The Ringmaster's Wife (6 page)

Her anger faded as humility took hold.

“No, you're right,” she countered, softening her voice. “I should thank you for your discretion. I asked for it and you've held up your end of the bargain. It's just finding you both here—” A faint smile edged over her lips. “It was a surprise.”

Colin exhaled on a sigh. Even shook his head.

“I know. And I'm sorry. But we won't cause you injury.” He picked up his fork. “We're just here to buy an Arabian from your father, then we'll catch a train and be out of England altogether. Hopefully you can put up with us through this dinner. In the meantime, I'll try to help Ward know which fork to use so we don't embarrass you any further.”

“What did you just say?”

Rosamund's shock forced the question out at a decibel that drew notice from across the table. She dropped her fork, and it landed with a high-pitched
clink
at the base of her wineglass, shimmering the clear liquid, then lay still with a thud against the linen tablecloth.

“Rosamund, dear. Is everything quite all right?”

Lady Denton sounded only slightly nervous, and she maintained her mask of a serene smile, but her eyes registered horror at her daughter's behavior.

Rosamund turned to look at the stunned faces in the room, feeling like she'd just been punched in the stomach. She scanned the table, taking in the iron set to her father's jaw and the confused glances on the faces of the rest of the party.

Requiring space enough to think, she pushed her chair back from the table.

“Father, you're selling Ingénue?” she blurted. “That's why these men are here?”

“Rosamund, there is a time and place to discuss private matters, and it is not at Her Ladyship's dining table.”

His voice was stern, without any wiggle room for her to continue the line of questioning. The only trouble was, Rosamund's heart was shattering in her chest. Her father had gone behind her back to sell the one thing that mattered most in the world to her—the one link their family had to the older brother she'd lost.

“We only have one Arabian left . . .,” she began.

“Come now, Lady Rosamund,” Lord Brentwood whispered under his breath, trying to sate her. “Let's just enjoy the dinner. Leave the odiousness of business dealings to the men in the study afterward.”

Lord Brentwood's position was quite clear.

But so was hers.

Seeing that she'd receive no answer from her parents, Rosamund turned instead to Ward and Colin, entreating them with eyes that stung with tears.

“Tell me, please—is it true what you've said? You're here to buy my horse?”

“Rosamund,” Lord Denton shouted. “Not now.”

Her father's breach of decorum was enough that it brought everything in the room to a complete halt.

The footmen froze behind the table, still holding trays of meat and vegetables in their gloved hands. The butler shook his head, giving the silent instruction to wait until Rosamund obeyed and the dinner was drawn back in the lines of the appropriate.

No,
she thought, breathing unsteadily.

Not this time . . .

Given what he'd said to her that afternoon, Rosamund believed Colin to be the one person who would answer truthfully. He'd acted with honor by keeping their meeting a secret. If he'd thought to protect her reputation once, he couldn't deny her the truth now—even in the presence of hopelessly rich lords and ladies who couldn't care less for the impending sale of something as trivial as a horse.

She turned to him directly. “Please, Mr. Keary,” she pleaded, her voice barely at a whisper. “I need to know the truth.”

“Yes, Lady Rosamund,” he offered with feeling, the Irish brogue suddenly weighing down his voice. “She ships out in two days.”

1893

C
HICAGO
, I
LLINOIS

“The whole world is calling this the ‘White City.' ”

Sally Rivers—waitress and would-be singer—leaned her elbows back on the hostess counter at the elegant Café de la Marine, snacking on a mix of popcorn, molasses, and peanuts from a red-and-white cardboard box. She looked past Mable, out the front window to the crowds of suited gentlemen and Sunday-hat-wearing ladies who passed by over the arched canal bridge.

“And why shouldn't Chicago have a name known the world over? It's our time to shine.”

Mable pointed toward the flash of midday sun reflecting off the impressive white stucco façade of the World's Columbian Exposition span of buildings.

