by The Lady
“Is it loose?” he asked.
“It seems to be.”
Focus on the grass at Ella’s feet, he unknotted the sling across his chest and eased a sleeping Holland to his front. He handed the baby to Angelina. Freed of the sling, he gripped a carving on the side of the red wagon and swung himself up to a ledge. Ella couldn’t see what he was climbing, but he was suddenly on the roof, boots taking him down the wooden center to the raised section that was filled with small panes of glass.
He crouched and felt the narrow hut with his fingers. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The leak’s coming in here.” He rattled off several tools and Angelina lifted a side hatch.
Nearly lying on his stomach, Charlie reached down and took the small tools she held up. Angelina stepped back and shaded her eyes from the early evening sun, and with the baby still on the girl’s hip, Ella squeezed Holland’s bare, pudgy foot.
A smile bloomed in the little girl’s eyes. Charlie worked for a few minutes without speaking.
Seemingly finished, he tossed the tools into the grass and climbed back down. “It’ll hold for now,” he said, tucking the tools away. “I’ll need to get some tar and we can seal it up better at the next town. And one of the gutters is loose. I’ll fix that too.”
Angelina thanked him and he took Holland from her. He didn’t so much as look at Ella as he turned and left. Ella drew in a deep sigh. She was going home. And now, she would not be left wondering what might have been, but when she looked back to Charlie’s camp only to see him using his forearm to shape a coil of rope—and watching her darkly—she sensed she already had the answer.
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Now with an empty crate before her, Ella slipped in her brush and comb. Next went in books, a nursing encyclopedia, and some bedding which mounded over the top, so she pulled the books out and used them to weigh the quilts and sheets down.
Then that was everything. Her world in a crate and a carpetbag and she was beginning to feel like a Gypsy. She almost laughed at the idiocy of this. It would certainly be a story to tell her grandchildren.
So as she toted her crate for her final trip to the circus, she prattled off a list of practical reasons for doing this.
Reason number one—she hadn’t the money to get home. There wasn’t a train ticket in the world that could be hers without writing home and burdening her family.
Reason number two—she was freeing Margaret to have a roommate who could actually pay her share of the rent. This reason was selfless indeed.
Reason number three…
Well, he was tall and charming and he deserved for her to fix what she’d broken. But before she could imagine what that might look like, her attention was stolen by reason number four. Because reason number four was pudgy and sweet and crawling away from Charlie’s tent this very moment. Setting down her crate, Ella hurried over.
C H A P T E R 2 2
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“And where do you think you’re going, young lady?” Ella scooped the blonde bundle up. “Are you moving on without your papa?”
Holland squirmed and fussed, so Ella set her in the grass and knelt beside the girl who clearly wanted to crawl around. Ella watched her for several moments, then suddenly Charlie barreled out of the tent. He shot his gaze around, spotting them.
He exhaled, chest rising and falling rapidly. Kneeling beside Holland, he ran a palm down his face. “I couldn’t find you,” he whispered to the baby.
Holland bounced pudgy fists on her knees, not a care in the world.
Charlie’s shoulders sank in a heavy sigh and then he looked at Ella. “I was loading a trunk into the wagon, turned around, and she was gone.” His fear was palpable.
Hoping to comfort, Ella said, “Little ones have a way of doing that.”
“I’m not used to this crawling business yet.” He kissed the top of Holland’s tiny ear, then in a motion so brief she nearly missed it, the back of his hand touched Ella’s. “Thank you for watching her.”
“Of course.”
He pulled Holland onto his lap.
“Where is Regina?” she asked.
“Getting water.”
“I can keep an eye on the baby for a while. I’m not all that helpful to Angelina, I don’t think. Unless you count knocking over a tower of boxes.” Oh the sight of all those ribbons and petticoats tumbling everywhere. “And I almost broke a window when I tripped over the floor rug a bit ago.”
A smile lifted his mouth, but he seemed to try and fight it. Pale green eyes took her in. “I’m a little more worried about you than the window.”
