The Ringmaster's Wife (28 page)

The cookhouse and nearby dining tents were still lit.

As they passed by, Rosamund noticed men seated inside at the
bench-style tables. She scanned the tables, looking for Colin's face. He was nowhere in sight, though she did spot Ward playing cards over the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, sipping drinks with the rest of the men as they sat in the lamplight. Someone must have scored a hefty haul with a winning hand, sending a general ruckus of hoots and hollers up from the other men. She smiled as the sounds faded behind her back, wondering if Ward had somehow been the cause.

Now that the rain had stopped, small campfires with performers circled around them dotted the landscape.

Rosamund wondered if Colin was out there somewhere, perhaps sitting around one of those fires, talking and laughing too. More than likely, he was shut up in his private wagon, drinking cold coffee while mapping out a strategy for the next stops of the show. She doubted he slept much at all. Doubted even more that he'd have been trekking through the fields now, looking for her in every tent he passed, thinking about their kiss for far too long afterward, as she was.

She noticed that she'd pressed her fingertips to her lips, remembering, and dropped them at her sides, trying to force the memory out of her mind.

They crossed the field until they came to the private tents for the show's stars.

It was written in her contract that a private room in a train car and private tent on the circus lot grounds would be provided once she'd earned top billing. Up to that point, she'd been barely hanging on the bottom rung to keep her job.

Stepping into Bella's tent now felt like a reminder of just who and what she was.

Bella Rossi's tent was lavish—even for a traveling entertainer.

She had a beautiful dressing screen in shades of wine and black set in the back, with a gold-filigree rose pattern along the top and
sides. The grass and earth field beneath their feet had been covered with an ornamental rug, and Bella slipped her toes out of her heels to walk around on it barefoot.

Open trunks laced with her trapeze rigging, studio photographs, and publicity stills covered one side, along with an oversized cot with satiny throw pillows and a brocade coverlet in rich tones of red and gold. And while that may have been quite enough to intimidate Rosamund, the other side of the room was entirely fashioned to amplify Bella's star mystique. There stood an enormous dressing table with a gilded mirror and a tall standing trunk with elaborate costumes of all kinds.

Bella sat on an X-frame wooden stool at the dressing table, her back to Rosamund.

A single electric light glowed from its perch at the top of the mirror, creating soft shadows on the contours of her face. She looked at Rosamund from the reflection cast in the mirror.

“Not exactly like the pad room, is it?”

There was no point in advising Bella a second time that the pad room was for horses. She knew the difference, Rosamund had no doubt.

“No,” she confirmed. “Not like the pad room at all.”

“The screen is behind you,” Bella advised, without looking up. She'd occupied her hands with sorting through a tray of costume jewelry on the tabletop.

The tent was intended for Rosamund to see. That was very clear. What she wondered then, as she crossed to the screen in the back, was why the invitation had been extended at all. Why would this woman go to such lengths to establish her seniority in such an ardent way?

“You were rehearsing late again?”

Rosamund swallowed hard and fumbled with the buttons on her shirt.

Please . . . don't let her have seen me with Colin.

“What time is it?” she edged out, nearly squeaking on the words.

“Late enough, I suppose. But not too late for your riding.”

Rosamund thought of the same question she'd asked Colin. For some reason, he'd not answered it either. Did no one recognize time unless it was show time?

“Yes,” she called out from behind the screen. “As you said, we go in the center ring soon. Ingénue and I want to be prepared.”

“And Colin? Does he think you're prepared?”

Rosamund yanked the fabric over her middle with the surprise of such a question. A tiny thread came loose at the seam of the corset-waist, splitting by more than two stitches. It made a tiny rip, causing her to grimace.

“Um, I wouldn't know. You'll have to ask him.” She ran her fingertips over the split seam. “A stitch came loose,” she called. “I'll have to take this back to Minnie tonight.”

