“Howard Applegate, the barber, can get you a bath. Give him an extra quarter if you want hot water,” the boy answered earnestly, sensing the stranger’s animosity. “And the Gilded Cage Saloon has good whiskey.”
“Wonderful.” Michael groaned inwardly. It was like every other backwoods town he’d visited in the past two weeks. He could close his eyes and visualize the ramshackle hotel, the boorish barbershop where every man’s voice hushed when he entered and demanded such luxuries as shaving cream and soap, the western saloon with its mirrored bar, the smoke-filled interior, and the loutish men scraping just enough money from their weekly wages to buy a pint of beer on a Saturday night. When he opened his eyes, it was exactly as he had pictured, if not worse. At least Dodge City had a card game. Mayfair didn’t look as if its citizens could boast even that entertainment.
A scarlet and blue poster was tacked to the wall of the feed store, and Michael stopped to read the colorful advertisement. The young boy, hefting the heavy valise, seized upon the poster as a safe topic of conversation.
“That’s for the circus. Carney’s is in town. The parade starts today at two o’clock.”
“I know.” The stranger ignored the boy’s crestfallen face and scanned the sign. Of course Carney’s would be here. It was the only reason he was traipsing into this godforsaken place, enduring the horrors of a country inn and the company of rustic America. He mentally pictured this Carney as a drunken Irishman bent on conniving his father out of a small fortune. He’d glanced at the ledger books on the train and had been freshly appalled. Carney had sent a payment every once in a while— guilt money, Michael assumed—but it was barely ten percent of the interest due on the loan. The principle was still intact. Carney had made no honest attempt to rectify the matter. There were no letters, no explanations, no indication that the Irishman ever intended to satisfy the debt.
Michael nodded in satisfaction. It had taken him two weeks and several aborted attempts to catch up to the circus, but he’d finally managed to do just that. Like most traveling troupes, Carney’s stayed in town overnight, long enough to put on one show and milk the ignorant farmers out of their hard-earned money. It was not that he begrudged the circus a living. It just infuriated him to hear the glowing reviews of Carney’s and see the inactive loan column in his father’s ledgers.
“Do you know where it is? The circus,” Michael asked patiently.
The young boy nodded, placing the bag on the hotel step. “They’re setting up on the outskirts of town near the depot. You can get a horse at the livery stable.”
“Very good.” Begrudgingly the stranger withdrew a coin and placed it in the boy’s hand. The lad stared at the tiny piece, then at the elegantly dressed man before him.
“Thank you, sir,” the boy said sarcastically. “And at the stables, ask for Buttercup. He’s the best.” His mother was right, he mused as the stranger disappeared into the hotel. It was the workingman who tipped, not the rich gentlemen from the city. After flipping the coin into the air, the boy pocketed the money and shrugged. Billy Perkins had told him if he helped the circus set up, he could get in for free.
The boy raced down the stairs and started for the depot. With tips like this morning he’d have to do something. Otherwise, he’d miss Carney’s entirely.
Michael felt much better after his bath and the whiskey. Food came next, and he had to admit that the young urchin he’d met that morning was right. Mrs. Barret made a good meal, and after being stuck on the train the last few days, he appreciated the roast chicken, hot potatoes, snap beans, and cherry pie.
By the time he strode down to the livery stable, he felt like a new man. His linen fresh, his shoes newly polished, his accounting ledgers tucked neatly into his case, he stepped into the dim recesses of the stable and was immediately assaulted by the drunken smell of the groom.
“Can I ‘elp you, sir?” The groom belched.
Michael didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “I came for a horse. I believe Buttercup will do.”
“Butter—” The groom stared at the man with surly resentment, then an odd smile came to his face. “He hasn’t been ridden in a while. Do ye mind?”
“I happen to be an experienced horseman,” Michael said in annoyance.
“Right.” The groom sauntered out of the barn, leading the horse. The animal pawed the ground, then tossed back his head as if fighting the reins. “Here he is. Buttercup—”
“How far to the circus grounds?” Michael cut him off.
