Joanne Bischof

by The Lady

  “I am not by blood,” Regina said. “But in life. Now Charlie here is Roma, and the Romani are—”

  “Both clever and good looking,” Charlie interjected.

  “I was going to say prideful,” Regina countered. “But now I see that I didn’t need to.”

  Ella giggled.

  Regina peered playfully up at Charlie before shifting her gaze to Ella. “There is much Romani in this company, which is why our banners are so big. And why we linger for three days in each town. They’re never in a hurry.”

  “Vain I will accept, but are you calling me slow?” He spoke down to Regina, but winked briefly in Ella’s direction. “You’re missing the whole point to what we believe. It’s about l’amore. A wise old man also said that, ‘If you’re passionate for something, why rush?’”

  The little woman propped a fist on her hip. “Oh, stop making things up. Better yet, tell that to Mr. Graven the next time the Ringling Brothers go flying by on the rails.”

  He grinned and Ella could see it—this Romani blood in him with his dark brown hair, sun-kissed skin. Vivid green eyes that were like nothing she’d ever seen before. Because of that, she wondered if his parentage wasn’t more mixed than he let on.

  When the tent fell quiet, Ella peered around the tall, dashing subject to his stout companion. “What you’re making smells delicious.”

  Charlie moved beside Regina and held out a plate. Using a slotted spoon, she drained the dumplings and plopped several onto the plate. From a small pot on the back of the potbelly stove, she drizzled what looked like a cream sauce onto the mounds of glistening dough.

  Charlie carried the plate to Ella along with a fork and napkin. Their fingers touched, shooting warmth into her arm. “Thank you,” she said.

  With a soft expression, Charlie went back to the stove.

  “What did you say these were?” Ella asked.

  “Ravioli.” Regina said the word fondly as she filled another plate.

  Ella tucked the steamy, heavenly-smelling dish in her lap and waited as the others got their own meals and settled around—Charlie on the little wooden bed with Holland, Regina on a chair near the stove. With his crates under her, Ella touched her toes together. She picked up her fork and stabbed a ravioli only to see Regina bow her head. Charlie too.

  “Our heavenly father,” Charlie began.

  As quietly as possible, Ella set down the fork.

  Holland reached for Charlie’s plate and with his eyes closed, he gently caught her hand in his own. She tried to reach around it and he smiled softly at her antics even as he spoke. “We thank you for this food. And for the hands that have prepared it.”

  Ella looked over at Regina who, with eyes closed, wore a soft smile.

  “And we thank you for Ella, our company. That she’s helped make Holland well.”

  Ella swallowed hard.

  “And for taking care of Holland, keeping her in your mighty grasp.” Charlie finished with an “amen” and lifted his head.

  Mute, Ella nodded, her appetite stilted. When he began to eat, she took a small bite. The dumpling was creamy and rich, and though her stomach suddenly felt unsettled, they were good. “These are incredible, Regina.”

  The woman looked up from her meal. “Thank you, my dear.”

  Slowly, Ella ate another thinking that she would like to learn how to make them. Realizing she was eating without speaking—and Charlie was watching her with that same look of amusement—she dabbed at her mouth with the napkin.

  “My friend has some questions for you,” she said.

  “From Margaret the Captive? For me?” He cut a corner of cooked dough and offered it to Holland. She plucked the small morsel from his palm then pushed it into her mouth.

  “She wants to know if your last name is really Lionheart.”

  He gave a crooked grin and stabbed a ravioli for himself. “I’ll be sure to tell her, the next time I see her.”

  “Charlie!” Ella said with a laugh.

  “Oh…” He looked up again. “So this might be for your benefit as well?”

  Feeling her cheeks warm, Ella held his gaze. “Possibly.”

  He settled his back against a tent post, and being much too big for Holland’s bed, propped his tall boots on a nearby crate. “Yes. My name really is Lionheart.”

  Ella thought on that, then slowly shook her head. “And you are a lion tamer. What a coincidence.”

