by The Lady
“And I’ve kept you alive this long. I’m feeling quite proud of myself.” She could tell his humor was covering something deeper, but before she could make sense of the look he gave her, Charlie rose and motioned for another man to take his seat. With gartered arms and a bowler hat topping his red shock of hair, surely one of the pianists.
“Are you going to come dance with me?” Charlie asked her.
He said it so easily, her smile bloomed. “I assure you I’m quite terrible.” She turned to face him fully. He stepped away, giving her a sly look of distrust, then paused. “Say. Do me a favor, then?” A harmonica began in the distance and he adjusted his top hat. “Keep an eye on this for me. Just so no one steals it.” A mischievous sparkle lived in his eyes.
Baffled, Ella watched him go.
Wanting to give the pianist his space, she went to stand, but the man patted the seat. “Please,” he said. “And I heard your fine playing so my feelings’ll be hurt if you don’t help me out.” His wink was friendly.
Settling back onto the bench, Ella watched the thickening crowd of circus folk as they filled the meadow. Laughter and cheers rang out. Several ladies ambled into the middle of the grassy area garnering more than a few whistles. They playfully called for someone, and one of the women waved her arm to draw that person forward.
“Come on!” the woman hollered. “We wanna dance!”
A fiddler appeared, playing a cheery lick, and others vacated the blankets for the field. Lanterns bobbed as people brought them along, lighting the space—helping the moon.
And then everything went silent, save a harmonica that blew long and low. Ella craned her neck to see a man in a gray top hat bent over, both hands clutching the little instrument in front of his mouth. An eagle feather split the band of his hat and his red waistcoat glistened.
Women walked into the circle, skirts swaying, some barefooted. The tune picked up, an energetic rendition of Auld Lang Syne. A guitar joined in, picking a sweet, sweet sound that had the women swaying and turning.
A banjo twanged into the song, speeding up the pace until shrill whistles pierced around. Then Ella spotted Charlie. He was just on the outskirts, arms folded, laughing with a cluster of men. A woman bounded past them, fringed hem swaying over her bare feet, and with a flick of her hand, she reached up high and knocked Charlie’s hat free, caught it, then put it on herself.
Charlie hollered after her, but the shout melted to a grin. Ella wondered again what he’d said about keeping an eye on it. The woman’s tapping feet carried her away as fast as the banjo and she seemed rather pleased with her conquest as she clutched up her skirts and spun.
Charlie’s eyes found Ella’s through the crowd and she laughed.
As if that had been his cue, Charlie moved toward the dancers that were now a colorful blur of feet and skirts, all golden in the glow of the lanterns. Countless voices, including the man beside her, sang so loudly, Ella understood why they waited until they were in the middle of nowhere.
We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.
Every pair of hands clapped to the quick rhythm, and suddenly everyone called out, “We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet for auld lang syne!”
Then the banjo raced back in and the dancing started—even more vibrant than before. Charlie strode slowly through the crowd, as if looking for the right partner.
The woman with his hat pranced past and another woman came along and plucked it away and put it on herself. She shook a tambourine against her hip as she jigged toward the center of the gathering. The hat didn’t stay long as another feminine hand stole it. Except this victor had her sights on a finer prize when she danced up to Charlie. He took her outstretched hand, twirling her in front of him. The woman’s bright skirts spun and he let her go just as all the instruments went soft.
Then the great gathering parted and a man stepped into the center, holding his hands up for all to quiet. An instrument was slung at his back. The music faded, changing to a different key and a slightly quicker tempo.
The new song but a whisper.
After sliding a mandolin forward, the man teased a strum. Somewhere in the distance a cowbell clanged. The musician crouched low, stomping one foot. He played faster and the song raced into the night air—countless instruments joining in with a burst that Ella felt right through her. The noise flooded the meadow.
If ever joy had a sound, she’d think this was it.
A tambourine rattled high in the air, followed by another, and beside Ella, the pianist pounded away at the keys so loud and fast that her jaw fell.
