The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  “It’s Indian for ‘friend,’ ” Annaliese said, and leaned in to Rosamund’s side, hugging her elbow. “Which we are to be as well. Allons-y, eh?”

  “Let’s go,” Rosamund repeated, proving she was learning more of Annaliese’s French colloquialisms every day.

  “Oui, because our car is down the line and the boss will have our hides if we miss the train. Let’s make tracks.”

  “ARE YOU LOST?”

  Rosamund stood at the top of the metal steps, wedged in the space between two cars. She whirled around to find herself face-to-face with Enzo Rossi. He stood with arms crossed over his chest, looking down on her with the unwavering glare of a security guard watching a vault of diamonds.

  “No, not lost. I—” Flustered, Rosamund dropped her satchel in her haste to keep both it, her coat, and her suitcase bundled in her arms. “I was looking for my car.”

  Rosamund glanced behind her, looking for Annaliese to follow as she had said she would. But it appeared as though the holdup was Ward’s doing, as he’d pulled her friend off to the side, holding her hostage with an animated tale of something they both found amusing. Because of that, Rosamund was left alone with the looming figure blocking her path and her satchel on the step at her feet.

  “You’re new,” Enzo exhaled, and bent to help her collect her bag. “And you are lost if you’re standing here.”

  He had the classic good looks of his sister—dark hair and eyes, a firm jaw and slender build. Except for the fact that he wasn’t given to the narrow-eyed greetings Bella now preferred when she saw Rosamund, they might’ve been twins.

  “Yes.” She took the bag, grateful that though he was direct, Enzo’s manner didn’t seem to indicate blatant unkindness.

  He rose to standing again, tilting his head toward the car behind him.

  “These are private cars, miss.”

  Rosamund looked past, just able to see through the frosted glass door into the compartment. She saw their uncle, Marvio, sitting at a card table in the center of the room. He smoked a cigar while playing cards with two other men. There was ample space behind them, with a wooden desk mounted on the far wall and two green velvet benches on the opposite side. She could see through to what looked like a sleeping compartment, lit by exquisite, Tiffany-style lamps hanging from the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered, pulling back out of view of the gentlemen in the car. “I was looking for the shared passenger car.”

  “Which one?”

  “There’s more than one?”

  A svelte figure appeared in the doorway, slinking past.

  Rosamund recognized her as Frankie because of both her exquisite beauty and her aloof, chin-up attitude. She wore an elaborate beaded gown in lavender and silver, with a luscious head-to-toe mink draped over her shoulders.

  “You bet there’s more than one,” the icy blonde cooed, pecking a kiss to her husband’s cheek before stalking past into the confines of the car. She left the door open, hanging there so she could drop the mink from her shoulders and smooth it into her hands. “You’d best march right down those stairs and get back to your car before we shove off. The train won’t wait.”

  “You’re Enzo,” Rosamund said, attempting a familiarity. “And you’re Frankie? It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Rosamund. I traveled with Bella on our passage from England.”

  The blonde stared through her introduction, offering the warmth of a glacier.

  “My name is Frances Rossi—to low-rungs,” she asserted. “And you really shouldn’t be here.”

  Enzo cleared his throat, leaning into the private car enough to whisper something in his wife’s ear. Whatever he said had enough bite that she closed her mouth and moved deeper into the car. She eased into the background, peeling the gray leather gloves from her arms with jerky movements, looking incensed.

  Enzo turned back to Rosamund, pointing down the steps to the train platform beyond.

  “What she means is, if you go down the stairs back to the platform, the shared passenger cars start two back from this one—directly behind the privileged car. You’ll find other performers back there who can show you to which one you’re assigned.”

  He nodded, as if that were that, and stepped back into his compartment. He clicked the door closed and, without missing a beat, pulled the shade in her face.

  “Thank you,” she added under her breath. But he’d already gone.

  The thought occurred to Rosamund as she trekked down the stairs that she could have given them a piece of her mind and been in the right place for it. Had they been in England, the tables would have been remarkably turned. She’d have been recognized as Lady Easling there, the wealthy daughter of an earl with vast holdings. And as the daughter of a rumrunner, Frances Rossi would have been seen as unfit to polish her boots—according to the pecking order Rosamund’s mother would have outlined in the moment.

  But she sighed, thinking that wasn’t who she was. Or not who she wanted to be now. Her old life had faded away, and if this was the new social order of things, then Rosamund decided she’d just have to get used to it—unwelcome airs or not.

  She blew out a breath on the busy platform.

  Rosamund scanned the crowd of people and animals hurrying toward the train, looking for Annaliese’s petite figure. She walked alongside the cars, looking up to see the Rossi family through the windows, moving about in their private car while she walked with the low-rungs out on the platform.

  Enzo looked to be engaged in a passionate exchange of words with Frankie. Marvio stood behind, hand raised to defuse whatever had passed between his nephew and his wife. And though Rosamund hadn’t known she was in the car at all, Bella was tucked away in the window of their private car’s sleeping quarters. Rosamund could see her reflection through the glass, light hitting her jet-black locks and olive skin with a warm glow. She gazed off in the distance, eyes fixed on nothing or no one in particular.

