The Ringmaster's Wife (7 page)

Mable felt a twinge of disappointment that he'd been sent back out the door. But the patrons kept filing in, one by one, families and couples alike, looking for a jolly midday meal during their excursion at the fair. She forgot about the encounter with the gentleman by the door.

“Mable, you won't believe it.” Sally practically pounced on her.

“Believe what?” She checked off the last two names from the reservation book and bent down to arrange a stack of menus.

“That man—you know, the one who came in wearing the tan suit?”

Mable didn't try to pretend she hadn't noticed him. She lowered her voice and whispered, “You saw him too?”

Sally nodded. “Yes. And he got the best table in the house.” She grabbed Mable by the shoulders, shaking lightly before letting go to cover her mouth with her hands. “
The best one
. Without a reservation. He ordered the chef's catch and the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu without even glancing at the price. His bill's already totaled a small fortune and he's still adding to it. I'd have asked Mr. Morgan who he is, but our manager is too disgruntled with me right now to answer.”

Mable wasn't surprised on either count.

“We've had wealthy patrons in here before. Is this news to get so excited about?”

“You bet it is. I walked over to his table, and you know what? He asked about you.”

Mable swallowed hard and glanced past Sally to the full dining
room. She could just see the elbow of the gentleman's linen suit, leaning against the edge of the table.

“Me?”

Don't think about those eyes . . .

“Yes, my lovely napkin-folding friend.
You
.”

“But what in the world could he want with me?” Mable whispered, trying not to tie her hands in knots at her waist.

“He wanted to know when your shift ends.”

“But I'm here all day. I have to close tonight.”

Sally reached out and hooked a wavy lock of Mable's dark hair behind her ear.

“You
did
have to close tonight, Mable. You're off when Mr. Linen Suit finishes his lunch. He told the manager that your shift would end the moment you agreed to take a walk with him across the canal bridge.”

M
ABLE HAD AGREED TO THE WALK, THOUGH SHE DIDN
'
T KNOW
exactly why.

Everything had happened so fast. One moment she'd learned the gentleman wanted to step out with her, and seemingly in the next instant Sally was tilting a navy plumed hat on her head, fiddling with the coiffed curls at her brow, and pouring advice on her as she shoved Mable out the door.

“What would you like to see?” Mable asked, hoping to draw John into conversation.

They'd walked all the way from the café, past the lagoon, to the bright sights and sounds of the game booths and foreign attractions lining the Midway. He hadn't said much, just walked along at a steady pace, allowing her to lead them.

“What would you suggest?”

“The Turkish Village isn't very far and the admission is free. The Ferris wheel is another favorite with visitors. And there are some camels on Cairo Street right over there. They're one of the most popular attractions at the fair.” She pointed to a multistory replica of an Egyptian temple just beyond the gates before them. “If you've never seen an exotic animal, they're quite a treat.”

“But you don't seem very impressed,” John noted, a half grin evident on his face.

Mable smiled too, noting his ability to read her thoughts. It felt as if her secret was out—she'd seen the camels a hundred times, and they seemed more like big, ill-tempered cows than anything truly exotic to her.

“I might have been impressed the first time I saw them. But I've been here on the grounds for months and, well, you get used to such things. Except for the wedding procession, of course. That's always beautiful. I try to time my breaks so I can step out and watch it.”

“Hmm. I've heard about it. And you watch the same show time and again?”

“Of course.”

“But what keeps you coming back, if it's not the mystique of the camels?”

“There's some razzmatazz about the show out front. The visitors like the music and the scandal of belly dancing. And those horrible spitting camels. But I like to see behind the scenes.” Mable leaned in, whispering low. “You know, if you peek behind the street, just there—” She pointed down the alley behind the grand temple. “See? It's all bowler hats instead of turbans. That's where the real activity is. They've got a small army keeping everything running behind the stage, and nobody even knows it.”

He smiled wide. “Is that right?”

“Of course. They also have ‘The Arrival from Mecca.' They really make a show of it. The tourists just love it.” She paused, thinking that she knew very little about him, except that he was smiling as they watched the hidden alleyway behind Cairo Street. Was he a tourist? What if she was telling him all about the fair and he lived in Chicago too?

“Are you a tourist, by chance?” she asked.

“I am, of sorts.”

“And where do you live?”

“Here and there. I'm in Chicago part of the year.”

And he left it at that.

John wasn't easy to figure out. He was quiet. Almost serious. And while she droned on about the German village they passed, the exquisite rose garden she loved, and the music lilting up from the Viennese exhibit, he said little. Just nodded or looked on as they walked farther down the Midway.

“May I ask—what did you say to him?” she asked.

Caught up in the sights around them, he asked, “Who?”

He paused as they passed the Russian furs exhibit, a long aisle with stuffed bears on hind legs and snow dogs positioned under a bower of hanging furs.

“Mr. Morgan. You must have said something for him to allow me out of my shift. He'd never agree to such a thing unless you said something quite convincing. I wondered what it was.”

“Whatever it was, it's not worth telling now.” John pointed his cane down the direction of the aisle teeming with animal furs and lush food smells. “And what do you make of this one? You must have an opinion.”

Mable was surprised by the question. It wasn't a normal occurrence for her opinion to be sought after by anyone. She looked at the Russian exhibit and smiled. She had an opinion, all right. And
since this stranger appeared to want to know, she'd oblige with an honest answer.

“I think it's fun.”

“Fun?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not scary or grotesque? Those bears have fangs.”

