The Ringmaster's Wife (16 page)

“Hendrick used to, but I never did.” She shook her head and bit her bottom lip, thinking it impossible to keep the smile from her face now.

Not when he'd brought her something so perfect.

“Then you're in for a treat. And after I teach you how to put a worm on a hook, Lady Easling, I've got another surprise for you. One I think you'll enjoy even more.”

Rosamund cocked an eyebrow, feeling altogether playful now instead of heart-sore. “What could be better than this? High-wire walking?”

“Nope. Better.” He tossed an easy grin her way. “Dancing.”

“Dancing where? On the dock?”

He leaned down until his head was level with hers, then pointed out across the bay. “Right there. At the Cà d'Zan.”

“You can't be serious. I thought performers didn't visit the Ringlings' home.”

“Not usually, no. Family. Friends, yes. And now you're both. I told Mable about you, and she wants to meet you. They're planning a holiday party—the grandest this town's likely ever seen. All to open the mansion to visitors. With yachts coming up along the bay. Music and dancing. You'll be used to it, I'm sure, with the parties your mother gives.”

“It sounds clever—but at the Cà d'Zan? Sarasota's a world away from Yorkshire and Easling Park. How do you even know I'll fit in?”

“You could never fit in, Rose. You were made to stand out.”

She wasn't given time to consider a response. A car lumbered down the short drive to the cottage, its driver blowing the horn.

“Is there a Mr. Keary here?” he shouted. “Colin Keary?”

“Stay here,” he whispered, handing her his fishing rod and placing the can of worms on the dock.

“I'm Keary,” he shouted back through cupped hands.

“You're needed, sir. Right now.”

Colin looked back to Rosamund.

He pursed his lips. Furrowed his brow in a manner that suggested his thoughts had transitioned from lighthearted fishing and dancing to everything related to business in one fell swoop.

“What's happened?” he called back.

“Mr. Charlie, sir. He's dead.”

Rosamund's breath escaped her at the man's words. She reached out on instinct, touching her fingertips to Colin's forearm.

He didn't shrink back from the contact. Colin stood still for a long moment, then whispered a simple, “Excuse me, Rose.”

Colin walked the length of the pier, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck all the way up to the car. It was painful to watch, enough that Rosamund laid the fishing rods on the dock, thinking to edge forward.

Maybe go to him.

To comfort him somehow.

She watched as he spoke with the man, saying little himself, only nodding here and there.

If Colin had traveled with the circus as long as she imagined he had, this loss would hit him very hard. No doubt Charles Ringling was a friend and mentor. They'd traveled from town to town all over the country for years. Managing the lives of animals and performers everywhere they went. And as Colin had never mentioned a family of his own, she suspected the Ringlings were the closest thing he had to it.

Now that delicate world had shattered; Mr. Charlie was gone.

“Rose—I'm sorry,” he called out to her. “I have to go. But I'll come back for you as soon as I can.”

Rosamund nodded understanding, even as he hopped in the car with the gentleman and they sped down the road.

And just like that, she was left alone again.

Even the sun ducked behind the horizon, leaving reaching streaks of orange and ink-blue to paint the sky. The fish had calmed. The wind stilled. As if nature itself knew an ill wind had just passed over them all.

She looked down, watching the water again. This time not feeling so afraid.

It felt easy to take the telegram from her pocket and, without an ounce of regret, allow it to slip from her fingertips.

The telegram floated down to kiss the water of the bay. Drifting out from where she stood. Leaving her behind.

No need to watch it
, she thought.

Rosamund walked back up to the cottage, keenly feeling the filter of dusk that had fallen over the bay. And all thoughts of fishing and dancing—and even of a home and former fiancé very far away—were forgotten.

So was the Western Union telegram that read:
LORD OLIVER BRENTWOOD, VISCOUNT SPENCER, MARRIED TO LONDON HEIRESS LADY VICTORIA NORTHAM. NO NEED TO RETURN
.

Rosamund was ready to let go.