The sodden groom glanced from the stranger’s polished boots to his crisp ascot. “Down the end of Main Street, where the tracks curve. You’ll see the storehouse and the big field just beyond.” He stared curiously at the lordly-looking man before him. “Fan of Carney’s, are you?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Michael tossed the groom a coin, then mounted the horse, barely noticing the way the animal chafed. He would finish this and be out of here tonight. Then he planned to get roaring drunk and forget Carney’s even existed.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE WAS DISAPPEARING.
That was Rosemary Carney’s secret worry as she walked about the circus grounds dressed as a clown, barking orders and polishing the acts. She fit so perfectly into the disguise as a man, as a clown no less, that she sometimes feared the costume would become permanent.
But there were times, and they were happening more and more often lately, that she felt a strange stirring at the sight of a beautiful dress. She and Clara, the circus fortune-teller, had been in Topeka a few days ago and had stopped outside of the dram shop, waiting for the clowns’ whiskey. Inside the store had been a collection of lovely gowns, frilly laces, silver mirrors, and beautiful hats. Rosemary had looked longingly at the feminine apparel, unable even to imagine herself in one of those dresses.
Clara had scowled and hastened her off, shaking her head and muttering to herself. But alone in her tent that night, Rosemary had wrapped a sheet around her in the same general shape as the dress, then glanced into the mirror, amazed to discover that her body did resemble the sewing form she’d seen in the window. Somehow, her body had changed, allowing for the looseness in the top of the gown and the tightness in the slender waist.
That discovery added to her confusion. She was beginning to wonder who she really was and what she felt. It had become so necessary to play one role after another—to slip effortlessly into whatever persona would best suit her needs—that she feared the real Rosemary Carney would become only a collection of her acts, a circus trunk full of spangled costumes and glitter. Since her father died, there had been much to do and no one else to take the responsibility. Carney’s Circus must go on, no matter what, and without her guidance there would be no circus.
The music from the calliope drifted up from the rear, the soft strains carried on the wind, and it lured children for miles. Rosemary glanced up, noticing the thunderclouds. She’d have to hurry. Shaken out of her thoughts, she called to the men. The roustabouts hitched the horses for the parade, the animals bedecked in gold braid and satin ribbons. The trapeze girls, beautiful in their sparkling costumes and feathered headpieces, slipped gracefully onto their mounts while the clowns tumbled into line, carrying paper flowers and polished derbies. The lion tamer cracked his whip, and the gaming acts juggled balls and flipped hoops. It was a beautiful world, whimsical and bawdy, daubed with brightly colored greasepaint. A world she was lucky to rule.
Rosemary took her place at the front of the line and grinned at Griggs, who was watching her with an odd understanding in his eyes. Taking up a handful of bright red balls, Rosemary juggled them expertly, warming up for the townspeople. Someday she would have time to be just Rosemary, to discover the woman buried beneath the canvas and sawdust.
But today she would lead the parade.
Damned beast! Michael limped down the tree-canopied road toward the circus grounds, aware of the ever-blackening sky and the unrelenting strains of the calliope as the parade passed. He could see the gaudy
costumes as the performers lured townspeople like the Pied Piper toward the tents. He ignored the crowd and stalked determinedly toward the circus grounds. The parade simply wasn’t enough; he wanted to see Carney’s in full action, not just the warming up.
He stood on his injured foot and instantly yelped as a blistering pain shot through him. Grimacing, he recalled that the groom and the farming people seemed oddly unsurprised when he’d returned shortly after being thrown from that horse, that animal from the depths of hell. No sooner had Buttercup gotten the bit between his teeth than he had charged toward the muddy river and disposed of his rider on the firm mossy banks.
At first he could hardly believe it. He, Michael Wharton, who’d been riding since he was in shoe leather, was dumped by a farm horse who decided drinking was more to his liking than obeying the expert commands of his rider. And when he tried to get back up on the beast, Buttercup waited patiently with a cunning he didn’t think any horse possessed, and then had bucked, tossing him onto the banks again.
