The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  A hand eased over her shoulder. It surprised her how she was shaking. How quickly fear had swooped in, crippling her in the ring.

  “Rose.”

  Colin was there too. She recognized his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I . . .” She breathed out, shaking her head through the muddle of black-and-gray shadows dominating her vision. “Colin?”

  He slipped his arms under her knees, scooping her into his arms.

  The crowd had grown silent. Owen, too, made no sound. Even Ingénue seemed to have faded somewhere in the background.

  Had the roses fallen from her hair?

  What was happening?

  Her heart willed the question. Wondering why she could feel Colin’s every running step, why she was bundled in his arms and saw nothing flying by as he carried her away from the ring. She could only feel the touch of air against her face, the speed of his steps causing it to stir around her.

  “Colin . . .,” she said, voice cracking as she looked up, trying to fix on his face. “I can’t see.”

  CHAPTER 34

  1929

  NEW YORK CITY

  The nurse popped her head into Mable’s room, announcing in a cheery voice, “Your visitor has arrived, Mrs. Ringling.”

  Mable peered into the hall, then, seeing their guest, sat up straighter against the mound of pillows at her back.

  She turned to look at John, who’d been occupied with staring out the second-story window of the Leroy Sanitarium to the street below. The narrow art deco building overlooked the business sector off Madison Avenue, and he’d passed the time by watching it for two days.

  “John,” she whispered, trying to draw his attention to her bed in the center of the room. “Our visitor is here, John. Would you see her in?”

  He pulled his attention away from the honking horns and street sounds below, turning to gift her the warmth of a smile. “Of course.”

  John met Rosamund at the door and placed her outstretched hand in the crook of his arm. With his other hand he leaned on his walking cane.

  Mable was altogether relieved that if Rosamund could see anything in the room, it wouldn’t be the tears that had formed in her eyes.

  The young bareback rider was still striking in beauty; the loss of sight couldn’t mar that. She was dressed in a pale-pink and nude dress of beaded silk, with a soft gray cloche that she’d removed and held in her hand. A youthful glow of natural blush brightened her lips and accented her high cheekbones.

  Mable watched as John carefully led her to a cushioned chair at the side of the bed.

  Rosamund felt her way around the obstacle of armrests with her fingertips and searched the depth of the cushion. She eased down into it, sweeping her skirt under and then folding her hands against the cloche in her lap.

  “She’s right in front of you, Rosamund.”

  Rosamund lifted her hand. John led her fingertips to graze the blanket on the edge of the bed, helping her to get her bearings.

  “And now, Mable dear, I will leave you ladies to visit.”

  Mable watched as he gathered the things he’d brought with him that morning—a newspaper, his cane and bowler hat—and moved to leave. He passed by the bed and swept his fingertips across the back of Mable’s hand.

  “I believe this room could use some pink roses,” he said, putting on his hat. “There’s a flower shop nearby. I won’t be long.”

  Rosamund tipped her head to the sound of his shoes clipping the linoleum floor, and a smile swept the corners of her mouth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ringling.”

  Mable watched him pause on Rosamund’s words. He looked over the back of her head to Mable, meeting her gaze with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

  “You are most welcome, young lady,” he whispered back.

  Mable watched him go, forcing himself out of the confines of a room they’d been in together for the last two days. He’d never left her side. And now, feeling the need to give her a private visit with Rosamund, he was stepping out to buy her flowers. Just as he always did.

  She sighed, turning her attention to Rosamund.

  The young lady stared ahead blankly, her green eyes stunning but fixed, not moving from their attention on the far wall. Mable felt the same regret that John seemed to feel wash over her. It reminded her why she’d asked Rosamund to visit her in the sanitarium.

  She swallowed over the emotion in her throat, hoping to add cheer to her voice. “Well, this is not the Cà d’Zan, I can tell you that. But they are being kind to me.”

  Rosamund’s lips eased into a faint but polite smile. “I didn’t want to pry and ask how you are.”

  Mable flitted the idea away with a light shrug. “Diabetes is not strong enough to take the spring out of my step,” she said.

  She wasn’t walking then, of course, but illness wasn’t something she had time for—and she certainly would not give it ownership of her thoughts. She allowed a smile to warm her voice. “You know, I visited someone in a sanitarium once.”

  “I imagine they’re not the most endearing of places to go.”

  “I agree. They are not. But I was visiting a friend and I wanted her to see my wedding dress. So I marched through the halls in my satin and lace, staring down every doctor who dared to give me a sideways glance.”

  Rosamund’s chin tipped ever so slightly. “You visited a sick friend on your wedding day?”

  Mable nodded, then realized Rosamund couldn’t see it.

  “People have done crazier things on a wedding day, I’m sure.” She cleared her throat. “But yes. I did. Her name was Sally. And believe it or not, you remind me of her just a bit. Though not in your coloring—she had hair red as fire and a temper to match.”

  Rosamund’s face broke into an unconscious smile. “I must admit to having a temper as well.”

