The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  She had a beautiful dressing screen in shades of wine and black set in the back, with a gold-filigree rose pattern along the top and sides. The grass and earth field beneath their feet had been covered with an ornamental rug, and Bella slipped her toes out of her heels to walk around on it barefoot.

  Open trunks laced with her trapeze rigging, studio photographs, and publicity stills covered one side, along with an oversized cot with satiny throw pillows and a brocade coverlet in rich tones of red and gold. And while that may have been quite enough to intimidate Rosamund, the other side of the room was entirely fashioned to amplify Bella’s star mystique. There stood an enormous dressing table with a gilded mirror and a tall standing trunk with elaborate costumes of all kinds.

  Bella sat on an X-frame wooden stool at the dressing table, her back to Rosamund.

  A single electric light glowed from its perch at the top of the mirror, creating soft shadows on the contours of her face. She looked at Rosamund from the reflection cast in the mirror.

  “Not exactly like the pad room, is it?”

  There was no point in advising Bella a second time that the pad room was for horses. She knew the difference, Rosamund had no doubt.

  “No,” she confirmed. “Not like the pad room at all.”

  “The screen is behind you,” Bella advised, without looking up. She’d occupied her hands with sorting through a tray of costume jewelry on the tabletop.

  The tent was intended for Rosamund to see. That was very clear. What she wondered then, as she crossed to the screen in the back, was why the invitation had been extended at all. Why would this woman go to such lengths to establish her seniority in such an ardent way?

  “You were rehearsing late again?”

  Rosamund swallowed hard and fumbled with the buttons on her shirt.

  Please . . . don’t let her have seen me with Colin.

  “What time is it?” she edged out, nearly squeaking on the words.

  “Late enough, I suppose. But not too late for your riding.”

  Rosamund thought of the same question she’d asked Colin. For some reason, he’d not answered it either. Did no one recognize time unless it was show time?

  “Yes,” she called out from behind the screen. “As you said, we go in the center ring soon. Ingénue and I want to be prepared.”

  “And Colin? Does he think you’re prepared?”

  Rosamund yanked the fabric over her middle with the surprise of such a question. A tiny thread came loose at the seam of the corset-waist, splitting by more than two stitches. It made a tiny rip, causing her to grimace.

  “Um, I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask him.” She ran her fingertips over the split seam. “A stitch came loose,” she called. “I’ll have to take this back to Minnie tonight.”

  The wooden stool creaked, indicating that Bella had eased her weight off and stood. And then her voice was directly across from Rosamund, on the other side of the screen.

  “Toss it over the top. I can repair it.”

  Rosamund obeyed and slipped out of the costume, tossing it over the screen as instructed. By leaning back ever so slightly she could see the standing trunk in the shadows, past the side of the screen, boasting all of the elegant clothes Bella owned. There was more than one fur coat. Several hats. And too many elegant frocks to count. The sight of them all made Rosamund abhor the riding clothes she’d been forced to slip back into.

  She came round the screen, pulling a suspender over her shoulder.

  Bella was bent over the fabric, a needle and thread in one hand, a golden thimble on her index finger, patching the seam of the garment.

  “Sit,” she offered without looking up. “This will only take a moment.”

  Rosamund found a second X-frame stool not far from the dressing table and sat.

  Awkward seconds ticked by. Wind grazed the sides of the tent every so often. And the faint sound of laughter and harmonicas still drifted in the background.

  She watched Bella with sudden curiosity.

  Each stitch she made was with precision.

  After Rosamund’s long history of her mother’s required dress fittings and couture wardrobes for each season, she’d seen enough of tailoring to know an expert when she saw one. Bella was a learned seamstress.

  She finished the last stitch and tied it off, breaking the thread away from the needle with her teeth.

  “Never look directly in the lights. They’ll blind you.”

  She held out the costume.

  “All right.” Rosamund took the silky fabric in hand, adding, “Thank you.”

  One look over the seam confirmed Bella’s skill. It was better than perfect, with no evidence that any rip had even occurred.

  “Don’t eat a large meal before you perform. It will sit in you like a stone and will show in your performance. And if you lose any part of your costume, you keep going with the act. That goes for slippers, hairstyle—anything.”

  Rosamund didn’t quite understand.

  Bella was elegant and refined in her condescending quips, but was bestowing actual advice on her. Rosamund found that the oddest contradiction.

  “Why . . . why are you helping me?”

  “Every new performer needs something. Some kind of help.” Bella paused, tipping her head to one side. She ran the golden thimble over the tips of her fingers as she talked, her hand moving absently while she collected her thoughts. “You know, you might think about cutting your hair. It is awfully long, isn’t it?”

  Rosamund brought up a hand, unconsciously patting the thick coil at her nape.

  Hers was nothing compared to the stylish bob that Bella wore so well.

  Bella’s was sleek and sophisticated, with blunt-cut bangs and soft curls that framed her cheekbones on each side of her face. It was striking how much she favored an Italian version of Louise Brooks—a stunning film actress Rosamund had seen in a show at the cinema. The look was seemingly effortless for both women, but would have proved a major feat for any normal woman to have achieved.