Suddenly everyone sang out in a great shout—words she couldn’t understand. Ella swung her foot to the music. Everyone, including Charlie, sang out again, and Ella listened closely. It was another language. They kept singing as though they’d learned this song from the cradle.
“What are they saying?” she hollered to the piano player.
“It’s French! Cajun.” His hands pounded away on the keys. “Ever been to New Orleans?”
Ella shook her head with a laugh. “No!”
The man smirked. “You stick with us and we’ll change that!”
Ruth swaggered past Charlie, and to Ella’s surprise, she wore his hat. With a wink and a brazen roll of her shoulder, she climbed atop the far piano with as much ease as she climbed her silks. Two men as stout as Regina clambered up behind her as if they did this kind of thing every day. They tapped their feet in a funny dance. Wagging a finger in the air, Ruth clutched up a bit of her dress and turned in a cheeky circle before someone hollered out and Ruth took the hat and flung it toward them.
Charlie reached for it but missed.
Ella clapped along to the music as everyone sang out in French again. Two men with black skin waved trumpets side to side, playing with all their might. And somewhere beneath the night sky a cowbell clanged and the mandolin raced along fast and sassy.
Singing along, Angelina swayed past. She winked over at Ella before taking up Charlie’s hat from the latest keeper, and with exaggerated flair, nearly set it on her own head. Then Evangeline took it and did the same, followed by Danielle. Charlie made a show of covering his heart with his hand and acted about to faint dead away.
Ella glanced over to where Holland was asleep in Regina’s lap. The sight was obscured by twirling couples. Fringed skirts and dusty pants. A carefreeness that had Ella’s foot bouncing. Suddenly Lorelai bobbed past and Danielle set the hat on the large woman’s head. Nearby folk whooped and hollered, and Lorelai grinned from ear to ear as she shuffled by Charlie who was rather busy dancing a jig with a trio of little girls who’d taken him by the hands. He bellowed a laugh when he spotted Lorelai, and Ella had a hunch by his sheepish grin that he was blushing.
To Ella’s surprise, he staggered over to where she sat on the bench, his mouth near her ear, panting over the hammering pianos. “Last time I give you a job to do!” Grinning, he jogged back to the dancers where he pulled Lorelai close in a flamboyant jig, his hand to her plump back.
Beside Ella the piano player sang as loud as he could. His hands slammed the keys in a blur. Beneath her, the piano bench trembled from the sheer noise of it.
“I thought this was a duet!” he hollered, eyes bright with challenge.
Feeling the ragtime all the way down to her toes, Ella turned on the bench and wiggled her fingers over the keys, trying to catch the notes and tempo. Then she tapped the ivories, taking a moment to catch up—and gasped at how quickly she had to move her hands. She played along as the man raced around with so much flair, her mouth fell.
His gartered arm pressed against hers in a friendly manner, then he slid her a grin and bobbed his head to the music as if to keep time with her. Happiness tugged her cheeks. Then to her shock, the man rose and slid his feet back up on the seat, crouching. Laughing, it was all Ella could do to keep her fingers moving.
Suddenly there was a hand on her own and it was Charlie, pulling her to her feet. He swept her up in a dance, close and fast and strong. His hat was back on his head and he hollered over the noise. “You were supposed to watch it for me!” He was breathless and his shirt stuck to his skin.
“I tried!” she hollered back.
The sweet night air clung to him and his eyes sparkled. Holding the small of her back firm with one hand, he reached up, slid off the top hat, and set it on her head.
Around them, cheers and whistles shot out, followed by a few theatrical complaints from several women. Ella looked around and her cheeks went to roasting. Charlie was looking down at her as if she’d just given him the moon. The music softened, Charlie slowed them, and to her surprise, pressed a kiss to her cheek, sending a heat that made her knees weak. More cheers spread, and fearing she’d never recover, Ella plopped his hat back on his head.
“Is there some secret to this thing that I should know about?”
“Maybe.”