For more reasons than one, everything was about to change. And the great John Ringling was now the last of the Ringling Brothers, and she was to perform in the Circus King's show.

1905

T
RENTON
, N
EW
J
ERSEY

If Mable were to rank the experience, her afternoon at the Ringling Brothers' circus was more amazing than any visit to the Chicago World's Fair. Here, in a once lonely field outside Trenton, was a makeshift world within a world, one in which the inhabitants of a rural community could step through the gates into a collection of wonders the likes of which only J. M. Barrie could have dreamt up, for one of his Neverland plays.

A rainbow of balloons pointed to the sky around sundry wagonettes. The singsong melody of chiming bells filled the air, mingling with children's delighted laughter. These were echoed by the errant roars and deep-chested grunts of exotic animals that weren't far off. Dazzling sequined costumes caught the sunlight, flashing as performers passed by. Carnival game masters shouted through the crowd, inviting guests to stop in and show their strength at the high-striker game or their skill in toppling a tower of milk bottles in a single throw.

This was her introduction to John's world—a remarkable oddity of sights and sounds, tinged with the sweet smells of candied apples and the molasses popcorn Sally would have favored. Tents with intricately painted façades lined the field path along which
they now walked, drawing curious minds into their innermost canvas rooms with promise of the mysterious and strange.

“Have your eye on something?” John asked. She was gazing at the image of a snake-charmer painted in a leafy-green jungle vignette spanning the length of a nearby façade.

Mable was intrigued, but not by the sideshow oddities. Not primarily, anyway.

“I might.” She laughed. “But not here. I want to see the gears turning, Mr. Ringling. Show me how it all works.”

The shadow of a grin spread on his lips and he nodded, pointing the way with his cane.

They waltzed in the autumn sun as he granted her wish, leading them to the behind-the-scenes action of the back lot. There Mable could ask questions and see every detail of the performers and animals in the show, including clowns without makeup and the unglamorous cleaning up after animals on the lot.

The Midway was full of delights—games, treats, and a sideshow that held some interest—but all that paled in comparison to the cogs and gears that kept running behind the Big Top's drawn curtain. Mable much preferred watching the making of fun, in all of its raw nature, versus watching the fun itself.

They passed a considerable wagon—the largest she'd seen yet—vivid in red, yellow, and white paint, with gilded lion engravings peeking out from the base. It was painstakingly detailed, with carvings all around an inner, iron-barred cage. There were rich filigree designs and painted discs that covered the spokes on the wheels.

“This one is for the lions,” she guessed, looking up to see John's reaction. “Yes?”

“How did you know that?”

She pointed to the lion engravings. “Gives it away every time, Mr. Ringling.”

“And that one?”

Mable shook her head. “Easy. Rhinoceros.” She pointed out the carved designs of turban-wearing hunters and the engraving of a large rhino head bursting through grasses shining out from the edge of the iron bars.

A canvas curtain shielded the animal inside.

“Would you like to see her?”

Mable laughed. What an oddity. He talked about rare animals as one would a member of the family. “Her?”

He nodded. “Yes. Mary is her name. She was our first rhino. We acquired her just two years ago. Can you believe it—all 4,800 of her pounds are supported by that wagon.”

“I think we should leave her in peace, poor Mary. No doubt she's got a long evening of delighting patrons in the menagerie tent. She'll need her rest.”

“Too right. But our animals are treated well. She's not overworked, I assure you. But since you prefer to judge matters for yourself, I'll take you to the menagerie. Try to prove me wrong if you'd like.”

“Now there's an idea.” She found herself smiling. Too much. Even biting the edge of her bottom lip like a schoolgirl every moment or so. The sights were too much. Too exhilarating. And she had to admit—it was wonderful to see it all with him. “But I would like to see the birds if we could. I've always had a fondness for them and have yet to see any truly unusual ones.”

“We'll look at anything you wish to see. We also have zebras. Kangaroos. Royal Bengal tigers, which are a favorite among the circus guests. And of course, Prince—our lion. I doubt Noah himself had finer stock. Though I must confess, we didn't wish to manage such big animals—the ones that carry a burden of liability with them.”