“No. Not scary. They're just . . .” She laughed. “Fun. I have the oddest idea that they'd look charming with a tutu or a suit and bright red boutonnière instead of just standing there glaring at everyone. What if they were dancing instead of menacing?”

“A dancing bear with a boutonnière? The idea has merit.” He nodded, eyes smiling at the corners, giving away his amusement. He tilted his head as if considering it. “And look at the children.” John took a step back as a group of eager youngsters flooded in front of them, making for a souvenir stand. “No doubt they'd enjoy your dancing bears.”

“Maybe they would,” she said, stepping back so the children could swarm in around the toys.

Mable watched as the children played, laughing and dancing about, and adults picked out mementos from displays of engraved commemorative glassware and rows of painted ornamental fans. The fans were inexpensive and lackluster in their artistic appeal—not like the grand Cassatt art exhibit at the fair. But still, she liked their whimsy and pointed out the bright colors and beautiful botanical scenes painted on them.

“Pick one,” John said.

Mable smiled. “Are you sure?”

He was already paying the man, so he must have been. It seemed that when John made a decision, he was sure of himself in it.

Mable happily agreed to accept the gift. She chose a nature scene with palm trees, a blue sky, and a hill with colorful stucco houses built into the side. It was hot out, so she spread the beautiful gift wide and
fanned it back and forth as they walked. The peace was broken, however, the instant they heard a commotion arise across the Midway.

Children bolted past them in a clattering rush.

Men in suits began to shout and point, drawing attention from the crowd and sparking gasps and shrieks from the ladies.

Over the bustle of international music and the reveling crowds they heard shouts of “Fire!” and “The Cold Storage Building is on fire!”

Mable tore her glance from left to right, searching for flames that would surely overtake them.

She'd heard too much about the effects of the Great Fire in 1871. Chicago was still rebuilding. What would happen if fire overtook the White City a second time, and in the grandest spectacle the world had ever seen? She prayed nothing like that could happen again. Not in the city where dreams came true.

The children they'd just seen—were they safe? Were all accounted for?

She glanced back at the vendor tables they'd passed.

The patrons had scattered, the children with them. The vendor was hastily packing up his wares. He didn't look up. Didn't seem to notice anything but shoving souvenirs into the crates beneath the cart.

“Mable?”

John gripped her elbow, gently but with intention, and edged her forward. “We need to keep moving.”

She nodded but the action felt foreign, as if she were watching the events playing out on a stage.

The sound of clanging fire wagon bells filled the air.

Onlookers cheered for the firemen. Some hooted and hollered. The Ferris wheel had been halted, but still the patrons shouted in jubilation. Still others, like her, seemed concerned by the growing plume of thick smoke choking out the blue sky overhead.

“But why are they cheering?”

“Poor fools.” John shook his head. “They don't know it's real.”

Mable glanced around and saw that he was right. The faces in the crowd weren't painted with fear. Instead, she witnessed only a sense of gaiety. There were smiles. Laughter even. Fathers stood with children hoisted on their shoulders. Mothers cradled little ones in their arms, watching the phenomenon all along the Midway.

“They think it's a planned spectacle,” he said, pointing to the plume of black smoke rising above the trees. “With something as grand as all this, how could they think otherwise?”

“But it's not planned . . .”

“No,” he confirmed, and took hold of her hand. His fingers laced with hers, covering her palm in unexpected warmth. “This is most certainly not a part of the show.”

She looked from the smoke-filled sky to meet his gaze. “What do we do?”

“It's all right, Mable.” John kept his eyes locked with hers. “Trust me. I'll not let go of you.”

Mable believed him. Even as an explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet. As the crowd's mood changed from excitement to agitation. As a strong breeze blew the pungent smell of electricity and burning wood to wash in over the lot of them—she kept her eyes fixed on his.

“Come on,” he whispered so only she could hear, and squeezed her hand. “We've got to go.”

He eased them in at a quick pace, following the throngs of people.

The masses flowed toward the colossal Cold Storage Building. And then, in a rush, Mable's heart lurched in her chest. The building had erupted into a tower of smoke and flames licking at the sky, painting their glorious White City in a wall of fire.

“But the fire . . .” Her heart raced. “All the children in the crowd.”

“I've been around accidents of this sort before,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “See the fire wagons? Both the Chicago companies and the World's Fair Fire Department already have boats spraying canal water to douse the flames. They'll have it under control in no time. Even though the crowd doesn't seem as concerned as they should be, they'll see to the safety of the crowds. And trust the parents to take the children in care.”

“But they don't know . . . They don't think it's real.”

“They will soon enough.”

Mable couldn't decide what was more unexpected that afternoon: the sight of flames reaching up to graze the clouds, or the vision of this man who was so collected in the face of uncertainty.

“But how do you know they'll get things under control?” Mable searched him, her eyes taking in the depths of his.

He seemed to want to say something, but didn't. Just kept the strong hold to her fingertips.

“I'd best see you back to the café,” he said, and began pulling her along with him. “You'll be safer if you're not in the middle of a mob of frightened onlookers.”

Frightened onlookers? But she was one of them.

Mable scarcely remembered the way they threaded through the crowd, sidestepping scores of fairgoers who'd gathered to watch the show from across the canal. They sped down the Midway, John leading them on with purpose. And when they reached the canal at the Café de la Marine's etched glass doors, he bowed, thanked her, and quickly disappeared into the sea of bowler hats around them.