“Look at that flood of people coming over the bridge. I predict we'll be full up later tonight.”

It was a lovely sight that greeted them from the windows, with the rounded domes of the Brazilian building and the classical columns of the Fisheries building dominating the view on one side, and the bustle of the marine causeway on the other. They could even peek around the corner and see the
Viking
—a replica of the
Gokstad ship—and Venetian-style gondolas gliding majestically along the canal. The view sure beat the tangles of trolley lines and tall buildings that marred the landscape in the restaurant where they'd last worked downtown.

To work in the Café de la Marine had a certain air of romance about it, Mable had to admit. With ten finial-topped spires towering against the sky over Lake Michigan, the French Gothic–style building looked more like a storybook castle than a dining establishment. It boasted lofty ceilings with hammered gold filigree tiles, twinkling chandeliers, and awnings over the windows that soared up to the roof on each level.

Mable shook out a white cloth napkin and folded it into an elegant flat cone shape, working her way through the stack for the impending lunch rush. Before they knew it, a steady stream of patrons would step through the doors, continuing until they closed up for the night. She was scheduled to work a double shift, so she'd be chasing her tail until long after dark.

Best to get ahead while they could.

“Expecting a big day?” Sally smirked at the flow of foot traffic that had now jammed the crossway over the canal. “I suppose it looks like it from where we're standing. So many people.”

Wagons stood still along with their jittering horses. Men yelled back and forth behind a wagonette that had tipped onto its side, dumping a load of food stuffs in a heap smack-dab in the middle of the walkway. The crowds parted around it, with a few young scamps making off with a pilfered treat.

Sally shoved the popcorn concoction under Mable's nose, drawing her attention back to napkin folding.

“Mable. I'm telling you—you'll love it. Just give it a try.”

Mable wrinkled her nose. “You know I don't care for that stuff. Too sticky-sweet.”

“Too sweet?” Sally balked. “It's incredible. Some crackerjack named Rueckheim has been selling it out of a tent down by the canal. He's had folks lined up all along the causeway. Even ran out yesterday.” She tossed another couple molasses-glazed kernels into her mouth. “But I can still get it because of some gents I met last night. They liked the set I sang. All I had to do was bat my eyelashes at the right pocket and I had two bags delivered to me this morning.”

Mable's friend was a live wire, even for Chicago.

Sally had stars in her eyes bigger than the saucers they set out on the tables each day and auburn hair coiffed to accent her deep gold, come-hither eyes. She sang like a lark too, and never seemed to have the slightest trouble attracting a man's attentions. It seemed to be the keeping part that caused her particular angst.

Sally wrinkled her nose at Mable's task. “Folding napkins is such a tiresome chore.”

“Really? I came all the way from Ohio just to do it. It's been very thrilling for me.”

“Ha-ha,” Sally tossed out. “So much cheek. That's not what I meant and you know it.”

“If you're asking whether I plan to be a hostess and cashier for the rest of my life, then the answer is no. But I suppose it's good enough that I know where I am right now.” Mable watched as the gondolas floated by in front of the windows. “Look at our view. You couldn't ask for more than that.”

“A gondola?” Sally laughed, charmed by the notion. “That's your big plan?”

“Yes! No—” Mable joined in the playfulness by tossing a napkin at her friend. “You know what I mean. Why are you laughing?”

“If that's your dream and it's floating by, then you'd better be quick to reach for it.”

Sally leaned across the counter, the black-and-white piping of her dress reflected in the glass.

Mable traced her index finger along the polished edge of the counter. “I want more, Sal.”

“More than what? What could be more than a life of security in a wedding ring?”

Mable knew the answer; it was a cigar box full of dreams.

“Sally Rivers! Where are you?”

Their attention shifted to the deep gravel of the restaurant manager's voice booming across the dining room. His bellow fairly shook the crystal in the chandeliers.

Sally slid down behind the counter, hiding behind the rows of cigars lining the glass shelves. “That's Mr. Morgan, and I'm late. Supposed to be waiting the high-roller tables in the dining room.”