  “It’s not a coincidence.” He stirred his food around with his fork, eyes down. He looked over at Holland, then back to Ella. “My father joined the circus when he was sixteen.”

  Ella tried to imagine that.

  “As the story goes, he was running away from home. Why…” he speared a ravioli, “I don’t know. He never spoke of his life before that. I think he didn’t see eye to eye with his father. So he joined the circus. And he changed his name.”

  Lionheart. She almost said it aloud.

  “You can be anything you want to be here.” He slipped a pinch of glistening dough to Holland who grasped it with pudgy fingers. “If I had a name before Lionheart, I wouldn’t know what it was. My parents never told me. So it is the only thing that I have to give Holland.” His muted smile was bittersweet, gaze still on Ella. “And whoever else might have need of it.”

  Her heart hurt a little, struck by the simplicity of that—and the depth.

  “He wasn’t the first person to change his name around here. Not everyone who joins the circus does it because they want to. Some join it because they have nowhere else to go.”

  Ella looked at him a long moment. Then remembering her food, made herself take a small bite. Still pondering his answer, she must have thought overlong, for he spoke again.

  “Any other questions from your friend? Nurses really are nosy creatures.”

  If Ella had a pepper in hand she’d have thrown it at him. Instead, she just thought back over Margaret’s wonderings. Ella hesitated on Holland’s name—something she’d been curious about herself, but after the story he just shared, it didn’t feel right probing there. Margaret’s other question of how long he had been with the circus was now answered, so Ella searched her mind to see if she had any others.

  But she was feeling distracted. Ever since his prayer. “You are a religious man?”

  Her inquiry seemed to take him by surprise. “Would you have preferred me something else?” When he looked back at Ella, there was a seriousness threaded in the glimpse he gave her. “I simply talk to God.”

  Ella drew in a shuddering breath.

  “Because I am not a good man by nature. And I hope to make the years here count for something.” He was looking at her with such conviction that she couldn’t glance away. “It’s something I want to try to be because it’s right. And it gives a better life to Holland, and anyone else who has to put up with me.”

  Ella looked at Regina. The stout woman was watching Charlie with shining eyes.

  “I am nothing without God,” he said. “And I don’t ever want to try to be.”

  “You see what you started?” Regina said good-naturedly to Ella. “This is why they call him Preacher. Just like his father before him.”

  Preacher.

  And his son.

  Ella set her plate down with a clatter. No, no, no…

  She needed to go home now. She stood on shaky legs, gripped the edge of Charlie’s wagon to steady herself, then stepped down to the grassy floor. From her side vision, Charlie stood.

  “Ella?”

  Home. Now.

  Alone.

  Lanterns bobbed past the tent and in the distance, the peculiar pumping of a slow accordion was drowned out by the clatter of balls and wooden pegs. A crowd of men guffawed and a bell clanged, signaling a prize.

  Was she swaying? The room seemed to spin and she reached for something, only to take hold of Charlie’s arm when he stepped beside her. His other arm slid around as if to steady her, but Ella startled at the strength she felt there.

  Charlie
pulled away, his face puzzled and pained. “Ella, are you okay?”

  “I need to leave,” she whispered.

  “If you wish…” His voice matched his confused expression. “I’ll walk you.”

  “No!” She moved away from him, memories of old punching her square in the gut. “I’m quite fine all on my own.” The room was still spinning, but Ella whispered a distant thank you to Regina. She didn’t look at Holland. Didn’t want to see her face. Her heart couldn’t take it. The only thought she had led her ducking through the tent’s opening and into the growing dusk of evening. Wind tugged at her hair, and she’d taken but steps when Charlie called after her. A few more and he was there, gripping her wrist.

  Just as the other man had done.

  Like the igniting of an electric light, fear bolted through her, hot and sudden. Ella pulled, barely registering his gentle touch until he tightened his hand. She almost screamed.

  “Let go of me!” She yanked and hit his chest as hard as she could.

  “You’re going to fall, Ella.” His voice all but pleaded, but he did as she asked.

  And she went tumbling into the grass. Ella scrambled to her feet. And ran.