She looked down as a jumble of yearnings shot through her. Laced with the memory of his ink-stained body was that of his kiss…his kindness. And the two were not cooperating in her heart. So she simply said, “Please. I’d like to help.”
He plucked a blade of grass. Tore it in two. That wall returning. “Thanks.” He rose and brushed at his pants. “I shouldn’t be much longer because I need to get ready to go soon.”
His last show in this town. Not so much a show, she realized, but an exhibition.
She rose with Holland and he ran his hand over the baby’s feather-soft curls before stepping away. A wide-open meadow beckoning, Ella meandered around, rocking the baby.
Regina returned with a bucket of water and a cheery greeting. The stout woman bustled in and out, folding things and shaking things, and even asked Ella if she would like to walk over with them for supper. Ella politely declined, which would have been easier if Charlie hadn’t walked by at that moment, watching their exchange.
Evening swept in slow and cool. Two early stars glinted in the dimming sky. Ella turned, swaying Holland farther out into the meadow where other wagons were being filled. She rocked Holland there. Gently sang all the songs she could think of.
By the time the horizon had dimmed and the air was fragrant with the scent of supper cooking, a chilly breeze pushed her back to Charlie’s tent. He was loading a thick coil of rope into the wagon, so Ella changed Holland into a nightgown, and with a kiss on her creamy shoulder, buttoned it up snug. She tucked the baby into her low bed and Holland gripped the threadbare stuffed tiger before rolling onto her side. With a sigh, she peered back up.
“I’m not going anywhere, little one. Go to sleep.”
The tent flap moved aside and Charlie appeared, a sunset pink behind him. He seemed tired as he stepped to the washstand and wet his hair. Droplets struck his shirt. He took the makeup tin from its low shelf and hefted a crate over by Regina’s chair. The small woman ambled in, and soon the pair was settled in their spot. Charlie straddled his crate and Regina lifted the tin onto her lap.
Words tumbled into silence as Regina handed Charlie a can of pomade. He ran some through his hair, but instead of slicking it back as he did for the matinee, he tousled it then wiped his hands clean on a towel.
“More,” Regina mumbled. “Madame Broussard will not be pleased with that.”
“I do not care what she is pleased with.”
“You will take heed to care.” She tapped the small can. “More.”
Charlie glanced at Ella and she realized she shouldn’t be here. She made to stand, but Holland whimpered. When Charlie gave a reluctant nod, Ella knelt again.
He dipped pomade then mussed his hair more. From the larger tin, Regina pulled a pencil, charcoal, and small brushes. Ella didn’t dare speak as she watched their silent exchange. A rhythm built on trust between two people whose lives had wound together since Charlie’s birth. And here she was watching—an outsider.
Charlie closed his eyes. Scooting to the edge of her chair, Regina smeared soft pencil beneath his lower lids, and using her finger, smoothed it about to create shadows. She did the same to his top lids, then followed this with strokes from the charcoal, darkening the flesh dramatically and smudging it down the tops of his cheeks. Blacking every bit of skin there. Making him look haunted. Sinister.
Finally, Charlie’s eyes opened. And found hers.
&n
bsp; Ella checked her breathing. Made sure her face held no hint of what passed through her. Sorrow…and to much dismay…fear. Her chest rose and fell with it.
Candlelight flickered off him as he rose and she had to remind herself that it was still Charlie. The one she had laughed with, whose singing had filled the morning air.
His eyes were on her as he slid into a dark cloak. The pale green of them, all that she recognized, and even that vanished into shadow when he pulled the hood forward. His voice was low for Regina. Ella couldn’t hear what was said, so fiercely blood pounded in her ears. Then with a sweep of the tent flap he was gone.
Holland stirred gently, well asleep, and unsettled, Ella reached out and smoothed a blonde coil of hair away from the baby’s ear. Using the towel Charlie had wiped his hands on, Regina cleaned her fingers.
“I don’t understand,” Ella whispered.
Regina’s rag stilled as Ella rose to her knees, then stood.
The woman looked up sadly. “He would not want you there.”