Michael returned the animal, refusing the groom’s offer of a gentler mount, and ignored the snide snickers of the farmers, who no doubt thought him a worthless citified dandy. Now there was nothing to do but walk, and walk he would. Thankfully, the fairgrounds were not as far away as he’d thought. Armed with a bottle of the Gilded Cage’s best brandy, a pitiful apple-flavored brew that was long on potency and short on subtlety, he hobbled toward the bawdy circus music, ignoring the sharp red pain in his ankle.
The fury that had been building inside of him was close to exploding. He cursed his father, cursed Percy Atwater and his damned wager, cursed his own existence and that of this third-rate circus. Drinking down a generous portion of the burning brandy, he felt the pain lessen in his leg and was grateful for that. He couldn’t wait to get this thing over with and return to civilization. He missed Philadelphia, his expensive carriage, his good horses, fine whiskeys, and feather beds. Yes, he couldn’t wait to get back, and the sooner business was accomplished here, the better.
Nothing could have made this trip any worse. Yet even as he completed the thought, thunder clapped overhead, and a flash of lightning split the sky. Michael glanced up and saw the swirling clouds beginning to take shape. No, it couldn’t, he thought. No God would be this cruel…
But today he wasn’t so sure.
Michael arrived at the circus grounds, drenched through to the skin. His shirt was plastered to his chest, his coat having long since given up repelling rain, and his shoes squished with every step he took. He stood in line behind a farmer who smelled of sheep-dip and whiskey. Michael cursed his fate again. None of the townsfolk seemed to mind the rain, nor the wait to buy a ticket. They sent him curious and amused smirks, finding the sight of the elegant city gentleman looking like a drenched puppy almost as entertaining as the show they were about to see.
Michael ignored them, paid his dollar, then ventured inside. He took a seat on a crude wooden bench as he fortified himself with another sip of brandy. The townspeople sent him strange glances and muttered among themselves, but Michael no longer cared. He took out his notebook and began to record his observations as the nattily garbed ringmaster stepped into the center of the tent.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight’s breathtaking performance will be starting momentarily. You will see acrobats and tumblers, trapeze artists and mermaids, the human cannonball and the finest assortment of specimens from the animal kingdom that this fair state has ever seen! I give you…the circus!”
The farmers applauded, and the children squealed. The brass band began to play, and the raucous notes of the calliope drifted over the crowd. Elephants sauntered out into the ring, followed by horses with beautiful women balanced on their backs. Then the clowns spilled forth like an open bag of marbles. They tumbled into the ring, ran through the crowd, watered flowers that were obviously paper, and blasted horns at the children.
Everything glittered. Everything was loud. Everyone cheered. Michael scrawled his notes, a small smile curving on his austere face. Balloons drifted upward, and tiny dogs jumped through hoops. The elephants performed, their large padded feet balancing carefully on drums decorated with red and gold braid. Up in the air the trapeze artists warmed up, and a beautiful woman with blond hair and a spangled crimson dress bowed to her partner, a man resplendent in gold brocade. It was a spectacle, brilliant with light and gaiety.
The music quickened, and the horses cantered about the ring. One small redheaded clown appeared to be drunk and kept falling off his horse. The crowd roared as the little clown sprawled in the dirt and then fortified himself with a tin flask. Determined, the clown charged the white horse once more, only to fall again.
Lions roared, and the crowd turned expectantly toward a man in red tights as he approached the cage. The ringmaster announced Leonardo the Great, and the man took his bows before he faced the lion. The crowd hushed, and Michael heard the indrawn breaths of the children as the man cracked his whip and the lioness obediently stood up and opened her great jaws. The tension grew as the man put his hand inside the large cat’s jaws, then withdrew it to thunderous applause.
Overhead, the trapeze performers swung on their bars like twin birds. Michael saw the crowd’s awe as they watched the glittering couple. The woman let go of the bar and swung toward the man. The audience held its breath until she was caught, then safely returned to the bar once more amid a collective sigh of relief. The couple took a bow, then the ringmaster directed the audience toward the strongman who hefted weights.