  Bella notched her chin, having noticed Rosamund’s inspection of her.

  “Long hair isn’t really the fashion in Europe any longer. Nor in the States.”

  Bella rose, slipping the thimble in the pocket of her robe as she walked over to the spot where Rosamund sat. With gentle hands, she ran her fingertips over the waves framing Rosamund’s face and, finding a pin, slipped it out. Slowly. Allowing Rosamund’s hair to come loose and then tumble about her shoulders.

  “Every woman has short hair now,” she whispered. “Except for you.”

  “My mother insisted on keeping the length.”

  “But your madre—she isn’t here, is she?”

  Rosamund shook her head. “No. She’s not.”

  Bella didn’t wait for an answer to move behind Rosamund. She placed her hands on the top of Rosamund’s shoulders in a gesture of veiled dominance.

  “No one is here to give you advice, are they? Because I have so much more experience, I feel it incumbent upon me to do it.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved the thimble, holding it to expose it to the light. “Do you sew?” Bella asked.

  “No.” Rosamund shook her head, her hair waving in a light dance about her shoulders.

  “But I assume you’ve seen one of these before?”

  “Of course. It’s a thimble.”

  “It’s a thimble, yes. But see this?” Bella ran the tip of her index finger around the thick golden rim. “It’s meant to be cut off. When a young seamstress marries, this etched gold band becomes her ring.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s a working girl’s trade secret. Something an earl’s daughter couldn’t know. A thimble with the rim attached means the
seamstress never married. It’s rare to find one intact.”

  Rosamund’s heart fluttered.

  Bella’s words were spoken softly, but their meaning was no less cutting.

  “The circus will travel on. We’ll go from town to town, and you’ll find that you have become a social pariah. Rimonta they’d call you, in my country. Here, you’re a vamp. And that’s if the townspeople are in an agreeable mood. Men will whistle. They’ll look at you as one of the lions would their supper. They’ll gawk at the tiny costume but never propose marriage. And the women they do marry? They’re much worse. They look straight through you. You’ll be cast off everywhere you go. You don’t need to be in the sideshow to be excluded from the parlors or quilting circles of any town in which your poster hangs. They’ll see you on the street corner and walk to the other side just to avoid the scent of your perfume. And all the while, you will lose your innocence. You’ll eventually cut your hair. Shorten your skirt. And one day your star quality will fade. But the thimble will remain in your pocket. Tarnished and unused. You’ll become as rare as me, Lady Easling.”

  Rosamund could feel her heart racing, feel the blood pumping faster through her veins. But she’d give no indication of it. She merely swallowed, keeping her chin high as she stared back at their reflection in the mirror.

  “He’ll hurt you, you know.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?” Bella stepped around to face her, staring down. A sudden harshness had taken over her features.

  The lamplight still glowed, but shadows had bled into the contours of her face. Making her look worn under the layers of powder and rouge. A primped star with exhaustion in life marring her perfectly coiffed crown.

  “Circus is all Colin Keary knows. It’s all he cares about. There have been many long-haired poster beauties before you, and there will be many more after. And it doesn’t take long for a costume’s seams to fray and sequins to lose their sparkle. Not here, and certainly not in his eyes.”

  Rosamund shot to her feet.

  It no longer mattered whether Bella had seen their kiss under the Big Top. There was a line drawn in the sawdust at her feet too. It separated the childlike wonder of the circus from something harsh. Unfiltered. A world that was crass and bawdy, in which the center ring’s star had grown all too bitter. Bella Rossi’s was a line drawn between light and darkness, laughter and pain.

  Rosamund wanted no part of it.

  “Thank you for the fitting,” she shot out in a hasty whisper, offering a polite nod before spinning on her heels to flee the tent.

  “Your hairpin,” Bella called after her.

  Rosamund padded across the oriental rug back to Bella’s side and took the oversized hairpin in hand. She tried to leave again but felt the grip of cold fingers catch the underside of her elbow, drawing her back.

  “Take this too,” Bella offered, pressing the thimble into her palm. She curled Rosamund’s fingers over the flash of gold. “I don’t need it anymore.”

  CHAPTER 23

  1927

  VANCOUVER, CANADA

  The center ring had been a source of much angst for Rosamund in the months since that first disastrous performance at Madison Square Garden.

  But not this night.

  She told herself they’d not fear it.

  Even with Bella’s ominous words still ringing in her head. Instead, she’d focused on the rose she’d been given. The gift had given her the idea of taking Mable’s wisdom into the ring. And so Rosamund had brilliant blooms laced all along the nape of her neck, English roses intertwined with long ropes of her hair twisted round their stems. She wore her new costume of pink, a sweet corset design with layers of gauze and gold sequins falling down like colored air about her waist. Tiny slippers, sequined in gold and blush-pink, adorned her feet. And even Ingénue was bedecked for the occasion, with English roses braided into her mane and a harness that flashed with gold ribbons dancing.

  Never in one of her mother’s couture-designed dresses had Rosamund felt as beautiful as she did in that moment. The costume and the ethereal magic of riding out on a dream made everything she’d ever worn pale by comparison.