“But you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Nope.” When the music drew soft and sweet, he slowed them. Dipping his head beside her own.
Ella looked from the hollow of his throat to just below where his shirt wasn’t fastened as high and tight as it had always been. That’s when she realized why. Because there were no rubes around. Just her.
Tipping his head slightly, he looked at her. Gave a gentle smile, his face so very near, the shadow of his hat shading them both from the moon. The music seemed to hush. Or perhaps it was her imagination. Perhaps it was only in her mind that all she could hear was the sound of her heart…could only feel the way it was reaching for him.
C H A P T E R 2 6
__________
The day passed in a blur. In the morning, Charlie visited with the lions, ducking inside their cage, and while Axel gnawed on the sleeve of his shirt, Charlie made sure the new roustabout understood how things operated with the big cats. The ashen-faced lad nodded and Charlie made a mental note to check back in the afternoon to make sure he was still alive.
Back at his wagon he saw that Holland was awake. Regina was feeling poorly so Charlie dressed the baby and slid her in the sling, which not only kept his hands free but helped conceal the fact that he hadn’t combed her hair.
A fact that Danielle noticed anyway. And remedied.
He was grateful when the young woman offered to keep Holland for the morning, freeing him to turn his attentions to Siebel. The Vanner acted uncomfortable, pulling the wagon with a slight limp, and Charlie checked his hooves to find that he’d thrown a shoe. At the noon break, he led the horse over to the farrier and had the shoe replaced. By the time they were on the road again, Regina was feeling better. Which was a relief because Charlie knew that the moment they made camp, he would need to wash laundry and soak diapers, which meant that later on when he laid down, it would be a miracle to get back on his feet.
Even as the first stars appeared, Charlie drug his bedroll out of the wagon. More than a bedroll, really, for it was his mattress and half a dozen blankets, all sloppily tied together with a rope. He lugged the massive bundle over to a gnarled oak tree, near enough to his menagerie wagon to keep an eye on the lions. They were dozing now, but in the late hours of the night, they’d begin to roar. It was mostly a gentle bellow, one that he and the rest of the company were used to, but this close, it would be loud enough that he’d sleep with a couple of pillows over his head.
He set his mattress down, spread the bedding somewhat straight, and went back to lug over one of his crates. With a low, crooked branch holding the lantern and the line of sheets he’d washed drying in the night air, it almost felt private.
At the sound of the bell, Charlie grabbed a bar of soap and slung his towel over his shoulder, eager to be free of trail dust. They always tried to camp near water, so be it a creek or spring, it made the rest a lot more pleasant, and as was their tradition come nightfall, the women bathed first. It wasn’t until a cowbell clanged—signifying that the women were finished and dressed—that the men would draw themselves down. Maybe they were just Gypsies, but they took pride in being clean.
The men sounded like clumsy oxen in their heavy boots as they worked their way down the shallow hill; the women lithe and gentle with bare feet. Wanting very much to spot Ella, he forced himself to keep his focus on the grass as he walked. It really wouldn’t do him much good seeing her in the moonlight. Charlie tried to ignore the flirty banter that passed back and forth, particularly of that between husbands and wives, as the two groups passed on the grassy slope.
Tired, he undressed in the dark and waded into the cold water. He wanted to complain but fought the urge. If several dozen women could brave this water, by golly, he would too. And now he wished he hadn’t thought of that. Or of Ella. Charlie ducked down and let the water close over his head. Freezing, he straightened and swiped his hands through his hair. He soaped and rinsed quickly, then climbed back up the bank, not really wanting to linger or hear the crude jokes that always happened to spring up from these grassy banks like reeds. He toweled and dressed, then started back. With one hand he gripped his boots and with the other, ran the towel over his hair while he walked.
His shirt hung unbuttoned. Maybe it was lazy, but he spent so much of his days with it so snugly done that now and again he just wanted to feel free.