  Rosamund lowered her head and kept walking.

  So much for the family atmosphere Colin had advocated.

  It wasn’t the sweetness of friends like Annaliese or kind, lumbering beasts like Nora that Rosamund recognized as family-like. This time it was the boiling over of family dynamics in the Rossi car that took center stage. The jockeying for position was familiar. As was showing off wealth and privilege to anyone with a pair of eyes . . .

  That was the world of Easling Park, and she understood it well.

  Rosamund gripped the rail two cars down and climbed the steps up to the shared passenger car. She stood behind several other performers, all waiting in line to find their fold-down cot space on the sleeper train.

  It was with arms full and aching from the load she carried that Rosamund promised herself one thing—she’d be different from that day on. She wouldn’t let the pecking order of the Rossi family or anyone else define her. And if she had to, she’d work harder than any other performer in the show.

  If that’s what it took, she’d prove her worth.

  CHAPTER 20

  1927

  YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO

  This was poised to go badly.

  As sure as he had instincts about anything, Colin knew how it would play out.

  Enduring a conversation to tell Bella her contract wouldn’t be renewed was about the last thing he wanted to do that day. He almost wished he was headed to the big cats’ wagon rather than walking into a den of lions bearing the last name Rossi.

  Colin trudged up the stairs to his wagon.

  It was dark still. Early enough that all the lights were out, and the enameled metal coffeepot stood cold and untended on a back shelf.

  Figures.

  It was one of Ward’s simple tasks to fetch the coffee. One he never seemed to remember on the best of days. And this—a rainy
, unseasonably cool summer morning—looked to be among the worst.

  And on the morning I really need a cup . . .

  He crossed the wagon in a huff and flipped on the desk lamp.

  It illuminated Mr. Charlie’s old desk, casting shadows on every nick and crevice in the aged wood.

  The administrative wagon was the way the Ringling Brothers’ operating manager had always preferred it: clean and orderly, minus superfluous detail. It was the same now, save for the stacks of mail and the endless paper ledgers Colin despised gathered in a haphazard pile that spilled out from the bin on the desk.

  He’d squeezed a canvas cot up against the wall in the corner, his if he slept at all. He traveled with his stacks of books too, just like John Ringling and Mr. Charlie had. And the case for the prized violin Colin now owned held its perch with a worn leather strap keeping it secured on a high shelf. An oversized map of the United States hung on the wall, pins marking all of the circus’s show stops through the end of the season.

  These were all his worldly possessions, squeezed within four walls. He couldn’t help but wonder what it all amounted to.

  The brass wall clock ticked, drawing his attention.

  Nearly seven o’clock.

  Within minutes, four passionate personalities would be in his wagon, all more than ready for a fight. Best to clear the desk now and remove anything that could become a flying missile aimed at his head.

  Colin spotted a peach crate under the desk, the one he’d emptied and refilled dozens of times for his travels through the years. It was sturdy and dependable, and would no doubt travel with him again—this time when the circus moved to winter lodgings in Sarasota in the New Year.

  He pulled the crate up to the side of the desk, then upturned the mail bin, sending the load of paper fluttering down inside. It piled up like a small, daunting mountain asking for a lighted match instead of a reader.

  “Caffè?”

  Colin looked up.

  Bella leaned against the doorframe, lifting one ankle in a sultry tilt. She held out a porcelain mug, extending the peace offering of a cup of coffee as the rain fell behind her.

  “It’s miserable out,” she said, brushing raindrops from the cap sleeves of her dress. “I suspected you wouldn’t have any, so I brought you some.”

  Bella was indeed beautiful, but calculating. It wasn’t about rain or coffee. She wanted something and brought sugar to attract it.

  Same as always.

  “Open or closed?”

  Colin eyed her dark silhouette in the doorway, wondering how much she’d already guessed about their meeting.

  “Closed.”

  Bella clicked the wooden half door closed and waltzed in, alone. Her face serene. Her lips painted in a garish red and her hair already coiffed and tucked under a hat—both odd for the early hour.

  She set his coffee cup on the edge of the desk and eased into the leather-and-wood swivel chair tucked beneath it. She crossed her legs at the ankle and sat up, poker-straight.

  Colin wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of sitting on the cot below her level, so he leaned against the wall. The wagon creaked with age—the only sound to cut through the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof.

  “Thank you for the gesture. Ward seems to have forgotten the favorability of hot coffee in the morning instead of cold coffee in the afternoon.”

  He held back on drinking and instead eyed the door. No one else came stepping through it. He paused, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “No Rossi Family Flyers this morning?”

  “Oh, they found their caffè somewhere else today.” She paused, stopping to tap her nails on the armrest. “And I thought our conversation was best had alone. We were able to talk once, weren’t we?”

  Bella’s words sliced through the air.

  She was confident and without an ounce of fear—at least not that she was likely to let him see.

