The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  Kerosene?

  Rosamund’s breathing shallowed out in a blink, suspicion overwhelming her that something wasn’t quite right. Her eyes had only just begun to adjust in the dim stable light around them. She scanned the expanse of stalls, counting the horses along the way.

  She saw nothing but the backs of horses mingling in with the shadows inside their stalls. But then a sudden movement caught in her side vision and Rosamund froze, her eyes fixed upon it. She exhaled lightly, her breath shuddering over parted lips.

  The last thing in the world she’d expected to find in the back of the stable was the tall form of Marvio Rossi, bent over a pile of mounded straw with a kerosene can in one hand and a lighter fixed in the other.

  He stood and flicked the top of the lighter, exposing a flame to the air between them.

  “I knew you’d come back.”

  “Mr. Rossi?” She fought to keep her voice calm. “What are you doing?”

  The strong patriarch of the Rossi family stood before her, the muscles in his arms taut and the lighter fused in his grip.

  God, no . . .

  “Did you set fire to the menagerie house?”

  He shook his head. “A small fire in a trash can. Just a diversion.”

  “A diversion for what?”

  “For you, Miss Easling. As I said, I knew you would come back here. I heard you make that promise to Colin the night you were attacked. But you didn’t come to the ring stock tent the night of the storm, did you? I thought that was my chance then. But he had eyes on you every moment after that, so there was no opportunity. Until today.”

  Rosamund’s thoughts slammed about in her head.

  “It was you all along,” she breathed out, hands gripping the reins until her knuckles were white and her wrists shaking.

  The notes. The threats. The attack that could have done so much more than simply knock her out for a few moments . . . All the while she’d thought it was Bella who had tried to scare her out of her place in the show—not the man who’d been kind. He’d been the voice of reason between Colin and the Rossi family. He’d even helped her after she’d been attacked. It was he and Enzo who had picked her up in their strong arms and carried her back to safety.

  “But why did you stop? The notes . . .”

  “You already thought Bella hated you. And that made it easier to plan in the event Colin wouldn’t listen to reason. I tried to convince him. Gave him every opportunity to support Bella. But he decided to travel to England instead and recruit someone to take her place. To take our entire family’s place. And he came back with you. He threw Bella away. Discarded all of us like we didn’t matter.”

  “But it was a woman . . . The girl said a woman paid her to give me the envelope.”

  “I paid a woman to do it. It was not difficult. And the men I hired were supposed to put you out of the show. Not slide you right into the star spot with a sympathy wound to the head. They didn’t do their job. And I was forced to clean up after them, just like I’m doing now.”

  “You don’t understand.” She found herself pleading against the ghostly indifference she saw on his face. “I’m leaving. Today’s my last show.”

  Marvio shook his head, scoffing. “You’re lying. Colin would have announced it if that were true. You’re his star.”

  Rosamund looked from the bed of straw in the center of the stable back to the lighter in Marvio’s hand. The horses jostled around them, some bobbing their heads with soft, murmuring neighs. Ingénue had taken to clip-clopping her hooves in place, showing her growing sense of agitation.

  It seemed even the animals could sense the threat.

  Rosamund gave a gentle tug on Ingénue’s reins, thinking to walk her backward through the doors. She glanced over her shoulder, realizing the path to freedom was too far. If Marvio had doused the ground with kerosene, everything would become a firestorm that would engulf them in a matter of seconds. She couldn’t possibly turn and climb up to ride them out in time.

  “Please,” she entreated, looking around at the scores of horses that would perish if he dropped the flame. “You don’t have to do this. Bella can still recover. She can come back. And I won’t be here when she does.”

  “You’re right,” he whispered, holding up the lighter. “You won’t.”

  “Stop.” A voice carried across the length of the stable.

  Rosamund spun her head around to the opposite end of the stall row, looking for the source. Her breath caught in her chest and relief flooded over her. Enzo stood in the archway, his hand anchored to the side of the door that had been cracked open.

  He took careful steps forward, walking in his flyer’s costume with leather slippers crunching on straw, until he stood directly in front of them. He stopped, bracing his feet apart and holding balled fists at his sides.

  “You won’t hurt her, Uncle.”

  “Move, Enzo. This has to be done.”

  “Then you’ll have to go through me.” He stood firm. “I won’t let you do this. It’s not what Bella would want, and you know it.”

  Marvio shook his head, arms trembling with pent-up anger.

  “I did all of this for Bella. For us! We’re family, Enzo. That goes deeper than this show.”

  Enzo stared back. “You didn’t do this for me or for her. I may have wished things to end differently for Bella, but she has a chance now. It’s a slight one, with consumption, but that’s something. And I won’t let you harm this girl, no matter what’s happened. It doesn’t justify what you’ve done.”

  Rosamund’s fist was tightened around Ingénue’s reigns.

  “You can go, Rosamund,” Enzo said, keeping his voice deadly serious and his eyes affixed to his uncle’s.

  Marvio squeezed his hand around the lighter even before she made an effort to move. She fought to keep Ingénue still, making shh sounds.

  “Rosamund, back away slowly,” Enzo instructed. “Go ahead. It’s okay.”