It was man defying nature, and to these rustics, it was exhilarating and reassuring, Michael mused. The show was cleverly done, hiding any flaws by a change in performance. Everything was perfectly timed and perfectly executed. This wasn’t a two-bit traveling troupe, as he’d feared, but rather, a well-thought-out exhibition. Even as the sharpshooters and Indians entered the ring, the crowd was totally caught up in the show, unable to look at everything at once. It was a Carney Circus, through and through.
At the end all the performers entered the ring, and the dazzle of sight, sound, and color was almost unbearable. The horses reared; the elephants paraded; the acrobats performed; the Indians did a war dance; the clowns tumbled, their faces bright with greasepaint; the lions roared. The little clown finally got on the horse, then rode around and around the ring, balancing on the animal’s bare back, then executed a perfect backflip and landed on his feet.
Michael found himself standing and clapping with the rest of the audience, a cold smile on his face. Yes, Carney’s Circus was a gold mine, all right.
And he would be just the man to see it pay.
Rosemary dashed back to her tent through the pouring rain. Inside, the canvas enclosure had the characteristic musty smell that she always associated with home. Water beaded on the roof, but the tent had been treated with wax and withstood the onslaught well. The floor was clean and dry, sprinkled with sawdust, and as fragrant as the inside of any cedar closet.
Flopping down onto a crate, she shook out her clown pants to shed some of the water. The show had gone amazingly well. The revenues were fifty percent greater than the same period last year, and several of the local farmers had stopped by the main tent to thank Carney for the performance. It was wonderful to know that she’d brought some light and laughter to the grim lives of the frontier people, men and women whose daily routine involved the arduous tasks of farming, fear of Indians, lack of water, and disease. But Carney’s made them forget, even if for just one night.
A whiskey waited beside her bed, and Rosemary smiled. Biddle. The ringmaster often left her some small comfort when he and the clowns ventured into town to sample the local ale. Sometimes it was a cup of tea, a stolen delicacy from the cook’s tent, and sometimes a drop from his precious flask. Tonight it was apparently the latter, and she sipped the amber liquid, feeling the warmth penetrate her chilled bones.
This was her favorite time of day. When the show was done and the canvasmen were busy
rerolling the big top, she could sit with her floppy shoes perched indelicately on a crate and bask in the afterglow of the performance. Tonight they’d been good, damned good. She could feel it when she’d had an audience, and this evening they’d all been hers.
“Make them laugh, Rose, and make them wait. Give them so much to look at that they have to come back, just to see it all. Orchestrate the show so that one act rolls neatly after another.”
Wiping away a tear, Rosemary put the cup aside and slowly opened the mottled brown trunk at the foot of her cot. An old newspaper clipping caught her eye, and she pulled it out, smiling at the tintype.
Sean Carney. Her father had been a true showman, born for the bright lights and glitter. Like his father and his father before him, Sean had the Irishman’s love of excitement, of music and laughter, and the devil take the sober. He’d taught her everything, from the time she was a ragamuffin barely old enough to sing, until she was a woman grown. “It’s either in your blood, or it isn’t. Showpeople aren’t made, they’re born.”
Her mother wasn’t one. Rosemary barely remembered her, but the clowns described her as an elegant woman who’d fallen in love with the dashing trapeze performer with an Irish wit and the hint of perpetual laughter in his eyes. But the novelty had worn thin, and the life of a traveling troupe, wandering from town to town in all kinds of weather and facing all sorts of people, was more than she could bear. She’d returned to her fancy home back East, forgetting the Irishman whose smile was never quite so bright after that, and the daughter who resembled him.
Rosemary sighed at the memory. Sean had taken her to see her mother once, but she hadn’t been home and the visit had come to naught. But Sean had changed considerably in the years that followed. He seemed to dread seeing her in a dress or trying to fix her hair, as if any sign of feminine primping was a painful reminder of his glamorous wife. And Rose, in an effort to please him, quelled any desire she might have for pretty gowns or satin slippers. She stole glances at women in the towns they played, observing their hemlines and hoops, flounces and fabrics, but made sure her father was preoccupied so as not to cause him further grief. And when he asked her what she wanted for her sixteenth birthday, she told him a new pony, and he’d hugged her in relief. Later, there had been so much to do after his death, she’d had no time to think of such things.
Defiant Rose Page 2