Nodding, Ella thought on Regina’s words as she bid farewell and walked to where the sisters were eating supper. And she thought on Regina’s words as she ate and later helped carry dishes to the back of the cook tent. Then as the sisters set about brushing and braiding their hair for bed, Angelina laughing to Ella about how it would take the better part of an hour, Ella thought on it one last time. She exchanged a few quiet words with Angelina, and with a squeeze of Ella’s hand, Angelina told her that perhaps a little walk was in order, then whispered to bring a nickel.
Ella thanked her.
She headed to the sideshow by memory, for what lingered of the circus was much different at night. Unsavory characters were everywhere and she was not by Charlie’s side this time. Aloneness crushed in. More so now that she knew where he was.
Ella kept her head down as she walked, then hesitated just beneath one of the torches that flanked the entrance to the village.
“You seem like a lady lookin’ for a bit of a thrill.”
At the strange voice, Ella glanced over to the man guarding the entrance.
Sitting lazily on a stool, he leaned against the partition behind him, grungy boots up on the booth. A bowler hat sat low on his head and his cheeks were eerily rouged. Mustache oiled and curled into twists. “The blowoff’s already started, but there’s still time to catch it.” He replaced the cap on a metal flask.
“The what?”
With a finger, he tipped his hat back then eyed her from head to toe. “The blowoff. The finale. No children allowed.” Using a brass-topped cane, he tapped the bottom of a poster that listed all the sideshow acts Ella had seen earlier beneath a heading Sideshow Spectacular. Ella stepped closer, glimpsed words that hinted at Arnold and Angelina, then farther down where she read of conjoined twins and the tall man. The last act was surrounded by a moon and painted stars, hinting at its time. Written in bold font where the man’s cane had rested was—The Beast. Charlie.
Ella skimmed over the brief description, barely grasping hold of how it depicted him as a wild man. Tattooed and savage, assuring the audience they were safe even as it beckoned them to one last show at the cost of another five cents. She swallowed hard, her heart aching for Charlie.
As if taking silence as hesitation, the man spoke. “Aw, don’t be scared, Miss Do-Good. Show’s gone tomorrow and we ain’t comin’ back. And don’t worry, ladies like you are always throwin’ a stink over the great injustice of it all.” He lowered his voice, brow dipped indignantly. “They let him out of the cage afterwards.” He flashed a brash wink. “So watch yourself.”
Sick on Charlie’s behalf, Ella paid and stepped across the small courtyard to the tent in the distance. From somewhere else, a harmonica filled the night air. Part of her hoped that Charlie was finished because the hour was late indeed, but by the press of people in the tent, that hope died. The sound of music was trampled down by the chatter within. Ella stepped up to the tent and was met with the backs of several men. She went to move around them, straining on her toes to try and find Charlie. Her hands brushed tweed and wool as she pushed her way through.
“Excuse me.” She inched past, their gazes like oil on her skin as she did.
One of them suggested something that had her moving away quicker. In the distance, she heard the rattle of chains. Smelled the stench of cigars. Beside her, a pair of young ladies clutched one another and giggled.
Another man tipped a flask. “Show us your face, Beast! Or haven’t you got one?”
“Don’t rile him up,” someone called.
“Hey, that’s what we paid to see,” the man replied.
The crowd laughed.
Swallowing a sour taste, Ella wanted to scream as she fought toward the front. Shout for them to move out of her way. She wanted Charlie. Was desperate to see him. To know that he was all right. That he wasn’t hurt.
For she’d been in this tent before and knew what it held.
She squeezed forward several more steps, then looking up, slammed to a halt against the wagon. Knelt in the center was the one man she ached to see. Bound by chains and bars.
Air failing her, Ella stepped forward. His head was down…defeated. Above his brown pants, he was bare. Shockingly so. The planes of his body—strong and lean and imposing—on display. Piercing her, pulling her forward. Making her want to call his name. To shove the people from the tent. Did they not know? Not care?
That this was Charlie. Holland’s papa. Her papa.