  She obeyed, feeling her throat drying up. They edged backward, she and Ingénue together, taking each step at a slow and intentional pace.

  “What about all we’ve lost? What about your sister, Enzo? And your wife. You’ll be left with nothing!” Marvio shouted at his nephew.

  Rosamund gave a light tug against Ingénue’s reins and turned to look back at how far they had yet to go. Her breath caught in her lungs.

  “Colin . . .,” she breathed.

  He was edging closer across the stable from her, shaking his head with a finger pressed to his lips. Her eyes darted back and forth from Enzo and Marvio to Colin, who was shrouded in the shadows.

  “I’ll still have my name,” Enzo answered, the calmness in his voice unwavering. “This isn’t the way it has to be, Uncle. And I know you don’t want to do this either. You can choose.”

  She couldn’t risk saying anything. But Rosamund’s heart felt as though it could have burst from her chest when she saw Colin crouch down behind the stall slats, moving in closer behind the unsuspecting Marvio, ready to spring.

  She blinked back with glazed eyes and gave a faint nod, hoping he knew what she meant by it. She knew he’d remember where to find her. And he’d kept his promise to always come back.

  Marvio shook his head and allowed his shoulders to drop, as if his decision had been made. He flicked the lighter, bringing back the flame.

  Without warning, Colin darted in a flying leap from behind, jarring his shoulder into the thick of Marvio’s broad back. The lighter pitched from his hand, landing in a bed of straw farther down the line of stalls. It caught fire, sending a rush of flames up in the air, crackling against a wooden support column near the mound of kerosene-soaked straw.

  Enzo raised an arm up, shielding his face from the burst of flames.

  While Co
lin worked to subdue Marvio, Enzo ran to the corner of the stable where stacks of fire-proof canvas lay mounded in heaps. He tugged at one pile, gritting his teeth at the weight until one strip finally gave way, then ran back toward the growing fire with the canvas in his arms.

  “The horses!” Enzo roared, slapping at the flames with the shield of canvas. “Get the horses out, Rosamund!”

  Rosamund edged around the scuffling Marvio and Colin. If Enzo couldn’t control the fire and the stable went up in flames, she’d free as many horses as she could before the building was consumed.

  “Go on, girl!” she shouted, sending Ingénue in the direction of freedom in the afternoon sun.

  She ran to the end of the stable row and wasted no time, pulling open the stall door of a chocolate mare. Rosamund slapped the mare’s hindquarters, sending her from the stall.

  “Out you go!”

  Down the line she went, throwing open stall doors to free as many horses as she could. She crossed over to the other side of the stable, working her way back up the line, coaxing each jittery horse to freedom.

  She turned back to calculate the distance of the flames. To see whether Colin had managed to wrestle Marvio into submission. And whether Enzo was still battling the fire.

  What she saw was three men battling the flames together.

  Colin stood out in front, smoke and soot having painted the skin of his face a sweaty black. Enzo and Marvio slapped canvas at the flames together, the smoke, too, coloring the light blue of their flyer costumes a charred, sickly gray.

  She didn’t understand why Marvio was now helping to subdue the flames he had ignited, but the sight of the men working together charged her back into action. The back row of stalls had caught fire, and there was one horse left to set free.

  The air in the stall was littered with ash and tiny sparks of orange, causing Rosamund to cough with each drawn breath. She raised her elbow to shield her nose and mouth, praying the light cover of fabric from her costume would filter enough air so she could breathe.

  “Come on,” she yelled.

  The mare resisted, retreating back against the inside of the stall.

  “Out!”

  The horse reared with a surge of frightened energy, throwing Rosamund back against the plank edge of the stall. She met it with a jolt of pain at the base of her head, stunning her enough that she crumpled against the wooden wall.

  The view of the stall row and the cloudy sky beyond the doors became a fluid vision, dissolving into a jumble of hazy silhouettes and melting colors. She shook her head against it, having the oddest sensation that the fire, the shouts of men, and the mare that had bolted past her were all moving about in slow motion. Embers floated like fireflies around her. The sounds dissipated as though she’d been dropped through a tunnel. She felt dizzy and nauseated as she tried unsuccessfully to get to her feet.

  In a flash of stirred memory, Rosamund was pulled back to the field at Easling Park.

  Her face was in the soft grass. The scent of dew and earth filled her nostrils. And two polished riding boots stepped into her line of sight.

  Hendrick crouched down with a violin and bow tucked in his arms, a concerned brotherly frown marring his brow. He was young. Alive. And she gasped, wishing she could speak to ask if it was really him. If he was truly there.

  “Are you all right, little Rose?” he asked, tipping his head to one side.

  She’d fallen from her horse that day. Badly. She’d been so small and the fall from the horse’s back so far that she thought she’d never reach the ground.

  “Get up, Rose.”

  She fought to obey, feeling the sensation of warmth filling her limbs, but no pain. No fear. She just listened to his coaxing, swimming in her thoughts.

  “Get up,” Hendrick insisted, his green eyes staring back at hers. “You’re not afraid.”