  She ran and ran. Her hair whipped into her face, and in the failing light she nearly tripped over stakes and ropes as she hurried through the camp. She heard Charlie behind her, his boots heavy and quick.

  And suddenly she was fifteen again and the night was horrible and dark.

  A scream rising in her throat, she knew she couldn’t outrun him. She whirled, standing low. “Don’t touch me.” Her chest heaved.

  Charlie slowed, his hands held up peaceably. His eyes were wide. Shocked.

  He stepped forward and she moved back only to bump against the side of a wagon.

  Throat closing off air, she crouched against the wheel, voice small. “Please don’t hurt me.” Tears stung fiercely.

  Pain flooded Charlie’s face as he lowered himself so he wasn’t much taller than her. “Ella, I would never hurt you.” Two more slow steps and he knelt a reach away. He looked about to move closer and she pulled her knees in, trying to become as small as possible against the spoked wheel.

  Lowering her face, she pressed palms to her eyes and fought the sting of tears. What was happening?

  “Ella, what’s wrong?” Charlie’s voice was so filled with worry, tears came anyway.

  She shook her head and wiped damp palms on her skirt. What was coming over her? She ran a sleeve over her cheek and heaved in a shaky breath. Where was she? She wanted to go home. But this strange place gripped her in both a growing darkness and a rising wind.

  “What can I do for you?” he whispered, easing closer. His fingertips grazed the side of her shoe. Ella flinched but forced herself to take deep breaths. She tried to fight off the memory of Charlie’s prayer—his declarations about God—but couldn’t.

  Fear slid cold through her heart. Charlie was nearly twice as big as her. Just as the other man had been. The one who had offered to carry her hymnal as he walked her home from church that night. Then tried to hold her hand. The beginning to an avalanche. A crushing strength that, even after all her fighting, had left her no choice but to try and close her mind. And her heart, and try not to feel or think or…or…her chest heaving, she couldn’t draw air. Terror needled her.

  Oh, God. This is what you do to me.

  Then a whispered voice broke through. “Are you scared of me, Ella?” Soft. Broken. Charlie pulled his hand away and shifting to a crouch, took a small step back…and then another.

  Ella peered at him. This was Charlie. She took a breath, her whole body shaking as the fight left as sudden as it had come. Guardian to Holland. Another breath. She tried to conjure the memory of his gentle touch with the baby, tried to absorb the way he was on his knees again—no taller than her.

  He was searching her face—no doubt trying to make sense of what was going on. “You want to go home now.” He said it as a fact and she nodded. “Okay. We’ll get you home.” He looked around and tugged at his hair.

  A pang of grief struck her.

  “Just…don’t move. Just give me a moment. We’ll get you home.” He rose and moved back a few more steps. At the nearest wagon, he called out to someone. Light pierced the air as the door opened and a young woman appeared.

  And suddenly Ella wasn’t fifteen anymore. Because the prayer she had prayed that night—to not be alone—was answered. She looked to Charlie as gratitude and guilt flooded her.

  The stranger descended the steps. Her hair cascaded down her back…to the ground where it puddled. Her feminine profile peered up at Charlie in clear trust. He spoke to the girl who bound up her hair, tying it securely with a strip of cloth. After nodding to what he was saying, the young woman walked toward her.

  A kind face, cool in the first traces of moonlight, drew near. “Hello, Ella. My name is Angelina and I’m going to walk you home.”

  C H A P T E R 1 2

  __________

  Charlie watched the way Ella kept swiping that bit of hair from her face only for it to fall back again when she looked over her shoulder at him…

  Something she’d done more times than he could count.

  Angelina explained to her why he was following along. To make sure they both got home safely. Ella nodded. Peeked over her shoulder again, remorse in her eyes.

  Hands in his pockets, Charlie walked along, a fair gap between them, his heart in his boots. He tried to recall what he might have done or said to give her fear, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything.

  Angelina spoke softly, and Charlie could only hear a word here or there in her Russian accent. They walked on until the dim lights of Ella’s apartment building reflected through the misty darkness. Slowing her as much as it did him. Halting beneath the three-story brick structure, Charlie gripped the back of his neck and watched Angelina and Ella walk up the stairs.

