1927
SPOKANE, WASHINGTON
Rosamund sat on a straw bale with her hands cradled in her lap, listening to the soft patter of rain against the Big Top’s roof.
Her palms were blistered and raw from the days she and Ingénue had trained. The muscles of her back and legs burned nearly every time she walked. And her body seemed to ache all over—no doubt from learning to sleep on a cramped train car and the grueling training schedule they’d undertaken in between performances.
Never before had Rosamund been so exhausted that she crumpled down right on the spot, content to stay put for more than an hour after they’d finished. She’d fallen against the straw bale, not caring that it poked through her cream silk sleeveless blouse and high-waisted riding pants. Just to rest and recover was such a luxury that she couldn’t be bothered by the small inconvenience of a few prickles to her skin.
The show had rolled in March, Rosamund and Ingénue with it.
They’d gone out in front of crowds of thousands for months now, executing—but barely. Theirs was the bare-minimum performance, with both of them struggling each time. Rosamund no longer looked up to the flash of blue sequins and the smiles brought to the crowd by the spectacular Rossi family. Now she looked to the crowd. Wondering what they were thinking. How they’d receive the jittery Arabian and the automatic routine of the petite brunette in ring three, with the lack of charisma and the blush of English roses laced in her hair.
“I thought you would have gone back to the ring stock tent by now.”
Colin appeared at a side entrance to the tent, leaning against the edge of the wooden bleachers. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky behind his shoulders.
Rosamund was surprised to see him, but determined not to show it. She curled her fingers into her palms and pulled her hands in closer to her waist, hiding them from his view.
“I was waiting for you, but you never showed.”
She rolled her eyes to the direction of the rain dancing on the roof. “The rain. I couldn’t go back to a busy tent just yet. It was too peaceful here.” She leaned against the bale of straw behind her. Tiny stalks poked her shoulders again, and she readjusted until they finally left her in peace. “What time is it?”
He didn’t reach for his watch. Just noted, “It’s late.”
“I was too exhausted to move,” she admitted with a light smile, rubbing the ache out of her arms. “Even to go to the dining tent for a cup of coffee. You know it’s serious when I’ll forgo that.”
Colin nodded. As though he’d expected her to say something like that. “Lucky we don’t have to roll tonight. One more day staying put can be a blessing sometimes.”
He stepped inside, hands buried in his pockets as he walked toward her.
She could see the rain-dampened hair hanging low over his forehead. His striped work shirt was speckled with drops at the shoulders and collar.
“May I?”
Rosamund nodded, scooting over to share the straw bale with him.
She could hear the sounds of men tinkering somewhere off behind them, with hushed conversation, arbitrary clinks of metal, and the occasional laugh or two as they finished their tasks for the night. Other than the far-off company, they sat alone in the dim light of the Big Top, side by side. And she felt better for it.
She wasn’t certain she could collect her thoughts if she had to look straight at him.
“Owen is a good man. I’ve worked with him for years. I can attest to how well he treats the performers in his charge—both people and horses. He makes no distinction between them. But he’ll put you through your paces to get a performance that’s up to his standards, and I can’t fault him for that.”
“Neither can I, to tell you the truth.”
He pulled something from his pocket—a small glass jar that was half full of a cloudy, sticky liquid. “Here,” he whispered, and twisted off the lid. “Give me your hands.”
Rosamund felt her pulse quicken, as it had the night of the party. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “Been around the lot for a long time. You’re not the first bit of raw talent to come waltzing through our doors.”
They hadn’t spoken much in the past few weeks.
She’d seen him around the lot, muscling wagons onto train cars at depots, standing guard in the wings during every performance, with an intense glare and arms folded across his chest as she and Ingénue rode into the ring. Those flashes she caught of Colin Keary had been of Colin the boss. He was always watching. Managing every detail. Ensuring that the Circus King’s show went off without a hitch.
But it was not the same man who’d appeared in the stock tent now.
This man was relaxed, sitting with his palms out, waiting to accept hers. He was the same man who had once brought her fishing rods at a Sarasota dock. The one who had taken her hand in his and led her around the outdoor dance floor at the Cà d’Zan.
Colin had keenly avoided her since the show opener. To give her space as she trained. Maybe to give them both a bit of it, being boss and employee. But now those winds had shifted, and the old Colin had breezed back into her path.
He waited, his quiet way punctuating the sudden silence between them.
A familiar longing squeezed in her chest. Rosamund realized now how much she’d missed him.