  Rosamund’s hands had indeed felt better by morning. And even the sting of the encounter with Bella the night before was forgotten when she gripped the reins. Her hands felt sure. Her heart ready.

  Owen approached their side.

  “Annaliese will ride into ring one with the liberty horses. And you go on to your place in the center ring.” He let out a deep sigh, one tinged with a smile. “There you’ll shine. Go dance, the two of you, for every eye in the house.”

  Rosamund nodded, biting the corner of her bottom lip over the emotion she read in his face. It was almost paternal in a way, a sense of pride that she hadn’t seen anyone use when looking on her in quite some time. Maybe even since Hendrick.

  But it was there in Owen’s eyes; he believed in her. That was enough.

  “And you’ve got something special for the act tonight? Colin wouldn’t say what it is, just that I should be ready for it.”

  “Just that we plan to march into the center ring and take the Big Top by storm,” she confirmed, patting Ingénue with a soft rub of the neck. “We’re ready.”

  “It’s your time then,” he said. “And you’ll make us proud.”

  The ringmaster signaled their entry, and Owen nodded before hurrying out in front of the troop. And with that, the horses rode out and began their part in the show.

  Annaliese was pert and engaging as usual, stirring the crowd with tricks and delight, flitting about like a fairy as the liberty horses clipped around their ring in precision. Children marveled as she whisked about in front of her horses, dancing light as air as she ran through the act.

  Rosamund would have liked to stay and watch, but the center ring was calling. She nudged Ingénue forward at a light, high-stepping trot. They’d circle the ring to come to center on the opposite side.

  Maybe it was the dimming of the lights over the bleachers. Or perhaps it was the spotlights that shone down, tracing their path. Rosamund was more inclined to believe it was a combination of that and the moments she’d shared with Colin in that very spot the night before. But whatever the reason, fear dulled. And in its place was joy.

  Rosamund hopped down and discarded the long tails of ribbons from Ingénue’s harness, leaving nothing to the Arabian’s costume but the bower of roses braided in her mane.

  They began to run through their act, she thinking to guide Ingénue through. But it became clear, as they performed one trick after another, that Ingénue required no firm hand and no calming of nerves. Sawdust became the field grasses at Easling Park and the Big Top no longer canvas, but the North Yorkshire sky. And there they rode together, having lost all notion of anything but dancing in the fields that for years had been their haven.

  Rosamund didn’t notice the hush that had fallen over the crowd until the halfway point in the act. But the circus band had faded into silence, replaced by the sounds of Ingénue’s hooves hitting sawdust and their cadence of breathing in tune.

  Not knowing why the music had stopped, and unable to see past the bright spotlights shining down, Rosamund’s only thought was to continue.

  Then, without warning, life came back with the gentle cry of new notes.

  The amplified sound of a single violin cut through the tangles of rope and wire in the vault above their heads, owning the air with the most beautiful music she’d ever heard. Rosamund recognized it at once as “Roses of Picardy”—her beloved British wartime song.

  She looked from left to right, still nearly blinded by the spotlights. She wondered as they rode—Who? Where?

  Someone was playing the violin under the Big Top, and playing it for her. It sang out, its rich to
nes filling the air. Coursing through them, sending her heart to soar higher than their canvas sky.

  Together with Ingénue, she was lost. Just as Colin predicted and Owen had hoped.

  As she popped up to stand tall on Ingénue’s back, she reached up and unthreaded the string of roses from her hair. It fell in a dark curtain against her back, soaring out behind her, mixing with the sweet notes of the violin and falling rose petals.

  She performed vaulting—the elaborate dance on horseback—while Ingénue cantered round the ring. Her balance was flawless. Her limbs fluid. Light as air. Supporting her through her somersaulting, giving her wings. And her signature move—the backbend to backward flip from Ingénue’s back—she flew through without an ounce of trepidation, her feet planting in the center of the ring, the dismount the perfection Colin had always known she could display.

  It wasn’t until the performance had ended that Rosamund realized they were still in front of the crowd.

  Thousands of hands clapped.

  Voices erupted with unencumbered shouts and applause, thundering like clouds pouring rain.

  Rosamund eased Ingénue to the side of the ring and stood there, arm braced under the horse’s head, cradling her nose to bring their foreheads to touch. And together, they took a bow, with Rosamund’s hair spilling over her shoulders and happy tears running down her face.

  She pulled roses from Ingénue’s mane and tossed them to the children in straw alley.

  It was then that she dipped her head enough to catch the glow of another spotlight. It was positioned in front of the crowd, shining down on a man who’d been shrouded in shadow until that moment. He, too, was used to the ring, but never before as a musician.

  There stood Colin Keary, with a violin and bow in hand.

  The behind-the-scenes lifeblood of the show, the Irishman turned ringmaster, was staring back at her now with pride alive in his eyes.

  He nodded once, slowly. A gesture of respect.

  For the courage to go back in the ring when she’d once failed so miserably before him. And for family even, for the ring had become their home and the performers in it part of their heart, never to go back.