The Ringmaster's Wife (11 page)

A cigar box with a penny souvenir fan and a pocket full of unrealized dreams.

The wind kicked up, grazing the wisps of hair at her nape, whipping her skirts against her slender legs. She knew the wind was strong enough to carry away her dreams on this night. And with the past years of memories rushing through her mind, Armilda Burton made a decision that had eluded her for so long.

The fan she'd keep, but the box with the bicycling ladies smiling on from the cover was poison.

It had to go.

She opened it and took out the fan, clutching its now worn
edges in her palm. And with a rush of determination she extended her arms as far as they would go, allowing the searching grasp of the wind to pull the clippings, one by one, to float out across the surface of the water.

Every one of them danced . . . Photos of Steinway pianos. Drawings of pink roses. Catalog pictures of fashion models and newspaper articles from around the world: they all disappeared in the blackness of the sea.

It was a ticker-tape parade of forgotten dreams.

Mable stood there, watching the dreams float away, but she didn't feel sad.

Sally's lot only served to strengthen her resolve. From now on, Mable would say what she really felt. She'd do for others, and would never let another person in her life feel as though they didn't hold an infinite amount of value. She promised herself that she'd not let an opportunity sift through her fingers before she'd do something about it.

If she ever had the means, Mable would see to it that life had color and vibrancy. She'd not wait anymore. She'd live. And she'd help anyone else who crossed her path. It would have to be gondolas and ballrooms. Steinways and roses. Laughter and love, or nothing at all.

“Mable?”

Her name, spoken breathlessly, caught her attention.

The worn cigar box was nearly empty now, the pile of aged photos and clippings moving with the ebb and flow of the waves that crashed the pier.

She brought the box back to her chest.

“Mable. Is that you?”

She recognized the voice and turned. Slowly. Wondering if it was all a dream. And she didn't move to dry her tears. Didn't hide the fan in her hand or smooth the wildness of her hair to appear
more proper. She simply turned, heart shocked but open, to see the familiar eyes of John Ringling staring back at hers.

He looked older but not old.

The eyes were the same. Perhaps wiser somehow, with tiny lines now framing them at the corners. He stood in the soft glow of lamplight on the pier, allowing the sea breeze to toy with the edges of his silk tie and linen suit.

“Mable. It is you,” he said, looking from the fan and box she held in her hands back up to her eyes.

“John.”

“I'm surprised you remember me,” he said, his voice still deep-chested and strong, though in it she detected notes of regret.

She wiped at the wetness under her eyes, somehow unashamed to admit emotion had overtaken her. “I remember you well. We took a walk once.”

“We did.”

“And ran from a wall of fire, I believe.” She eyed him. Openly. Without anger. But her words, too, were tinged with regret. “I couldn't have forgotten that, Mr. Ringling.”

John sighed, ever so slightly.

“I'm sorry.” And he seemed genuinely so. About not sharing his full name that day. About walking with her, truly connecting, and then just letting go in the span of a single afternoon. “It's been so long. Years . . . What are you doing here?”

“A friend—she fell ill tonight, and I needed a walk to clear my head. So here I am.”

Mable stood still before him, wondering after his thoughts. Thinking herself that fate could be the cruelest of foes at times. It had certainly gained the upper hand on her thoughts at the moment. How could she have predicted John Ringling would show up here, now, when she'd just thought of him barely an hour before?

“And in Atlantic City?”

“I live here. For a few years now.”

His gaze—eyes only—drifted down to her left hand.

“No. I'm not married,” she added on a light laugh, answering the question he hadn't asked. “I'm a working woman. Not the complete ideal of a Gibson girl, I'm afraid. But I still have the hairstyle and the uniform to pull it off. And the rest . . .” She shrugged. “I'm still chasing my dreams. But you make concessions when life calls for it.”

“How did you come to live in Atlantic City? From Chicago?”