“May I?” He was asking rather than telling this time, his tone layered with sincerity.
She nodded, wincing from the sting that shot up her arms as she stretched her palms wide. “Yes.”
Her hands felt warm in his fingertips. Then cool, when he rubbed balm over the painfully inflamed parts of her palms.
“The flyers swear by this stuff.” He spoke over the rain, taking time as his fingertips brushed across her palms. “Been using it for years. Trust me—you’ll have new hands by morning. And try using more talc between sets. You need to keep your palms dry or you’ll find yourself nursing hands like this all season.”
Rosamund kept quiet as he worked.
Except for her heart. That began beating louder, so much so that she feared he’d hear it over the pattering of rain overhead. She watched him work, felt the balm soothing every rough edge out of her day, wondering why it was that his very presence could stir and soothe at the same time.
He ran a finger over the base of her wrist, having noticed the scar there. “Where’d you come by this? It doesn’t look like a riding injury.”
“Evidence of a stubborn nature, I’m afraid.”
She almost laughed to think on it now. Those youthful days of running from her tutorials, hiding in the rose garden to avoid getting caught.
“I’d been hiding in the rose garden. Hendrick found me there and took pity on me. He seemed to think that a diversion might lessen the sting of a thorn that had badly pricked my skin. That was long before he went to war. Before Ingénue, before everything changed. And it left a scar, right where I can always see it.”
Colin seemed to understand that there was more to the story, but didn’t inquire further. He merely nodded as she talked, listening as was his way.
“This has been hard on you, and I’m sorry for it.”
“I know. But you’ve done what you had to in order to get a performance out of us.”
His eyes shot up, connecting with hers. The blue in them was open. Stormy. Searching the contours of her face.
“Is that really what you think of me?”
“Well . . . the circus has to come first, right? The balance. Everyone doing their part around here.”
“Not always, Rose.” He shook his head ever so slightly. “We do have our parts to play. I know that. In fact, I live by it. But I thought if I left you alone, you’d fare better. So they wouldn’t think I’d shown any favoritism. I was worried that some of the other performers might have been . . . uncivil.”
“Uncivil about a privileged lady trying to squeeze into the ranks? Never.”
She allowed a bit of a laugh to escape the gentle part in her lips. That was the understatement of the year.
“It’s good to hear you laugh again,” he said, a noticeably quieter note having taken over his voice.
He released her hands and screwed the lid back on the jar, then placed it on the bale between them.
“Let that dry. Then put on another layer first thing in the morning, okay?”
“I will,” she promised, trying not to look him in the eye for very long. Staring down at her hands seemed easier, and so she did.
Rosamund expected him to leave. He’d apologized. Checked on her. And surely there were a hundred things he could have been doing at the moment, rather than wasting time with her. But instead of standing, he leaned back against the bale behind them, content to stay put.
His shoulder grazed hers.
“It’s nice in here,” he whispered, looking up at the vault of the tent ceiling as the sounds of the pattering rain eased off. “I don’t come in when it’s empty like this. I used to. But not anymore.”
She gazed around at the hushed atmosphere, with rows of empty bleachers and corners shrouded in shadow. It was almost as if the giant tent were asleep, and they’d lowered their voices so as not to disturb its gentle slumber.
“I hadn’t thought it could be like this either.”
“Even in the number of years I’ve been here.” Colin shrugged. “You still can’t get used to seeing it like this.”
“How long has that been?”
It was, Rosamund hoped, an appropriate time to ask the question.
She knew very little about him. It seemed few knew about his past. And as he’d come to her now, so open and very much the man she remembered from Sarasota, she hoped it would be enough for him to stick around a little longer.
“Fifteen years, give or take,” he answered, sighing into the words. “Feels like a lifetime.”
“I can understand that. For me now too.” She kicked at a piece of errant straw in the path of her riding slipper. “I wonder what my mother would think of me. I wear trousers now more than dresses.”
“The circus will do that to you.” He chuckled. “You know, I met Mrs. Ringling before anyone else. And for how she’s content to stay out of the limelight of Mr. Ringling’s business affairs, she’s the one who first brought me into this circus world. It was an adjustment for me too.”
“I think I could believe that.” Rosamund smiled. “How did you meet her?”
“I stole a watch from Mr. Ringling, and she caught me in the act. I was young. A scrappy Irish lad. Thought I knew it all back then.”
His voice faded on the memory and Rosamund sat up a little straighter, her attention piqued.
