Wild Rover No More

by L. A. Meyer

  Dovecote Farm

  Quincy, Massachusetts

  Dear Amy,

  Yes, dear heart, I have joined the circus. It was inevitable, was it not? Come now, Amy, you know you are the biggest worrywart on Earth. All I really have to do is walk out on the high wire, do a few lame tricks, then retire to great applause. What could be easier?

  I barely escaped Plymouth. That nosy postmaster I told you about was actually reading our mail and so tipped off the local authorities. Can you imagine that? I know there is scant honor among thieves, but I didn’t know it also applied to some politicians and those whom they appoint to trusted positions. Somehow I expected better.

  No matter, what is done is done. Suffice it to say, on my last day at the Polk household, I was greeted with a fully armed posse intent on bringing me in to face their justice. I did manage to evade capture with the help of my pistols, but it was a close thing, believe me.

  I have made up a sheer veil for myself to wear when wandering about on the grounds. Yes, the area for the circus people is well marked and guarded, but still, people can see in. Why am I being so careful? It’s that I swear I heard Gully MacFarland’s fiddle the other day, working the edge of the crowd. I didn’t spot him, and I am sure he could not recognize me, veiled as I was . . . But still, nobody plays the fiddle as well he does. He’s supposed to be at sea, but I don’t know . . .

  Don’t bother writing back, for we will be long gone from this town by the time you get this letter. After we hit Philadelphia, the circus will head south for the winter, and I shall leave at that time and head back to Boston to see how things lie. You may tell Ezra that. You may also rest assured that I will be under heavy disguise. How about as a cloistered nun, spending my days mumbling prayers for the world’s poor sinners? I haven’t done that yet . . .

  This time I will be a bit more careful and sign off, with all my love, as . . .

  Your Russian cousin,

  Natasha

  I am sealing up the letter as I hear a knock on my door.

  “Princess! We’re on in fifteen minutes, my exquisite Russian rabbit!” shouts Marcello from outside, bringing me out of my reverie.

  “Very vell, Marcello,” I say, rising. I put my skirt back on, then check my face and hair in the mirror of my dressing table. I give my corselette a few tugs at the armpits to make it sit better on me before heading out into the sunlight.

  “Let us go and entertain zee rabbles.”

  Chapter 21

  Today I have a bit of a shock, make no mistake about that . . .

  When I am high up on the wire, the faces of the crowd below tend to blend into a gray mass, but not today. Today, down below, I see broad swatches of color—like sports teams who sit together all decked out in their uniforms.

  Sure enough, when I reach the ground, I see that I am right. But it is not adult teams that I spot. No, it is a tournament of local boys’ football teams, and they have signs announcing who they are. There’s Hyannis in green-and-blue jerseys, and over there is Falmouth, all proud in black and red, and there is—Oh, God! It’s Plymouth in garnet and gold, and there, standing to the side, is one of their members. He has dark hair and dark eyes, and those eyes are trained right on me. He does not move.

  I turn my head and pull my veil across my face as I hurry for the staff exit.

  Damn! Did he recognize me? Am I undone?

  Something has to be done, as I do not want to run from this kip just yet.

  Marcello is waiting for me outside the tent, of course, ready to escort me to lunch. My first impulse is to run to my wagon to hide, but I cannot do that. I’ve got to fix this.

  Marcello and I take our seats as usual at the food wagon and wait for Enrico to dish it out. Sure enough, a small figure in garnet and gold has appeared at the outside rope, looking in at me. Damn!

  “May I say that you are even more beautiful today than when last my poor eyes gazed upon your glorious form,” Marcello says, taking my hand in his and avidly kissing the back of it. “But why do you wear the veil today? To torture your poor Marcello by hiding some of your charms?”

  “Nyet, Marcello,” I say. “But you must help me vith some-zing, dear fool,” I say, not looking over at the lad.

  “You know I would lay down my very life for you, my sweet Russian potato,” he says grandly. “You have only to name the task and I will do it.”

  “You see zat boy over zere?” I say, with a gesture of my head. “He has been bothering me. Looking at me funny. Make him go away, please.”