The wooden stool creaked, indicating that Bella had eased her weight off and stood. And then her voice was directly across from Rosamund, on the other side of the screen.

“Toss it over the top. I can repair it.”

Rosamund obeyed and slipped out of the costume, tossing it over the screen as instructed. By leaning back ever so slightly she could see the standing trunk in the shadows, past the side of the screen, boasting all of the elegant clothes Bella owned. There was more than one fur coat. Several hats. And too many elegant frocks to count. The sight of them all made Rosamund abhor the riding clothes she'd been forced to slip back into.

She came round the screen, pulling a suspender over her shoulder.

Bella was bent over the fabric, a needle and thread in one hand, a golden thimble on her index finger, patching the seam of the garment.

“Sit,” she offered without looking up. “This will only take a moment.”

Rosamund found a second X-frame stool not far from the dressing table and sat.

Awkward seconds ticked by. Wind grazed the sides of the tent every so often. And the faint sound of laughter and harmonicas still drifted in the background.

She watched Bella with sudden curiosity.

Each stitch she made was with precision.

After Rosamund's long history of her mother's required dress fittings and couture wardrobes for each season, she'd seen enough of tailoring to know an expert when she saw one. Bella was a learned seamstress.

She finished the last stitch and tied it off, breaking the thread away from the needle with her teeth.

“Never look directly in the lights. They'll blind you.”

She held out the costume.

“All right.” Rosamund took the silky fabric in hand, adding, “Thank you.”

One look over the seam confirmed Bella's skill. It was better than perfect, with no evidence that any rip had even occurred.

“Don't eat a large meal before you perform. It will sit in you like a stone and will show in your performance. And if you lose any part of your costume, you keep going with the act. That goes for slippers, hairstyle—anything.”

Rosamund didn't quite understand.

Bella was elegant and refined in her condescending quips, but was bestowing actual advice on her. Rosamund found that the oddest contradiction.

“Why . . . why are you helping me?”

“Every new performer needs something. Some kind of help.”
Bella paused, tipping her head to one side. She ran the golden thimble over the tips of her fingers as she talked, her hand moving absently while she collected her thoughts. “You know, you might think about cutting your hair. It is awfully long, isn't it?”

Rosamund brought up a hand, unconsciously patting the thick coil at her nape.

Hers was nothing compared to the stylish bob that Bella wore so well.

Bella's was sleek and sophisticated, with blunt-cut bangs and soft curls that framed her cheekbones on each side of her face. It was striking how much she favored an Italian version of Louise Brooks—a stunning film actress Rosamund had seen in a show at the cinema. The look was seemingly effortless for both women, but would have proved a major feat for any normal woman to have achieved.

Bella notched her chin, having noticed Rosamund's inspection of her.

“Long hair isn't really the fashion in Europe any longer. Nor in the States.”

Bella rose, slipping the thimble in the pocket of her robe as she walked over to the spot where Rosamund sat. With gentle hands, she ran her fingertips over the waves framing Rosamund's face and, finding a pin, slipped it out. Slowly. Allowing Rosamund's hair to come loose and then tumble about her shoulders.

“Every woman has short hair now,” she whispered. “Except for you.”

“My mother insisted on keeping the length.”

“But your
madre
—she isn't here, is she?”

Rosamund shook her head. “No. She's not.”

Bella didn't wait for an answer to move behind Rosamund. She placed her hands on the top of Rosamund's shoulders in a gesture of veiled dominance.

“No one is here to give you advice, are they? Because I have so much more experience, I feel it incumbent upon me to do it.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved the thimble, holding it to expose it to the light. “Do you sew?” Bella asked.

“No.” Rosamund shook her head, her hair waving in a light dance about her shoulders.

“But I assume you've seen one of these before?”

“Of course. It's a thimble.”

“It's a thimble, yes. But see this?” Bella ran the tip of her index finger around the thick golden rim. “It's meant to be cut off. When a young seamstress marries, this etched gold band becomes her ring.”