“Much like your hiding in the garden, it was not my proudest moment. But I was living by my wits back then, and a gold watch was quite a meal ticket for a youth like me. The New York City streets get pretty cold in winter, so right or wrong—you do what you have to in order to survive.”
Colin watched her. Searching her face. Maybe looking for any sign of pity now that he’d shared some of his scars with her.
“But didn’t you have any family? A home?”
He didn’t hesitate—just pointed up to the maze of rope and poles and stringed lights crowding the ceiling overhead, as if the answer were simple.
“This became my home. John Ringling gave me a job, and that was it. I left behind anything I’d once had in New York and joined up.”
“What kind of job?”
“Nothing as glamorous as you’ve got going on here. I started out selling programs in the crowd outside Madison Square Park. But I wanted to go on the road with the rest of the show. And as soon as Mr. Charlie found out I had a past that could be useful, they put me to work with the Pinkerton detectives, ferreting out pickpockets on the circus Midway. I don’t think a single dime was lost by a guest that year.”
“So you used your powers for good.”
“Maybe. God knows. But I worked my way up from there. Not with any great intention—just because I’d found my niche. Or rather, it found me. It’s what I’m good at. And now it’s all I know. This tired old canvas held up by rope and wood . . . it’s my home.”
Home.
The word begged remembrance.
“It’s a home on wheels.”
“Home can move,” he answered. “As long as your heart goes with it.”
The sudden turn in the conversation reminded Rosamund that hers was a life still in flux. She felt a sudden chilling breeze and shivered, drawing her arms around her middle to pull in her warmth.
“Rose, tell me something. When you were back home, what did you hear when you would ride?”
It was the last thing Rosamund expected him to ask, especially given that he’d managed to read her thoughts in earnest.
She swallowed hard, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t hear anything. I was out in the fields.”
“Not true. I think you heard something. What was it? Birds? Wind? Ingénue breathing? Tell me. I know you’re holding something back.”
“Yes. I could hear Ingénue,” she whispered. “She’s always been with me.”
“But that’s not all, is it?” He turned suddenly, locking eyes with hers. “When I saw you riding at Easling Park that morning, you were a million miles away. What took you there?”
She shook her head, as if she didn’t understand.
He wasn’t buying it.
“Close your eyes,” Colin whispered. “Go back to that day at Easling Park, when you thought it was your last ride with Ingénue. Tell me what you hear.”
Rosamund obeyed, aching for remembrance. To get lost in the childhood memories that she’d not shared with another person before. She went back, living in them for the moment. Relishing the opportunity to revisit the hidden parts of her heart.
“Music.”
“What music?” he prompted.
“Hendrick’s.”
“He played music for you?”
“Yes,” she breathed out, trying to avoid allowing tears to fall in front of him. “On a violin. Did I ever tell you that?”
She heard him exhale. Maybe chuckle just a bit.
“No. You didn’t.”
“He stood in the fields and played his heart out for me. Fun tunes. The kind my father never would have allowed in the manor. It really was his gift.”
“Playing the violin?”
“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “Giving to others. And I haven’t thought of that in so long. I think I made myself forget that part of him.”
Her pulse beat faster with the shock of feeling Colin’s palms cup her jaw. Then feeling his thumb tenderly wiping a tear that had escaped to dampen the edge of her lashes. It brushed against the soft skin under her eye, lingering there against the apple of her cheek.
Rosamund couldn’t open her eyes. Didn’t dare look at him. Surely he’d see the inner workings of her heart revealed there.
Her hands trembled in her lap.
“So you hear him when you ride.”
“Yes. It was my freedom. The only kind I knew. And those moments became the memories when everything was right. When we were a family. There was no bitterness. No loss. Just . . . music.” She paused, swallowing over emotion that was trying to get the better of her. “Remember the song I played at the Cà d’Zan? ‘Roses of Picardy.’ It was published during the war, and it was the last song he played for me. Looking back now, those are the only moments that are all mine. I don’t have to share them with anyone.”
She felt the shock of his lips, whisper-soft as they grazed hers.
“But you just shared them with me,” he said against her mouth.
Rosamund blinked her eyes open and met the cool blue of his eyes, still revealing an openness before her. But it didn’t last. He eased away, dropping his hands in an instant and turning away as if he’d been burned. The action left a cold void between them.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
He stopped short.
Let out a rough sigh, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck. He gazed out over the span of the ring in front of them for long moments.
Saying nothing of the line they’d just crossed.
