you need to keep building in that cigar box of yours. Do you hear me, Mable? You will never take this for granted. You know why?”
Mable shook her head. “Why?”
“Because you found something more precious than gold,” Sally said, reaching her hand over to hold her friend’s. “You found love. It’s genuine and warm and everything I’d always looked for. And I know that God has shown you favor, because you prized something far more worthy than the rest of us.”
“I’ve done nothing, Sally. Nothing but dreamed of what I wanted my life to be. That’s all. Having a dream is easy. It’s being brave enough to walk the journey every day that sets you apart from the crowd.”
The clock on the far wall chimed low, ringing with the call of midday.
They both turned to it.
“It’s time for you to go, isn’t it?” Sally asked.
Mable nodded. “John’s waiting in the car downstairs.”
“Those are your wedding bells, friend. You go answer their call.” Sally patted her hand, nudging her on.
Mable rose, finding it easier to turn and go quickly rather than linger in the moment. She told herself that they were being silly. That Sally’s illness was temporary. That it was December now, but surely the warmth of the coming spring would help her condition. And the sea air would enliven her again. She’d be back onstage to sing a set in no time.
She told herself that this was just good-bye for now. So she could gather more pictures in her cigar box and bring them back home to share.
“Mable Burton?”
Mable stopped in her tracks, one hand braced on the doorframe. Realizing it might be the last time she’d hear that name, save for when she’d speak her vows.
She held up the side of her dress, keeping the yards of lace away from the danger of her heel. She turned, head held high, taking the sting of death like a Gibson girl would—with strength and poise and not an ounce of regret.
“Yes, Sally?”
“What kind of bouquet will you carry? I want to picture it.”
“Our favorite, of course. Pink roses.” She lavished a smile on her friend. “I promise I’ll always have them around. I’ll have a rose garden for us. And I’ll tend those blooms with my own hands. There will never be a rose that comes into my life that will be overlooked. Not on my watch. Not if I can help it grow. I promise you that. There will never be a single dream lost in any garden I tend.”
“You know what? I believe that. And I’m not angry anymore. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” Sally whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek with a graceful hand. “I think I was shown favor too. God hasn’t forgotten me. Not in Chicago, and certainly not here. Something was always at work behind the scenes, because He brought me a friend like you.”
Mable took an instinctive step forward, but Sally shook her head softly, as though she were the bearer of wisdom and not the other way around.
“No, Mable Ringling. You go board your ship of dreams. Go to Venice. See everything your heart has been waiting for. I’ll want to hear about it when you get back.”
“I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE GONE IN WITH YOU,” JOHN ADMITTED, shaking his head when she joined him in the backseat of the car.
“No. I’m fine.” Mable waved him off, flipping her wrist as if she hadn’t any tears still glazing her eyes. She fought with the rows of lace on her gown, pulling and smoothing to ensure it was all inside before the driver closed the door.
“How is Miss Rivers?” John asked as the car began lumbering down the half-moon circle in front of the sanitarium.
Mable glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
John had turned toward her, those eyes she’d always remembered serious and empathetic at the same time. Mable liked to believe he’d only ever show that look to her, and no one else. Knowing his reputation for indifference and a staunch level of seriousness in his relationships, she was warmed to see that he could debunk that myth with a single glance her way.
She leaned in, dropping a soft kiss to his lips.
“Let’s go get married,” she whispered, grinning wide.
“Driver,” he half shouted, tapping his cane to the floor of the automobile. “You heard my fiancée. To the courthouse.”
“But we have one stop to make along the way.”
John turned to her, an easy smile tipped on the lips she’d just warmed with her own.
“Already it starts. Every man is driven by the woman behind him.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Ringling. I shall never interfere with your business dealings.”
His eyes widened, heavy brows lifted in a look of genuine surprise. “Is that so?”
She gave a quick nod. “Of course. The circus is your world to manage, and I’ll leave you to it. But I will always walk beside you. That I can promise. I’m not a walk-behind-anyone kind of woman.”
“I see.”
Her soon-to-be-husband was indeed a man of few words. But it was his actions that could speak louder. He surprised her by pulling a bag from the floorboard on the other side of the car and placing it in her lap.
“Then what in the world will I do with this?”
Her heart could have burst right there. “What is it?”
He lifted his shoulders, tipping the wide collar of his wool coat as if he hadn’t a clue.
Mable bit the edge of her bottom lip on a rush of excitement that tumbled in all at once, making her feel like a child at Christmas. The package was wrapped in pink tissue paper, which she delighted in tearing into.
And there in her lap, shielded by a bevy of airy pink tissue, was an oilcloth briefcase of meticulous tailored design. It looked handcrafted. And what’s more, it was stamped with the initials MBR in gold leaf, plain as day on the front.
“I thought you’d like it.” He placed a hand atop hers. “When I saw your cigar box that day on the pier, I thought you’d need something better to carry your treasures in.”
Mable smiled, delighting in the quiet ways he managed to compliment who she was.
It was as if he alone knew what had been in her heart, even as far back as the memory of a tea parlor in Cincinnati. And now he’d bought a satchel for her dreams from that point on. The dreams they’d share together.
“Look inside.”
She opened the flap and, with a gloved hand shaking ever so slightly, plucked an old, worn souvenir fan and two ocean liner tickets from the inside pouch.
“The boat won’t wait. So, my dear, where are we stopping on our way to this wedding?”
Mable wiped at her eyes, laughing to think of how her afternoon mixture of tears had likely damaged any paint on her face beyond repair. But it didn’t matter. Wedding days were made for smiling and tears. They’d welcome both.
She hugged the briefcase to her chest.
The Ringmaster's Wife Page 15