“I didn't know that.”

“It's a working girl's trade secret. Something an earl's daughter couldn't know. A thimble with the rim attached means the seamstress never married. It's rare to find one intact.”

Rosamund's heart fluttered.

Bella's words were spoken softly, but their meaning was no less cutting.

“The circus will travel on. We'll go from town to town, and you'll find that you have become a social pariah.
Rimonta
they'd call you, in my country. Here, you're a vamp. And that's if the townspeople are in an agreeable mood. Men will whistle. They'll look at you as one of the lions would their supper. They'll gawk at the tiny costume but never propose marriage. And the women they do marry? They're much worse. They look straight through you. You'll be cast off everywhere you go. You don't need to be in the sideshow to be excluded from the parlors or quilting circles of any town in which your poster hangs. They'll see you on the street corner and walk to the other side just to avoid the scent of your perfume. And all the while, you will lose your innocence. You'll eventually cut your hair. Shorten your skirt. And one day your
star quality will fade. But the thimble will remain in your pocket. Tarnished and unused. You'll become as rare as me, Lady Easling.”

Rosamund could feel her heart racing, feel the blood pumping faster through her veins. But she'd give no indication of it. She merely swallowed, keeping her chin high as she stared back at their reflection in the mirror.

“He'll hurt you, you know.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't you?” Bella stepped around to face her, staring down. A sudden harshness had taken over her features.

The lamplight still glowed, but shadows had bled into the contours of her face. Making her look worn under the layers of powder and rouge. A primped star with exhaustion in life marring her perfectly coiffed crown.

“Circus is all Colin Keary knows. It's all he cares about. There have been many long-haired poster beauties before you, and there will be many more after. And it doesn't take long for a costume's seams to fray and sequins to lose their sparkle. Not here, and certainly not in his eyes.”

Rosamund shot to her feet.

It no longer mattered whether Bella had seen their kiss under the Big Top. There was a line drawn in the sawdust at her feet too. It separated the childlike wonder of the circus from something harsh. Unfiltered. A world that was crass and bawdy, in which the center ring's star had grown all too bitter. Bella Rossi's was a line drawn between light and darkness, laughter and pain.

Rosamund wanted no part of it.

“Thank you for the fitting,” she shot out in a hasty whisper, offering a polite nod before spinning on her heels to flee the tent.

“Your hairpin,” Bella called after her.

Rosamund padded across the oriental rug back to Bella's side
and took the oversized hairpin in hand. She tried to leave again but felt the grip of cold fingers catch the underside of her elbow, drawing her back.

“Take this too,” Bella offered, pressing the thimble into her palm. She curled Rosamund's fingers over the flash of gold. “I don't need it anymore.”

1927

V
ANCOUVER
, C
ANADA

The center ring had been a source of much angst for Rosamund in the months since that first disastrous performance at Madison Square Garden.

But not this night.

She told herself they'd not fear it.

Even with Bella's ominous words still ringing in her head. Instead, she'd focused on the rose she'd been given. The gift had given her the idea of taking Mable's wisdom into the ring. And so Rosamund had brilliant blooms laced all along the nape of her neck, English roses intertwined with long ropes of her hair twisted round their stems. She wore her new costume of pink, a sweet corset design with layers of gauze and gold sequins falling down like colored air about her waist. Tiny slippers, sequined in gold and blush-pink, adorned her feet. And even Ingénue was bedecked for the occasion, with English roses braided into her mane and a harness that flashed with gold ribbons dancing.

Never in one of her mother's couture-designed dresses had Rosamund felt as beautiful as she did in that moment. The costume
and the ethereal magic of riding out on a dream made everything she'd ever worn pale by comparison.

Rosamund's hands had indeed felt better by morning. And even the sting of the encounter with Bella the night before was forgotten when she gripped the reins. Her hands felt sure. Her heart ready.