“You have to show that to the crowd, Rose. Those memories? They’re powerful. And they make you the woman that you are.” Colin stood, turning to face her. “You need a day for your hands to heal, then I’m putting you in the center ring.”
“No.” She shook her head emphatically. The stakes were too high. How could she convince him he was wrong? “We’re not ready. You know we’re not.”
“You are. It’s time, Rose. And during your performance, let down your hair. Get lost, just like you did at Easling Park. Remember what you just told me and live it out in that ring.”
How had he remembered that day?
The notion that he must have thought about it too—maybe more than she’d realized—struck Rosamund with great force. And it was telling that despite the obvious warring with the weight of his responsibilities, he’d kissed her anyway. He’d made the decision to cross the line drawn in sawdust between them.
She stood too. And, shaken by what he’d done, took a hopeful step forward.
“How can you be sure?”
“Trust me. I know what I’m saying when I tell you to go back to a time when your memories are sweetest. Live there while you can.” His voice held a note of softness to it, his Irish brogue edging out more than usual. “You’ve already got all the tools you need to win the crowd. And if you go back to those rides, if you forget anyone’s watching and just perform with the music you hear, something special will happen.”
Colin took several steps back, putting more space between them. “Do that, and the crowd will be yours.”
ROSAMUND GATHERED UP HER THINGS IN A DAZE.
After such a lengthy near silence from Colin, the last thing she’d expected was to journey into new territory as they had under the Big Top.
She wrapped a sweater round her shoulders and pulled on her leather riding boots, grateful now that she had them for what could prove to be a trek through rain-dampened fields.
Rosamund slipped into the canvas neck that connected the Big Top to the menagerie tent. She’d swiped two extra apples at dinner, hoping to bring one to Nora after the show. The other she’d gift to Ingénue for their pre-breakfast ride in the morning.
She poked her head into the tent, waved to the animal caretakers. She held up an apple, and when they’d nodded her in, she slipped inside.
It wasn’t too late after all.
Rosamund greeted Nora and smiled that a life with exotic animals as friends was commonplace now. She held out the apple. Nora curled her trunk around Rosamund’s hand, taking the apple to drop into her open mouth.
“You’re welcome, pretty girl.” She smoothed her hand against the elephant’s trunk, patting with affection. “You know, you’re one of the very first friends I made here. Remember that? But I think you were looking to fill your tummy even then.”
“You just make friends everywhere, don’t you?”
Rosamund jumped and turned around. She was taken aback to find the red-lipped Bella Rossi, of all people, standing behind her. She wore an elegant silk dressing robe tied over her performance costume, with puffs of camel-colored fur lining the wrists and wide collar.
“Bella . . .” Rosamund caught a hand at her chest. “I’m sorry. You startled me.”
It wasn’t in the flyer’s nature to mix with man or beast outside her private tent. Rosamund didn’t want to judge why—but it was commonplace that this star wasn’t in the habit of trekking through the fields like some of the other performers were. Not in her stylish T-strap heels and Italian dresses, and certainly not right after the fields would be covered in mud from the steady rain.
She held an elegant garment of blush-pink silk and gauze fabric over one arm.
“Minnie was looking for you,” Bella announced. “She finished sewing your new costume tonight. She wanted you to try it and make sure it fits before tomorrow’s matinee performance. I hear you’re taking center ring once we reach Vancouver.”
“News travels fast. And we’re still two days out,” Rosamund noted, wondering how in the world Bella could know that already. “I just learned of it myself.”
“Well, that’s to be expected around here. And as I was in the costume tent for my own fitting, I said I’d come and find you.”
Rosamund hated to suspect that there might be more to Bella’s appearance than just extending a new costume and offering kindness. But still, she’d offer the same gesture of charity back, no matter what the other woman’s motive.
“Thank you.” She reached to take the costume, only to find that Bella artfully drew her arm back.
“Why not come to my tent and try it on? It’s closer than the pad room.”
Rosamund cleared her throat. “Well, performers don’t change in the pad room anyway. Because . . . it’s for the performance horses. We change in Minnie’s costume tent.”
Bella waved her off, as if the reply were a frivolity of some sort. “Yes, of course. But why walk all the way back in this weather?”
“It’s no trouble,” Rosamund said. “It’s not far.”
“Nonsense. I insist.”
Bella nodded as if that sealed the matter, and stepped from the tent with full expectancy that Rosamund would follow. So she did, sending one last look to Nora, wishing altogether that she’d waited until morning to gift her friend the apple. Now it felt like she’d be paying for the gesture.
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.”