  “And you’ll be better for it, my dear. I’m sure of it. We have to get riled every now and then. It reminds us that we’re still alive.”

  Mable watched Rosamund’s face, seeing each polite smile. Noting the way she sat pin-straight in her chair, with posture that held strength despite the affliction of near-blindness.

  “There’s been no change in your condition?”

  The smile dropped from Rosamund’s lips.

  “No. The doctors are optimistic that my vision could improve with time, but they caution me against setting too much hope in it. I can see some light though. Shadows around objects. Enough to avoid bumping into anything too dangerous. But as for performing . . .” She shook her head. “I’ll never see the ring again.”

  Mable sank her tone to one of seriousness. “This spring was the first time in two years the circus opened and you weren’t with it.”

  Rosamund nodded, adding a soft, “Yes.”

  “Rosamund, I realize accidents are a circumstance of the job. Performers know the risks they undertake in the ring. They’ve fallen before and it’s likely to happen again. But this is different. It’s something that’s been done to you. It wasn’t by your choosing.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But they’re not certain it was a result of the accident in the stables or even the attack in the circus back lot. The doctors believe the damage to my eyesight may go as far back as the fall I sustained in my very first performance. Either way, it’s happened.”

  She held her head high, but Mable saw the shreds of vulnerability as her eyes glazed.

  “You’re not going home?”

  “Not for the moment, no. I . . .”

  Mable watched as Rosamund grimaced, finding pain in what she was trying so hard not to say.

  “That’s all changed now. And I fear, to be blunt, I cannot go back and be the blind spinster haunting the drawing room of Easling
Park. Even if they’d extend forgiveness and take me back, I won’t do that to my parents or to myself. My aunt in New York is being exceedingly kind. She’s allowed me to stay with her, ensuring I’m taken care of. While the doctors look after my progress.”

  “I see.” Mable looked over Rosamund’s face, searching it without the young lady’s knowledge. She sighed, keenly feeling the weight of sadness at what had happened. And if there was anything she could do now—even from a hospital bed—she meant to make things right for the beauty who sat before her.

  “Rosamund, it takes a special kind of courage to dare to dream of a different life. Of something extraordinary. I thought I had that courage in spades when I was young. I was born in a small farming community to good parents and a loving family. It’s important that you know I could have had a wonderful life had I stayed there. But I felt called to more. Not to wealth or privilege, and certainly not to power or success. I didn’t flee a normal life. I know now that I wasn’t running away; I was running toward something. But what I had to learn was the difference between having a dream and cultivating the courage to live it out day after day.”

  Mable reached across the bed, extending her hand. “Give me your hand, please.”

  Rosamund obeyed, reaching out with her fingers splayed on air.

  Mable took her hand, turning it over until her palm faced the ceiling. In it she placed a watch and chain, gleaming gold. Mable watched as Rosamund felt the coolness of the metal on her skin, saw how her fingertips trembled.

  The younger woman closed her fingers around it. “What’s this?” she asked, chin quivering ever so slightly.

  “It’s a gift for Colin. A new watch. One that isn’t broken.”

  Mable watched as emotion flooded the graceful lines of Rosamund’s face.

  She didn’t hold back.

  In fact, Mable watched in wonder as the young lady before her embraced the depth of feeling that leaked out in soft tears, melting in trails down the porcelain skin of her cheeks. It was graceful to watch empathy weep straight from another’s heart—not in wracking sobs, but in a gentle embrace.

  “He told me about Avery,” Rosamund said, brushing a fingertip to a rogue tear that had caught on the edge of her lips. “About the accident and how he came to meet you. Everything.”

  “I thought he would. It’s his way. He feels regret very deeply. And though he’s made mistakes, he’s not unlike any other person in having a past.”

  “Mrs. Ringling—”

  “I’ve asked you before, dear—please call me Mable. You don’t know this, but we’re not so formal when I’m sitting in front of you in a dressing gown and robe. It is from Paris,” she said, trying to make light, running her hand down the soft silk fabric. “But that doesn’t make it any less a dressing gown. When you’re looking out from a sickbed, you only find friends there to speak to.”

  “Mable . . .,” Rosamund began, apparently searching for the right words to say. “If you’re asking me to give this to him, I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Yes, I am. And you can, my dear. You can go back. Because this watch is a promise I need to give to Colin. I’m not able to take it to him myself, and I couldn’t trust it to anyone else.” She eased her hand over Rosamund’s. “I don’t know when I’ll get out of here, so I need you to take it to him. John will ensure you know where to go. And your aunt can accompany you. You’ll travel in our private train car all the way to the circus lot. And after that, you are free from any request or further obligation. I’ll just consider this a favor between good friends.”

  Mable watched as Rosamund paused, rubbing her fingers together over the watch, moving through an internal deliberation over whether to accept.

  She took a deep breath and asked, “What do I tell him?”

  “I need him to know it’s a gift. That I want him to have his time back. He’s spent far too much of it grieving. He needs to know he is what he wouldn’t allow himself to be long ago—forgiven.”

  Rosamund sniffed over her tears. She clasped the watch in her hands, hiding it away like a treasure in her palms.