“And New York, with more than one stop in between. I'm afraid I was rather spoiled with the exposition's surroundings, and I missed that life after it closed. So a pier teeming with children and happy faces is about as pleasant a place as one could find.”

“So you came here.” He adjusted his gaze to the sights of an active boardwalk behind them.

Mable shrugged, as no polished Gibson girl ever would. “I've always dreamed of living by the sea.”

She brushed at a few stray locks of hair that the wind had wrapped across her forehead, moving them out of her eyes. Her skirt whipped in a frenzy against her legs.

“And what are you doing here, Mr. Ringling?” she asked, swallowing over the growing lump in her throat.

“Business,” he whispered, never taking his eyes from hers.

“Yes. Business . . .”

Mable broke the connection, needing the space to look away.

She surveyed the pier—saw parents stopping at street vendors to buy saltwater taffy and popcorn for their children. Couples whisked by to and fro, opting for a light promenade along the pier. Even a trio of workmen had stopped and tossed fishing lines off the pier, and were now smoking pipes and chatting with lines drawn down in the water.

Everything moved about her, people happy and so far removed from the world she'd just left in Sally's dressing room. And here stood John Ringling, a man of great wealth and prestige, threatening to damage what little bit of happiness she'd still felt alive in her heart.

On instinct, Mable's feet began to move.

She edged a heel back away from him. It felt easier to be the one who'd choose to walk out this time, before she found herself in love and shattered like Sally.

Yes. Walking away . . . it was far easier than the alternative. Mable edged another step back, adding, “Well then, Mr. Ringling. It was lovely to see—”

“I never forgot you,” he cut in, sharp as a knife.

The thought made her laugh even through her tears. She hadn't a clue why.

“That's nice to hear,” she admitted.

And it was. Surprising, but nice all the same.

“And I've thought of you over the years, Mable . . .” He paused. “Often.”

“But you never walked through those restaurant doors again.” The wind toyed with a lock of hair at her brow, tossing it until it finally lay still, lingering over her eyes. She swept it away, tucking it back behind her ear.

“It would have been a pleasure to see you again,” she admitted.

John sighed and looked down to the tips of his spectator shoes for the briefest of seconds, thinking over, she assumed, how he'd reply. And then he surprised her by taking a step forward. Another step. And then another, walking slowly, not stopping until the tips of his shoes nearly grazed hers.

He looked down, studying her face. And then he shifted his gaze to the cigar box and worn souvenir fan clutched in her hands.

“May I?” he asked.

Mable couldn't ignore the softness in his tone. She nodded, though not entirely sure why he was asking to see it.

John took the items in hand, carefully slipping the fan under the cigar box lid before he tucked both under his elbow.

“I didn't come back because I
couldn't
come back,” he admitted, the lamplight illuminating his features. His brow was a touch furrowed, his mouth creased and serious. “You were the first woman who'd ever looked at me like I had the name of John, and not Ringling. And while I don't make concessions for myself in walking away that day—”

“I should hope not. I'm not sure I would allow it.”

Something flashed in his eyes.

Amusement?

He nodded.

“Fair enough. But I also don't abhor wealth. My family has worked hard to build something we're proud of. Something that brings joy to a great number of people. And perhaps because of it, I am overly cautious with my relationships.
All
of them.”

“I wouldn't have asked you to surrender anything, Mr. Ringling,” Mable whispered. “It was only a walk.” She reached for her box, eager to sidestep him and march on with life beyond the poignant exchange of regrets on a busy pier.

He eased his arm back, tucking the box just out of her reach.

“But that's where you're mistaken,” he whispered above the sound of the Midway rides, jazzy music, and the delights of patrons echoing in the distance. “It was more than a mere walk to me. And I think I'd much prefer it if you'd see fit to call me John from now on.”

There were differences about him, yes.

A few more years had filled out the lines of his face. But nothing had altered the smile he offered now. It was warm and
unpretentious. Mable had a feeling that when a smile was granted by John Ringling, it was a special occurrence. One she couldn't ignore.