  He leaned against the bricks and tried not to think about how he was going to be late for his night show if he didn’t hurry. A glance at his pocket watch said it started in less than ten minutes. He folded his arms over his chest. Unfolded them. Paced.

  Counted the seconds for Angelina to return and not really wanting her to appear when what he wanted to do was speak to Ella, he strode up the stairs and into the building. Knowing he had three more flights to go, he took the steps two at a time, making as much noise as a herd of elephants. He rounded the hallway and slowed so as not to frighten her.

  “Ella,” he panted.

  She blinked up at him and her eyes were clearer than before. Gone were the tears. No, they were coming again, but this time he felt her pain, not fear.

  “I can’t just leave like this,” he said.

  Angelina walked quietly down the short hallway to the dark window where she peered down.

  Having no idea what to say to Ella, Charlie gulped. “I know you don’t owe me a thing. Not a thing. You’ve done so much for Holland and for me. And you have every right to walk away and you don’t ever have to see or speak to me again.”

  She swiped a tear from her cheek.

  “But if you would maybe…” His nerves getting the best of him, he swallowed hard. For in that moment, he knew. That his life would never be the same. Not since this woman had walked into it. He clenched his fists at his sides, heart pounding. “If you would let me try and make it right, I would…I’d thank you.”

  Another tear, another wipe. Her chin trembled. “Charlie—I—” She blinked up at the ceiling and blew out a breath. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He opened his fists. Closed them. Blast it, he wanted to hold her. But he stood his ground, willing his boots to not move so much as an inch.

  Ella pressed the pad of her thumb to her mouth. The mouth that was so small, but full like a doll’s. Like it shouldn’t be real. But it was real. Everything about her was real and he wished that there was some way…

  “I’m so sorry for tonight,” she whispered. “I owe you an
apology. I just don’t know what to say.”

  “Please don’t feel the need to apologize. If I’ve done anything to you—to frighten you—I want to make it right.”

  She quickly shook her head, more tears coming. “No.” It came out shaky. “You haven’t done anything. I just…I just…” She ran her hand up the side of her sleeve and he could see in her face—the way she seemed somehow smaller—how spent she was. “There’s an explanation that I owe you.”

  And here he was out of time. “May I call on you tomorrow?”

  Down the hallway, Angelina was still giving them privacy in her sweet way.

  He didn’t dare look at his pocket watch to see how late he was. “If Margaret won’t be home, I could bring Angelina.”

  The silence stretched on until only his heart was pounding in his ears. Finally, she nodded gently. “All right.” She moistened her lips and looked back at him. “And Margaret will be home, but…”

  He waited, sensing she was about to say more. Some slip of a word that meant she trusted him, but truly, he didn’t want to get her alone.

  He just wanted her to not be afraid of him.

  “I’ll come?”

  She nodded again. “Please.”

  “Would the afternoon be okay? About four o’clock.”

  “Four o’clock.”

  He spoke the words in a breath of relief. “Thank you, Ella.”

  __________

  Ducked in the wagon, Charlie shuffled through his things looking for his billfold. The horse-drawn caravan creaked as he strode to the other side, still hunting. The billfold was something he rarely used, so he didn’t spot it until looking in a box that held clean socks and undershirts. He’d been paid in full that morning, so he slipped the crisp bills into the leather fold and slid it all in his pocket. If this was the last time he was going to see Ella—something he was really trying not to think about—he couldn’t bear the thought of not paying her as promised. She’d done so much for him and Holland. So much.

  The wagon creaked as he climbed out.

  Charlie strode across the circus lot and onto the city street, his sights on the row of buildings that would lead him the few blocks to Ella’s. Past shops and then a bank, clatter came from what had to be the iron works. Beyond that, a train whistled a lonely sound. A coal wagon was stuck in the muddy wheel ruts in the road, men working it loose just as he’d been doing the last few days at the fairgrounds.