“Perhaps not, but Noah certainly had more,” she teased.

“All right, Mable Burton. If you're so clever, what about that
wagon over there? With the canvas covering the bars. There are no engravings to give it away. Who lives in there?”

“If there are holes in the roof—which I cannot see myself—the giraffes. If not, I'd say you are hiding a hippopotamus. The more exotic the animal, the closer you watch it, and the more
we
pay for the pleasure.”

“Very astute,” he noted, tipping his hat to her. “I bow to your knowledge of the game.”

“I admit—I read it in an advertisement. I saw an additional charge to see those animals. You keep them out of the parade because of their rarer nature.”

“I am glad to know someone reads the advertisements we spend so much money on,” said the man approaching them. He was tall in stature, with a smart suit, dark hair, and matching thick mustache. There was no doubt about it. He must be one of John's brothers.

He smiled at Mable. “It makes smart business sense, doesn't it? Our brother Al's idea. But since I'm charged with the army of advertisements for our promotion, I'm mighty glad it's paying off with our customer base.”

“She's not a customer today, Charles. This is Mable Burton.” John paused. “She's my guest.”

A look of understanding passed between the brothers, though Mable wasn't sure what it meant.

“You must be a good friend indeed, Miss Burton. John seldom takes walks through the back lot—at least not for leisure. And I don't believe he's brought one of his friends home to meet us yet. This really is a pleasure.”

Had she heard him correctly? She was the first girl he'd brought home? Even if “home” was most unconventional, with thousands of workers and guests, and animals who'd eat them for lunch, it still spoke volumes that he'd invited her into the thick of it.

“Thank you,” she replied, glancing at John out of the corner of her eye.

He'd grown quiet, a measure of retreat evident on his face. Perhaps there was some sibling rivalry behind the show. Or perhaps not. John was, by his own admission, careful with all of his relationships.

“Well, I'm off.” Charles lifted a large leather case in his free hand. “I play the horn once or twice a season, and today's the day.” He nodded in farewell. “Make sure my brother here finds you the best seat in the house, Miss Burton. The big show's about to begin.”

T
HEY DID HAVE PERFECT SEATS
.

Mable chose them.

John had begun to lead them to the bleacher seats near the front, to really feel the action in the ring. But when Mable clamped eyes on the scores of children, all with such looks of enchantment covering their faces, sitting on straw bales along the outside of the performance rings, she knew exactly where they should sit.

Mable edged her way down the bleachers to the children, waving for John to follow.

She moved ahead and found an open seat, then planted herself right in the midst of a Wonderland of the Ringling family's making. She sat on a straw bale, surrounded by squeals of delight and little pairs of eyes that brimmed with excitement under the immense canvas sky.

Mable chatted with the children around her.

They shared their peanuts with her, calling her a nice lady. They munched on popcorn and spun sugar candy in a bevy of rainbow colors. A little boy spilled chocolate ice cream on the hem of her dress.

She didn't blink an eyelash, for all of it proved magical. Even the ice cream.

The music began—deep, booming tones of brass playing together, lively tunes to christen the show. And then the ringmaster stepped out, in a top hat and bright red coat that made him look like the captain of a great ship. He announced the acts as they came, but Mable didn't hear a thing but the wonder of childhood.

Laughter at the antics of the clowns.

Oohs
and
aahs
at the feats of the aerial acrobats.

Riotous giggles when they watched the dancing bears . . .

“Remember them?” John leaned in, whispering in her ear.

She'd forgotten he was there. In truth, Mable had been lost for some time. Happily so, but lost.

“Dancing bears?”

“You remember,” he said, pointing to the furry animals. “At the Exposition? You said dancing bears were fun. Not scary or menacing. Just fun. I thought we could use some of that in our show.”

A flood of recollection washed over her. It was something she'd said and only vaguely remembered. But not John. He'd made it a matter of remembrance and put action to it.