“I am not looking for a benefactor, John Ringling,” she whispered, notching her chin an inch.

“That's a relief.” He smiled again. With ease. “Because neither am I.”

He held out his free arm. Waiting.

Mable looked down with great intention, allowing him to see the indecision before bringing her eyes back to meet his.

“Perhaps we can start again, Mable. Go on another walk? I hear there's a World's Fair in St. Louis going on right this minute. I'm sure they have any number of camels and Midway souvenirs to catch your eye. And I'd like to see them all with you.”

She slipped her arm in his, stopping short of resting her hand on his arm. His eyes twinkled as he brushed a hand over hers and turned to lead them down the length of the pier.

“And what if there's a fire this time, John?”

“Then I suppose instead of running, we'll stop and put out the flames together.”

1926

L
ONDON

“I think we're ready. Ingénue's settled in a car in back.”

Colin nearly had to shout so Rosamund could hear the sound of screeching train brakes and chugging steam engines easing in behind them at the busy railway station.

“You can still change your mind, you know.”

“I know,” Rosamund answered, standing her ground.

“But you won't, will you?”

At a good ten inches shorter than Colin's six-foot frame, she had to raise her chin high to meet the question in his gaze. But look up she did, with eyes that would show only brimming excitement.

From the moment she'd awoken before daybreak, Rosamund's mind was made up: she was going to America.

She didn't question it while donning her deep-purple fox-trimmed traveling coat and silver-gray frock, nor when she'd fumbled about in the early-morning darkness, fighting to tuck her riot of waves under an ivory satin–lined cloche. And if she hadn't considered changing her mind when she'd slipped out of the manor, she certainly wouldn't do it after coming all the way to London.

She peered past the end of the wooden passenger car, then
surveyed the long stretch of tracks that met the landscape of the city's mass of buildings beyond. The brick-and-mortar skyline disappeared behind puffs of smoke from chimneys and steam from departing trains. She clutched the cider leather traveling bag tighter in her gloved hands and gave a confident nod.

“My mind's made up. I'm going.”

“As if I had any doubt.” Colin flipped the brim of his hat off his forehead, allowing the morning sunlight to cast a glow on a knowing smile. “I'll just go check with Ward that everything's as it should be with the accommodations for the rest of the stock. Do you have the ticket for your trunks?”

Rosamund handed over the ticket she'd received from the porter.

“I'll make sure the porter knows to transfer your trunks at the Crawley Railway Station. We'll change trains there and ride straight through to Southampton Port. We've got a stop or two to make along the way, but we should be in New York in a week and in Florida a few days after that. We'll head straight in to the Sarasota fairgrounds from there. All clear?” He waited for a nod of understanding.

She complied, biting the edge of her bottom lip over the anticipation that the biggest step of her life was but moments away.

“Good. I won't be a moment. Stay here,” he ordered.

Rosamund watched Colin walk away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the mist along the side of the train.

Passersby hurried along the busy platform. They brushed by to the right and the left, and she pulled the fur collar up closer to hide her features from anyone who might recognize her there. Her mother's circles in society and her father's in business certainly extended to London. Best not to tempt fate by revealing her plan to any of the Easling family friends until they were well on their way.

Colin had offered to speak with her father, but Rosamund
knew how that would go—with the great Earl of Denton tossing the Irish-American circus agent from the mansion stoop by the seat of his trousers. She'd declined the offer and instead packed in secret the night before.

She'd taken her travel papers, enough frocks and hats to sustain her for several weeks' journey, her Bible, and a photograph of their family before Hendrick had gone to France. Everything else she left behind with a note on the fireplace mantel in her bedchamber. The note her maid was likely reading right at that very moment, with sickened heart and trembling hands.

To take in a very deliberate, calming breath took effort, but Rosamund managed it. However, putting the vision of a harried maid and furious parents out of her mind would take more doing. She adjusted her collar once more, then stared through the curling cloud of steam ahead, waiting for Colin to walk back through it.