  Colin could keep just about anything from showing on his face as well. He owned a poker face better than most. But he’d need all of his wits about him if he was going to win the next round with Bella, and she looked ready to play.

  “You’re sure you don’t want the rest of your family here right now? Marvio will want to know what’s been said.”

  “And I can take whatever you wish back to my uncle,” she said, her tone silky. “Or don’t you trust me, Colin?”

  He opted to leave that question alone. “Fine. Here it is: we’re not renewing your contract.”

  Bella noticeably stiffened, despite the layers of garments she wore. Her jaw formed a tight line.

  “Unless”—he paused, giving her full disclosure that water was about to be poured on her flaming ego—“you can guarantee no more drinking. We’ll renew the rest of your family for two years, but you’ll be left out. I hate to put it so bluntly—”

  She cut in. “Oh, but you know how I appreciate your frankness.”

  “You had to know this was coming, Bella,” Colin fired back, keeping his tone stern. In control. “This is a business.”

  “Oh, it’s business, is it? You’re already out recruiting new acts should I have a complete fall from grace. Taking them to meet the Ringlings for a little Christmas party, hmm? You didn’t think I would hear about that? I own respect in this show and I have earned loyalty enough to stay informed when I need to.”

  Colin wanted to sigh. Curse loudly. Or light something on fire.

  It would have felt good, given the veiled reference to his recruitment of Rose. This was a meeting about Bella, and Bella alone. The last thing he could do was appear frustrated, especially when he needed to retain the upper hand.

  “We recruit new acts all the time. It’s part of the show. You know that. We’re here to talk about that stunt you pulled in the ring at the end of the season. Do you realize what might have happened if that net hadn’t been under you?”

  “Have a problem with failure, do you?”

  Colin swallowed hard.

  The sting of her venom cut deeper than Bella might have intended, had she known what she was truly saying. If pasts were anything to be considered, he’d risk his future to make up for his own shortcomings. But to make excuses for Bella now? It felt weak. And clumsy.

  “Failure? Not so much. It’s the scraping performers up from the sawdust that turns my stomach a sight more.”

  “Flyers fall all the time. It’s part of the job. You know that.”

  He leaned forward to look her in the eye, the wall creaking behind him.

  “I’m not judging you, Bella. What you do in your off time is up to you. But when you represent the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey, any illegal activity—especially when it’s been addressed before—will precipitate one of these conversations. The Ringlings are very firm on this. It’s a family show.”

  “And I am the star of their show!” she snapped, slamming her gloved palm against the chair’s armrest. Her lips looked brighter in the lamplight, as if she’d drawn blood with the ferocity of her words.

  “One of them. You are one of many, all of whom can be replaced if need be.”

  She stared back. Seething.

  “There are Prohibition laws, for goodness’ sake! Bella, you can’t keep this up. You’re not immune to losing your job. Or prosecution, even. The circus is not above the law. It goes with us to every town we stop in.”

  “It’s not illegal to consume alcohol—just to make or sell it. I’m not doing either. And don’t try to tell me that Irish blood of yours doesn’t have you taking a sip now and then, hmm? So righteous.” She blew out her breath. “Americans. Always in a fluff about something . . .” She flitted her wrist in the air. “Today, vino. Tomorrow, who knows?”

  “But this is a family show, s
o that’s the law around here and we have to live under it.” He pulled the contract from the inside pocket of his vest and walked over from his perch, sliding the paper across the desk. Next to it he laid a pen. “Now, do you want to sign this first, or do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Tell you?” She leaned forward, anger flashing in her eyes. “I’d sooner talk to the backside of an elephant.” Bella shot to her feet.

  “It’s a contract for the next six months. But if there’s any more of this behavior, you’re out. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. The decision’s in your corner.”

  He watched as Bella removed the glove from her right hand, unscrewed the cap of the pen, and scrawled her name across the bottom of the contract. She tossed the pen across the desk without recapping it, surprisingly in control with every movement.

  “Is that all, Your Majesty?” she added.

  Colin reached for the coffee cup, the contents still releasing tiny swirls of steam. He took it in hand, swirling the liquid around the inside of the cup. Fully debating whether to drink it. Only half in jest, he wondered to himself if she might have laced the liquid with something. At the very least, it gave him something to stare at while he framed his words.

  “I’m sorry, Bella. For everything that’s happened.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m here to help if you need it, but I have to do my job.”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry. How dare you talk to me about being sorry and the cutthroat business of this circus in the same breath! This conversation is over.”

  She turned to leave, her composure firm as concrete as she headed for the door.

  “One more thing.” Colin cleared his throat and took a step toward her, softening his tone. “I need you to be kind to her, Bella.”

  Bella turned. Slowly. As if she had all the time in the world to blast him with an icy reply. “Who?”

  He wanted to forget he’d said it the moment the words were out. Maybe find an extra second or two to convince himself it really was only about the show. That Rose’s success in it was just smart business, and whether Bella was truly kind didn’t matter beyond that.