  Rosamund braced a leg in a kneeling position, hooking her arm around the stall rail. She pulled herself up, still reeling from the blow, but determined to defy it.

  It was important to stand on her own two feet, she knew. She scanned the stall, it, too, feeling like a tunnel built around her. The mare had run out, leaving her behind. She leaned against the rail, drawing in deep breaths with her eyes closed and face lifted to the ceiling.

  “Rose?”

  Arms came around her, enveloping her with strength.

  Were they Hendrick’s?

  Rosamund could smell the smoke on his shirt as she buried her face against his shoulder. He breathed quickly, nervous energy sending breaths in and out in a fervent pulse.

  “Are you all right?”

  He braced his hands on either side of her face, and she opened her lids, finally able to focus back at the blue eyes entreating her to answer.

  It wasn’t Hendrick, but Colin.

  She willed her mind to focus. Focus on him alone.

  Colin. She could feel his hand patting her cheek. You’re here.

  “Rose?”

  The first thought that came clearly tumbled out her mouth. “Is Ingénue okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Enzo called out. “I have her here.”

  Rosamund shook her head, still feeling the room spinning around Colin’s face.

  “What happened?”

  “We got the fire out,” Colin answered, staring back with intensity. He rubbed the back of his wrist at the beads of perspiration on his brow. “The fire marshal is here with the police. They’ve taken Marvio into custody. Did you fall?”

  She shook her head, licking her lips against the dryness the smoke had caused. “No, the mare. She just reared up and I was thrown back. I’m all right.”

  “Enzo, go get the doctor. You need him too.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  Colin ran a hand over the side of her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She shook the cobwebs of dizziness away, then placed a hand over his, patting it against his fingertips.

  “Just shaken a little. But I’m fine.”

  She turned back to Enzo, who stood behind Colin with one arm cradled in his other hand. His forearm was inflamed to a bright pink, a burn puckering the skin from elbow to wrist.

  Ingénue bobbed her head when Rosamund approached. She cupped her hand, filling it with Ingénue’s nose, giving her a gentle pat.

  Rosamund reached out to take Ingénue’s reins from Enzo’s grip. “And you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not bad. I’ll mend.”

  She looked around and saw two uniformed policemen walking a handcuffed Marvio out the far end of the stable.

  “And your uncle?”

  “I don’t condone what he did. Or tried to do.” Enzo raised his head, strengthening the line of his jaw. “Not everyone thinks you stole something from us. He realized what he was doing and tried to put out the flames. But not soon enough to avoid walking out like that.”

  “Thank you, Enzo. If it weren’t for you . . .” She shook her head. “Thank you very much.”

  She turned back to Colin, seeing the fear and relief beneath the smudges of soot that covered his face.

  “It’s our last show together.” She stood as tall as her frame would allow. Praying he’d see the resolve in her face and not question what she knew she had to do.

  She slipped her arm around the side of Ingénue’s head, giving her a loving pat. “We’re going to perform.”

  THE RING HAD BECOME HER HOME.

  Rosamund felt welcome there under the flood of lights and sky of canvas and rope. And for her last performance, it was no different. The smudges of soot on her costume and the hastily tied-up chignon of roses at the base of her neck made no difference. She’d not think about the fire. Or Marvio. She’d ignore the leftove
r haze of dizziness that had claimed her before, choosing instead to focus on the show. She was a professional now, just as Colin had said. No excuses for a lack of balance, no matter what had happened in the stable.

  Though it was a much smaller crowd than they were used to, the audience welcomed them home as stars, showering applause as the overhead lights dimmed and they high-stepped into the ring.

  The music enveloped the inside of the practice tent—the circus band playing its usual rendition of “Roses of Picardy.” And together, Rosamund and Ingénue allowed themselves to be quite lost in it. The spotlights found their focus, and they went to work. Happy in the dance, of course, but Rosamund was still filled with the bittersweet knowledge that it was the last show they’d give.

  They moved through the act, starting and stopping with precision. Rosamund performed mounts and dismounts. She knelt on Ingénue’s back, stretching the length of her leg back in an elegant extension midride. They turned. Absorbed the applause of the tourists. The opportunity to stand a final time came at last, and Rosamund unlaced the bower of roses from her hair.

  It wasn’t until the lights around them fizzled and faded out that she realized something was happening. Something that wasn’t right. The crowd did not cry out in fear when the lights dimmed. Nor did Ingénue stop in her gallop around the ring.

  Rosamund fell to her knees, nearly toppling off Ingénue’s back in her haste to grope for the leather harness. She slipped her hands underneath the cool leather, tugging, fighting to keep her balance when the distance between Ingénue’s back and the ground below was unknown.

  She pulled Ingénue to a stop, unsure whether she was in the center or at the edge of the ring. There was nothing to do but grip the harness and slide down to the side, feeling for the touch of ground to the bottom of her slippers.

  The crowd responded—some shouting, “Is she all right?” while others grew silent.

  The mixture of concern and question floated around her, causing her head to spin. She leaned in to Ingénue’s side, melting there from fear and disbelief.

  “Rosamund?”

  She heard Owen’s voice, drawing her to turn her head to the left.