  Marcello leaps to his feet, full of manly resolve, and goes over to confront the boy.

  “You, there! Go away!” he orders with a shooing motion. “This place is for performers only! Away with you!”

  The boy does not move.

  “You would presume to disturb the rest of the renowned Russian artiste Princess Natasha Romanoff, a member of the Russian Royal Family? Off with you, urchin, before I summon her palace guard. Away!”

  I hide behind my veil and pretend to ignore the proceedings. A glass of wine is put in front of me, and I take an elegant, aristocratic sip.

  The boy speaks up for the first time.

  “Don’t worry. I will not betray you.”

  When I look again, he is gone.

  Damn, damn, damn, and double damn! But then, somehow, deep in my heart, I believe him.

  Chapter 22

  There’s trouble. We all know that, for after the final show on our last day in Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, the ringmaster does not direct the roustabouts to strike the tent, as he usually does. Instead he announces that the circus folk are to gather for a meeting under the Big Top.

  Uh-oh . . . This can’t be good.

  It isn’t, as we soon find out. We take seats in the bleachers usually reserved for paying customers and silently regard our plump little ringmaster, Pietro Mattucci, mournfully standing below, his head hung low. Marcello sits to my right, while Rigger O’Rourke sits to my left. I know Marcello wants to order Rigger to take a walk, but he cannot, for we are all equal here. Plus, my ardent Roman swain has seen the well-muscled roustabout in action. Last week we had some trouble with a pack of locals who thought they were tough. After the call of Hey, rube! rang out, thanks to the iron fists of Rigger O’Rourke and his lads, the yahoos went home, much wiser and minus a few teeth.

  “It tears my heart out to say this, dear ones, but the Montessori and Mattucci Circus must close.”

  No!

  There is much lamentation and expressions of great sorrow.

  No! But why?

  “There is no more money,” says Mattucci, his head hanging, his mustaches drooping.

  What will we do now? I hear asked in at least three languages, all of them sounding desperate. Marcello groans and grabs my hand, telling me I should not worry, for he will take care of his little Russian herring, which gets a snort from Rigger.

  “Suppose you withhold our pay for a while? I’m sure all would agree to that.”

  There is a rumble of agreement, but . . .

  “There is no money to pay you, mi amici, there is no money at all. I am sorry. We cannot even pay the next town its license fees.”

  Marcello’s groans are echoed by many in the crowd. True, there are some who could just walk away from here and get another job—the laborers, the roustabouts, and me, for that matter—but for most, this is a disaster. What do you do with a lion? Or a cage full of tigers, for that matter? Some of these people can barely speak English! They are strangers in a strange land. What will happen to poor old Señora Elena? Where will she go?

  “Why do we not do three shows a day, Maestro, instead of two?” calls out a hopeful voice. “That would bring in more money, no?”

  The ringmaster sadly shakes his head. “Alas, I am sorry, but we tried that once and it did not work. It was too dark for the last show and the people would not come out at night.”

  There are no more helpful suggestions, only some sobs. These good people were looking for
ward to some rest in their soft winter quarters down south, and so, frankly, was I . . . and Gargantina! What of her? And Balthazar?

  I spring to my feet and say, “Signor. Please. Your attentions. Ven zee pippils come to our circus, zey pay, zey vatch our show, and zen zey go home. But zey still have moneys in zere pockets! Vy do vee not sell zem some-zing different in zee dark time? Some-zing more suited to zat time of day, and maybe attract a different sort of customer?”

  “Explain yourself, Princess Romanoff,” says Signor Mattucci, and all eyes turn to me. I take a deep breath and begin.

  “I haf traveled throughout Europe on my vay from Mother Russia to here, and I haf performed in many other circuses. Many of zem had places set off from zee Beeg Top for shows and games . . . and other kinds of performance. I saw zat zose places made a lot of money. In England it vas called zee midway. Zis circus does not haf such a midway, and—”

  “If you mean freak shows like the Bearded Lady, the World’s Fattest Man, Lizard Boy, never! Never shall the Montessori and Mattucci sink to that level!” He has enough of his innate dignity left to puff up in outrage.