  “And is there anything else?”

  In that moment, Mable thought her heart could sing.

  It had been so long since she’d thought of her old cigar box—the place where she’d hidden away the tender dreams of her youth. But it bled into her thoughts now, prompting her to recall the memory of that Cincinnati tearoom from childhood. She’d wanted to hear the sound of the piano lilting through a brilliant melody. And she’d wanted adventure. To really live. But now, many years and many experiences away from that old cigar box, she saw something that was infinitely more dear. From the inside of a hospital sickroom, it became clear: the great adventure was love. There was freedom in it like nothing else. And that’s what mattered in that moment. Not wealth. Not prominence or prestige.

  “Love is patient, Rosamund. It has to be. It is kind. And never self-serving. And because of that, we can’t expect everything to be in our timing. What would be the adventure in that? Instead, it is in the knitting of lives and hearts together. It’s why you’re sitting here with me today.” Mable drew in a deep breath. “You love Colin.”

  Rosamund had been staring straight ahead. But on Mable’s last syllable, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if confronting the truth beyond the confines of her heart for the very first time.

  She nodded. “Yes. I do.”

  “And that’s why this is so difficult.”

  “He wouldn’t want me now,” Rosamund cried, clutching the watch to her chest. “Colin would think he does. But I’m changed by what’s happened. He’s changed. And he’ll feel responsible for everything. That’s why I left Sarasota after the accident. I couldn’t let him love me out of pity. And what if we married? I’d tie him down to a life of his same penance. He’d see Avery and Bella every time he looked at me, and he’d carry a broken watch for the remainder of his days. I won’t do that to him.”

  The air between them fell silent.

  Maybe it had to. Matters of the heart required patience, just as she’d said. They demanded pauses at times, allowing the right words to come.

  Mable folded her hands in her lap, composing what she hoped would be comforting thoughts wrapped in the truth this girl needed to hear. It had to be an infusion of courage that would carry her to board a circus train and go back to Colin’s side.

  “Do you remember what I told you once? We only see what we want to see. In people. In love. And in life.” Mable repeated the words she’d shared with Rosamund after her first performance at Madison Square Garden. She added a hint of a wink in her voice, whispering, “Tell him that, and I think he’ll figure out the rest on his own.”

  CHAPTER 35

  1929

  LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY

  The band played their cue and Rosamund nudged Ingénue forward, leaving the breath of wind toiling behind her as she went in to give her last performance.

  “Just like Mable said . . .” She straightened her shoulders and raised her head to the elation of the crowd. “They’ll only see what we want them to.”

  The crowd was not indifferent to Rosamund’s blindness; they didn’t know about it.

  She’d left Sarasota as soon as the doctors confirmed her sight had been irreparably damaged, before the 1929 season even took shape. The circus posters depicting the bareback riding star had faded into the background, and to the reveling circus-goers, new stars had simply been slipped in to take her place.

  She knew she might not have been missed in their eyes, but Rosamund rode out with her head held high, decrying any disability whatsoever.

  “I’m trusting you tonight, lady,” she whispered, feeling her way through each step of Ingénue’s trotting to the center ring. “Your sight will be mine. Let my eyes see what yours do.”


  They high-stepped around the canvas arena, heads cocked high before the crowd, their every sound echoing with chords of cheers and applause.

  The band continued to play as they trotted to position.

  Rosamund could sense the lights gleaming down over them, shining in the eyes of children in their straw seats. Sawdust would cover the ground like a blanket. And the firmament overhead would be filled with ropes and trapeze riggings, the kind the Rossi family would have used to pierce the sky overhead.

  Rosamund slowed her horse to a stop, ready to roll into their act before the thousands of eyes watching. But the melody of the band began to fade, and the crowd grew quiet. She heard only her own breathing, mixed with Ingénue’s, and she felt for the first time a sense of fear that she’d tried to undertake something so risky. Something that only the sight in her hands could possibly lead her through.

  She prayed silently. Prayers that tumbled from her mind.

  Rosamund needed the strength from them now. She knew that courage was possible—Mable had made her believe it. It wasn’t in the initial faith leap to chase a dream; rather, the magic was in the day-to-day living and breathing and choosing to be courageous when common sense told one otherwise.

  She gripped the reins tight, feeling her hands begin to shake.

  Listening for the silent crowd to make a breath of sound in reply.

  She heard nothing, until . . .

  The soft cry of a violin sang out against the canvas vault overhead.

  It echoed deep in a powerful cadence over the crowd, singing “Roses of Picardy.” And every memory flooded back. She and Ingénue had gone through their act too many times to fail. And so they fell into step with one another, dreaming and dancing in one accord before the crowd.

  Rosamund closed her eyes. Not needing showmanship, but release.

  She drew in a steadying breath, and they went to work.

  It was her gift to Mable. And to herself maybe, showing Lady Rosamund Easling that she was more than the sum of her hurts. So much more than failures or limitations. That God had placed her in that very spot, to fly free for one glorious moment in her life.