Mable exhaled. “Sal . . .”

“What?” She tapped a manicured nail against her bottom teeth, sneaking a glance out from the side of the counter. “I didn't want to have my new dress smelling like a fisherman's wharf just because he wants cocktail orders filled for a few suits. I have a set to sing.”

Mable knelt down, meeting her friend eye to eye.

“You look beautiful, as always,” she said. “But there's more to us than this. You know that, right?”

Sally seemed to let those words prick her heart, for she breathed deep and squared her shoulders. “I suppose those tables aren't going to wait themselves.”

“Then you'd better hop to it,” Mable said. She peered around the corner to see if the manager was headed their way. “The coast is clear. Run through the back dining room and come out the other side of the kitchen. If he comes this way I'll tell him I haven't seen you.”

“You're a doll,” Sally whispered and kissed her index finger to dot it to the back of Mable's hand. “I'll talk to you after the lunch
rush. I'll have to sidestep him the rest of the afternoon if I want to keep my job.”

“Good luck,” Mable whispered, watching as her friend disappeared round the corner.

She stood again, just as she heard the clang of the brass bell above the front doors signaling a patron's entrance. She glanced up, expecting to find a gentleman in the same dark suit and bowler hat that the majority of men wore.

But the man who'd strolled in was tall as she—taller even, which didn't happen often. And after the months Mable had spent in the high-end establishment, she knew a tailored suit when she saw one. This gentleman was impeccably dressed in a crisp, three-piece summer suit in tan linen, with a cream-and-gray silk tie that gleamed against his white shirt, and cream-and-black wingtips that boasted a clean polish. He kept his straw hat on over dark hair that curled at the ears.

The man leaned against a gold-capped black cane as he scanned the expansive dining room.

He owned a presence that easily dominated the space. But whatever judgments Mable could make about the gentleman's dress, there was something different in the eyes. They were serious, no-nonsense, but kind somehow—and in the seconds since he'd walked through the door, those eyes had found their way to rest on the exact spot in which she stood.

They looked—and now lingered—on
her.

He smiled.

“Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?” Mable opened the leather-bound reservation book on the counter.

“No.”

She felt a twinge of nervousness creep into her midsection.

A walk-in to Café de la Marine didn't happen—no matter how
a person was dressed. The only time they'd accommodated an unscheduled guest that summer was when the youngest child of Queen Isabella II of Spain had requested a lunch there, and even that had taken some wrangling with the management.

The rule was: no reservation, no table. She'd have no choice but to turn him and his smile away.

“I'm sorry, sir. But without a reservation I'm afraid—”

“What is your name?” He cut in easily. Still politely, but with clear intention.

She blinked back, startled by the sense of familiarity in his voice. “It's Mable, sir.”

“Good afternoon, Mable. I'm John.”

Mable glanced from him to the dining room, finding the open connection of those eyes to hers unnerving at best.

She cleared her throat. “Well, sir.” She couldn't dare call him simply
John
. “Perhaps if you'd like to make a reservation and come back on another day . . .” She took a pen out of the drawer and opened an inkwell on the counter, dipping the nib inside.

“I'd like to speak with the owner.”

“The owner's not here. But I can fetch the manager for you if you'd like.”

“I would.”

A man of few words.

Mable nodded. “Very well. Just a moment, please.”

Something told her not to keep him waiting.

Mable flew by Sally, who was chatting with a gentleman patron but looked up with a furrowed brow at her friend's pace toward the kitchen. She gave Sally a shake of the head that said,
I'll explain later
and kept moving.

She found Mr. Morgan and sent him to the gentleman at the front door, then returned to her post. Other customers streamed
in the doors. The lunch rush was in full swing. Mable saw several parties to their tables, stealing the occasional glance over at “John,” who was still in conversation with the manager by the door.

When she'd seated the fifth reservation on her list and come back, he was gone.