  “No, no, Maestro,” I say, making placating motions with my hands. “Zere are other zings vee can do, eef I might explain?”

  “Very well, come up here, and we will hear what you have to say,” he says, yielding the floor, or rather the sawdust ring, to me.

  I turn to my friends and say, “Vat vee vill do ees pull all zee vagons into a circle on zee back lot, leaving zee loop open at one end for zee crowd to enter. No, zere vill be no admission charge, but each attraction costs a little. Enrico could set up his food vagon in zee center, selling his vonderful sausages, and tents stretched from zee sides of zee vagons vould shelter zee various . . . offerings.”

  “And what would these acts be?” I hear. “What can we do? We are circus people.”

  “Many zings,” I reply. “Elephant and pony rides. Boys vill buy candy for zeir sweethearts and try to vin zem prizes at zee game tents. Zere vill be music and dancing and dramatic plays. Pipple may bring zeir children. Maybe zey don’t vant zeir dahlinks to see Salome do zee Dance of zee Seven Veils, but zey can still enjoy zee antics of zee harlequins clown­ing about.”

  There is a low muttering as my proposal is discussed: “I could do the tarot and tell fortunes,” and “I can make really good fudge.”

  I continue to press my case. “And zee Chuck-a-Luck Wheel . . . It ees zee roulette table for zee poor man, and a real moneymaker. Plus, eet does not require zat a circus artiste man zese booths. Rigger could handle zee wheel. Zee other roustabouts can handle zee rest of zee games. Zen, zere’s our strongman, Gregor; he could challenge zee local bravos to match him in feats of strength—or wrestling. Or boxing! Vee could easily set up a ring for prize fights, set zee odds, take zee bets . . . and cockfights! Ta-da! Zee center ring ees just made for zat!”

  “But . . . but . . . that smacks of gambling!” sputtersSignor Mattucci. “The towns will not allow it!”

  “Zey vill eef you clear it vith zem first. Send your most clever man to negotiate zee price. You might be surprised,” I retort.

  “But who among us can do that? Neg-o-tiate?”

  Good point, I’m thinkin’ as I realize there is no one here who can actually do that. The ringmaster? No, those stiff-necked Yankees would see him as a rather silly little fat man . . . Von Arndt? . . . An arrogant foreigner. Me, a woman? Be serious. No, ’tis plain that none of us will do. But I know one who will.

  “Maestro. Can vee stay vere vee are for three, four days? Do vee have enough food for us and zee animals?”

  “Sí. Just barely.”

  “Goot. Now, who ees our fastest rider? Emilio? Very vell. I shall haf a letter for him to deliver to a man in Boston. He ees like my . . . protector. He vill come to me. He vill negotiate for us and he ees very good at it. Plus, he vill bring money. Vat do you say?”

  The rumblings now sound more hopeful. From them, a voice speaks up. “You’ve told us what we all could do to make this work, Princess Romanoff, but tell us, what will you do?”

  I may be mistaken, but I believe it is Rigger O’Rourke’s voice that utters that question.

  I strike a pose, hands clasped behind me and tucked into the small of my arched back, chin up, eyes looking off nobly into the distance at the top of the tent.

  “To save our circus,” I say, “I, Princess NatashaAnnasova Romanoff, shall perform zee famous Dance of Zee Fans.”

  The motion carries.

  Chapter 23

  Princess Natasha Annasova Romanoff

  The Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus

  Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, USA

  Mr. John Higgins

  Faber Shipping Worldwide

  Union Street

  Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  Dear John,

  Yes, it’s me again, Higgins. And yes, I have joined the circus, and I like it very much. However, this circus is in trouble and I need your help. If you can see your way clear, will you join me here? It is not far from Boston, and since I am in deep cover, it should be safe enough. We are in desperate need of some of your very special talents.

  If you come, please ask the Shantyman to join you and to bring his fiddle and drum . . . and my Lady Gay, too.