The tattoos drew comments from the crowd. Ridicule and sneers, even questions. Charlie sat silent. Showed no reaction and she was certain he’d grown good at ignoring it. Or perhaps only good at pretending. He shifted and a chain rattled with muted thuds.
Then she saw his bound wrists. Recalled the way they always bothered him.
Heart bending on itself, Ella touched the bars.
Charlie’s eyes—blackened with the smudges—appeared almost hollow as he lifted his head and looked out over the throng of people as if seeing something worth holding onto. Torchlight flickered on his painted face. His lips continued to move. Perhaps praying. Maybe a hymn.
“He’s mad,” someone muttered.
As Charlie knelt on the wagon floor, chains dragged across the wood planks and he clasped his hands in front of him. Tears stung her eyes.
She thought of his smile. His laugh. The sound of his singing on a cool spring day. Holland in his arms—her little cheek pressed to that strong chest. The girl’s place of safety and rest and assurance that yes, there was a person in this world who would stand up and fight for her. And Ella had known the feeling herself when she was with him.
The distance killing her, Ella slipped her hand through the bars. His ornate forearm rested just there. Gently, she touched him, fearing too late that he might startle. Charlie snapped his arm away, rose, and moved to the other side of the narrow plank floor in a clang of chains.
“You’ve scared him,” the man beside her said, brows furrowed in disappointment. “Hey, Beasty. Come here.” The man reached through and snapped his fingers. When that got no reaction, he pulled at the nub of his smoldering cigar and flicked it at Charlie. It hit him, and then the boards, smoking against the wood of the wagon. “Fetch, boy. Or do you have a litter of beasties to do that for you?”
With a growl, Charlie turned and kicked the bars so hard, the whole wagon shook. Ella covered her mouth. The man barely had time to yank his hand back before Charlie kicked again. Metal groaned and the people reveled. In a flash, Charlie was on his knees. He gripped the man by the collar and yanked his face against the bars.
Charlie drew himself nearer, voice chillingly low. “You have no idea.”
When he loosened his hold, the man stumbled back. Charlie dipped his head. His lashes blinked over and over and he spoke softly to himself, finishing with a sideways glance right to where Ella stood. Recognition dawned in his charcoaled eyes. Shoulder’s rising and falling, he sank lower on his knees. Ella almost reached for
him. So sinister were the smudges of his skin, so dark the face she knew and loved, that her mouth went dry. In what bespoke countless words, he slowly turned his head to the side. She gripped the bars and dared not whisper his name for he was silent himself.
Staring at her, his eyes grew wet. The crowd was growing hushed.
Then he jerked his head toward the exit. He wanted her to leave. She could feel it. See it in the way his brows dug together, pleading. The murmurs rising again, several hands reached through to touch him, but the fight was gone as he simply looked down at her. She’d baited him; no longer did he push the hands away. He didn’t so much as move.
Stomach rolling, she backed away—for no other reason than to free him. As if to mark the late hour, a man with keys at his belt extinguished the first of many torches. Feeling the poke and jab of the remaining crowd, Ella took several more steps. Charlie’s stare followed as she backed toward the exit.
Turning, she hurried into the night and slipped from the village.
Had there ever been a night this black? Sinking onto a bench, she looked around at the eerie, thinning crowd and thought of home. Of meadows, creeks, and the cool damp woods. She ached for it, hating this moment. Because it was Charlie’s reality every night. Ella watched it all pass by. The dark shapes and shadows of townsfolk ebbing and flowing as the sideshow slowly drained of patrons. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but the place was near to empty, most of the tents folded down when she rose, chilled through.
Arms folded tight, she hurried toward Charlie’s camp, toward the glow of campfires. Suddenly a shadowed figure caught up to her and a hand cupped her elbow. Ella yelped.
“You had no right to do that.” Tall and looming, Charlie pulled her forward.
Even as she swallowed her heart, Ella’s feet skittered to keep up. “What was that?”
“That was none of your business.”
He led her to the red wagon. Brought her all the way to the bottom of the steps, then let go. Turning, he strode toward his own.
She ran after him and walked backwards to face him. He steered around her.