In the near dark, he set boots and towel aside, then knelt on his pallet bed and reached into his crate for the box of matches, lighting the lantern. Last, he found the map and after setting it aside, reached into the crate for his Bible. Charlie propped his pillow up against the tree, settled against it, and pulled up a knee to do some reading. Cocooned from the breeze by the wagon and the drying laundry, he settled deeper into his bed and rested an arm behind his head.
From all along the river’s edge, the twitter and chirps of exotic birds kept an easy, familiar rhythm with the yips and squawks of monkeys. If those animals quieted, he’d hear the throaty mewl of a giraffe here and there. The breathy pants of the tiger’s chuff. Accustomed to the menagerie’s orchestra—the very breath of distant jungles, and dry plains—Charlie felt it lull him toward slumber.
He read for a few minutes then sat up. Maybe a shift in position would keep him awake.
“Charlie?”
He looked up to see Ella standing a few feet away. Her braid draped her shoulder, dampening that bit of blouse. She held a sweater in her hand and slid it on. Suddenly forgetting how to speak, he simply watched her step nearer.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He took a moment to rub his palms over his eyes. “Um, yeah. What are you doing here?”
“I was wondering if we could talk.”
“Uh…” He glanced around a moment. Thinking. Stalling. Deciding. Then he pulled the last of the items out of the crate, turning it over. He set it down for her just in front of the hanging sheets. He motioned to the makeshift seat. Which was stupid. Because he really should just ask her to leave. At least tonight. They could talk in the morning. Over breakfast.
For he was tired. Had let his heart grow raw tonight.
And she was so pretty.
Lantern light was only making her more so. Driving deeper the pain that she was leaving him tomorrow. Charlie ran his hands through his hair, at a loss for words. Because the temptation to fall to his knees and tell her that he loved her and to ask her to stay with him…was burning too brightly. Too strong.
Forming a fist, he pounded it gently against his forehead.
“I’ll leave.” Plucking up the hem of her dress, she turned to go.
“Will you just give a man a second to think, Ella?”
She halted and he took another breath before motioning toward the crate again. Folding her hands, she sat and her gaze filtered over his space, then back to him. She seemed to be searching for something to say. “What are you reading?” she asked gently.
“Psalms.”
“Oh.�
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“It’s a book in the Bible.”
She tucked her thumbs inside the sleeves of her sweater, and folding her arms, leaned forward. Her expression was kind. “I do know that, Charlie.”
Right. Of course. He set the book aside and said a heap of a prayer that he could do this without losing his mind. “I was looking at the map this afternoon.” Kneeling forward on the bed, he dragged it across the blankets and sat with his legs folded in. “And it looks like…” He ran his pinkie down their route. “It looks like tomorrow, sometime late morning, I’ll take you off this way.” He drew his finger up into the mountains there. “Home.”
She nodded mutely, but he sensed a thousand words in that head of hers.
“It will probably take most of the day, but we should get there by dark. I’m hoping.”
“Thank you, Charlie.”
Somewhere in the distance, children laughed. A mother quietly shushed them.
“It’s my pleasure.” He said it without emotion, for truly he meant it, but grief at the impending loss of her was dragging him under.
Suddenly, she was tipping her head to the side, studying him. Remembering that his shirt was unbuttoned, he went to fasten the collar but she motioned for him to stop. When she moved off her crate and knelt beside him and his mattress, Charlie’s heart pounded. She sat there, studying his skin so intensely, he wished he could read her mind. Or that she might speak. Say what it was she was thinking.
Then she gently reached up and touched her fingertips to his heart. Staring at the dirt, he swallowed hard.
She whispered his name, and when he looked at her, saw wonder there. Her finger slid along his skin, making it feel alive. Charlie looked down only to see that she was tracing the outline of the Dutch windmill there with its broad blades and sturdy base.
“Holland,” she whispered.
He struggled to find his voice. “If something was going to go there, I wanted to make it count.”
Then her hand slid to his shoulder, inching his shirt back. In his mind, he knew what she was touching. First the whale…and then the three kings—wise men—and the Christmas star. Others…