  Oh, yes, and bring as much money as Faber Shipping can spare. Here’s the scam: I am the above Russian princess and you are my guardian who has been hired by the very possessive Count Yakov Ivanillich Petrovsky, to whom I am betrothed, to keep an eye on me. Being seventeen and headstrong, I had run away from you last month to join this circus, and you are somewhat miffed with me. Got it?

  We shall be here in Buzzards Bay for four days. Please come, but only if you may safely do so.

  Oh, how I long to see you and get the news from home!

  Please excuse my haste, for you know that I count on you as my very best friend,

  J.

  Chapter 24

  We are a hive of feverish activity.

  The sides of the wagons must be repainted to reflect the games or shows that will be assigned to them, and canvas cut to form either full tents or half awnings, depending on the amount of shelter needed.

  Me, I get a full tent, above which is lettered in black and gold TONDALAYO, QUEEN OF THE NAKED NILE. Over that is a picture of two large female eyes, all kohl rimmed and sultry, peering through exotic jungle plants. I painted this myself. Over the entrance is a sign reading Admission $1—Adults Only.

  Marcello is beside himself in anticipation of my first performance but is crushed when I inform him that no circus people will be permitted in my tent when I do my dance, except for Gregor, who will be my protection. That gets a blush from Gregor.

  “Cara mia, you say you will allow the whole world to feast its eyes upon your heavenly form, but not your faithful and loving Marcello, whose heart I place at your feet? Oh tell me it is not true, Cruel Daughter of Siberian Wolves, that you would trust this hairy beast and not me?”

  That gets a growl from Gregor.

  I have to laugh fondly when Marcello puts on his sorrowful hangdog look. Don’t try that one on Jacky Faber, my boy, for she has been using that look for years.

  “Vell, maybe some night you shall see my poor performance, eef some night I drink too much vodka and fall victim to your charms, sweet Marcello, but not now, for zee goot of zee circus. Peace and no discord and fighting over zeevimmen, no?” Then I go into untranslatable Russian gobbledygook.

  He accepts that with a great Mediterranean sigh and goes off with my light kiss on his cheek, so I am out of that . . . for the moment.

  But while I am thinking about my promised dance, I take time amidst all the chaos to visit the wagon of our seamstress and costume designer, Señora Elena, to tell her of my needs.

  “Of course, I have many feathers in many colors,Natasha. Is this not a circus? Two large fans, what color?”

  “Vhite . . . or pink. As close to my skin color as possible so zat zee pipples
vill not be able to tell vot ees feather and vot ees me. And, Señora, please make zee fans as large as you can, with goot, strong handles.”

  “Sí, muchacha,” she says, then smiles. “The show must go on, verdad? But you do know, don’t you, how we all thank you for what you are trying to do?”

  “Ees true, Señora,” I say, acknowledging the traditional rallying call of circus folk and other theatrical people around the English-speaking world when trouble raises its head. “Zee plan, I hope she works,” I say with fingers crossed as I leave her to her task.

  Now to the Chuck-a-Luck Wheel.

  Rigger O’Rourke has that well in hand, having seen many such wheels at county fairs and even church picnics. It’s funny. Lay the wheel down flat and you’ve got evil roulette, found in every godless gambling house, yet stand it upright and take it outside in the sun, and you’re doing God’s Work. Go figure . . .

  We find that two more young boys have run away from their farms to join the circus. We get them all the time, at virtually every stop. Most such boys we kick back out to face angry fathers, but these we keep on my orders. They stand before me, hats in hand. Between them stands Gregor, the one who had caught them trying to crawl under the heavy canvas of the Big Top. He has a large hand wrapped around each of their necks. They are both astounded by the sight of me issuing orders while dressed in my aerialist costume.

  “Your names?”

  “Tad and Jerry, Miss,” chokes out the less shy one. “Cousins.”

  “And joo both can ride? Do not lie, now,” I warn. “You vill be put in lion cage eef you are found out.”

  “Yessum. Both bareback and saddle. Can handle a rig, too.” They are loose-limbed and lanky, and are about fifteen years old.