Joanne Bischof

by The Lady

  The preacher spoke some and Ella nodded. Took Lionheart as her own and with her eyes on Charlie, said that she would have him. Always. And Charlie said the same—his heart near to bursting. The preacher, misty eyed, said that she was his wife and he was her husband. Charlie ached to tell his father that he was happier than any man had a right to be.

  Later that evening, surrounded by a quiet meadow, with Regina and Holland settled off a ways in the tent, Charlie lifted Ella into his wagon. He was about to climb in as well, but with her knelt just there at the edge of the mattress, her head was level with his own. So he cupped it in his hands, and closing his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers. Her breath that brushed warm against his face caught briefly when he held them still and steady for a stretch of heartbeats.

  Surely a strange way for a man to greet his wife as crickets hailed in their wedding night, but it was the most honest I love you that he knew.

  Her eyes were bright and wondering when he pulled away, that bundle of blankets still in her grasp. He laughed for no other reason than to settle his nerves. He sensed her own were the same when she blushed.

  “You look just like the Princess and the Pea,” he whispered, hoping to ease her as the sun sank. Praying she’d have no fear and vowing to never give her reason to.

  She said that was just fine as long as he was her prince. And then the dark had never felt so light, for she was in it, changing him. As he was changing her.

  E P I L O G U E

  __________

  Holland Lionheart

  Virginia, 1904

  There’s something perfect about Papa in the lantern light. As if his face was always meant to be seen this way. Sitting here now, looking at him, with Mama and my sisters all around, I think I could likely stay right here forever.

  “Tell us the stories, Papa,” Priscilla asks. She’s a young little thing and cute as can be.

  “Stories?” His voice is soft and rumbling. “I don’t know that I recall any stories.”

  “About the circus! The lions!”

  “Lions? Ella, do you remember any lions?”

  “None that I can recall.” Mama purses her lips since she is not a very good liar, you see.

  “You’re both such a tease!” Priscilla cries out.

  She is a chatty one, Priscilla, and she remembers as well as I do the way Axel used to wander into the cabin and startle Mama to bits. Papa would always hear her cry out. He’d run in from the fields, scoop Mama up, and pretend to rescue her while Axel pounced after her apron strings.

  Papa’s eyes shine. “Do you remember any lions, Holland?” He looks at me, his expression puzzled. Papa is very good at theatrics.

  I think a moment, letting the room breathe with expectancy because I am too. “There were lions,” I whisper.

  My sisters squeal and I feel Papa’s belly laugh rising up in the way he looks at them all.

  “What were they like? Tell us again,” little Sonja asks from her quiet place by the fire.

  I study each of the younger ones a moment, wishing they could have been with us and the lions. “They were soft.” Oh, they were soft. “And warm. I remember always falling asleep against them. The way they would lay there still, almost holding me…so safe and so strong, and I remember that nothing could harm me. Not ever. I remember the way they breathed. Their gentle sounds, almost like a lullaby.”

  Papa’s face changes. As if he is remembering too. As if I have given him a gift that only I can give. And it is hard to imagine that there was once a time that it was just he and I. I am only fifteen, but it seems like a lifetime ago, that place. That is the place…he once told my sisters…where he got the markings. Whenever one of them asks him about the drawings that won’t ever wash away, he shows her, he answers her. He doesn’t hide. Not from my sisters. And I’ve often wondered if the tattoos had something to do with me, for sometimes when he speaks of them, his eyes find mine. But I don’t know.

  “The lions!” Priscilla squeals.

  I realize then that my sisters are watching me expectantly. But I’m suddenly not in a mood for talking; my throat is tight and it’s hard to swallow. Axel is gone now. So is Han and Kristov. Papa buried them old and happy beneath the chokecherry tree. The littlest ones don’t remember them, but I miss each of my uncles almost as much as Papa does. “They had very heavy—and very naughty—paws.”

  Papa laughs; he knows it to be true.

  “What else do you remember, Holland? Tells us again of the circus,” one of my sisters asks.

  I smile at the memories, then cough to chase away the ache. I tell them of the sun on the grass and of the wind—ever-blowing flags of colors brighter than you could ever imagine. The sound of baying animals and of distant laughter. The strange accents from every corner of the country. The boom of the cannons and the feel of feathers and sequins beneath my cheek. I look at Nancy. She was there too, but she never remembers.

  We left the year after she was born. Mama brought her into this world in a tent on the plains somewhere between Kentucky and Missouri. Papa told me that Mama was brave. He brought her back to her mountains, and with grandpa’s help, built this cabin for her not long after, giving her four walls. Roots, he called them. But none of us ever felt fully rooted. Not Papa and Mama and I.

  “What else do you remember? Tell us, Papa, how you met Mama,” Sonja asks, and I realize that her lisp has faded. I look at my sisters, and even though our blood is not the same, each of them is precious to me.

  “I’m afraid,” Papa says with a shake of his head, “that I cannot remember. It was so long ago, you see.”

  “No!” comes a collective cry.

  Priscilla jumps up, runs to the chest beneath the window, and searches inside. She scurries back to him, a top hat in her hand.

  “What is this?” he asks, feigning curiosity. He turns over the tattered hat that will always be as much a part of him as the lines around his eyes.

  “This,” Priscilla says with a laugh in her voice, “is so you remember!”

  “Oh! Is that what this is?” His brows tug in that way of his. “And what do I do with it, lass?”

  “You put it on!”

  “Like this?” He sets the hat far back on his head.

  Priscilla is laughing so hard, she barely bubbles out a “No!”

  “Perhaps like this…” He turns it sideways and leans forward on his elbow, flashing a playful scowl.

  “No!” my sisters squeal.

  “Oh!”

  And he gives me a look that has my heart dancing, for I know what is to come next.

  He leans forward, sweeps his gaze across the room, and a hush falls over my sisters. From her corner, Mama rocks and smiles. Her eyes are shining.

  “Like this.” With a slow hand, he pulls the worn hat slightly to the side and down so it shades his eyes in mystery.

  He is a handsome man, my papa. The most handsome man I’ve ever known. I wonder if he knows it too because whenever he wears his hat this way, he winks at Mama like they have a secret. Sometimes he teases her that it is why there are six of us, and then he muses that maybe there will be a number seven. She always blushes at that.

  And then my sisters groan and giggle and Papa laughs the laugh of kings.

  Mama tells him to behave himself or we’re going to need a bigger house.

  She is not really my mother, this I know. But I call her such because she has made me hers and I love her for it. Papa tells me of Mimi and who she was, and though I don’t know her, I dream of her. I should tell you now that there was a boy, too. Our brother. He was born before I was. Papa calls him his Little Prince. He says that, I think, when he wants Mama to press her face into his shoulder as that is just what she does. And he holds her.

  “Oh, now I remember.” Papa sighs and his eyes turn wet like two river stones. “I do remember how I met ‘very plain and very boring Ella.’”

  The whole room seems to dance with giggles. Mama’s cheeks are rosy because Papa is looking at her as
if he never wants to look away. But he does, pulling us all in with a gentle beckon of his hand. The words written there catch the light. In a whisper of skirts and button-up shoes, we move closer.

  “There is a place. Where two worlds collide. Listen.” He leans forward in his chair, a hand to the side of his ear. “Do you hear it?”

  My sisters all lean in, breath bated, eyes wide and curious.

  “I think so,” Priscilla whispers.

  Papa winks at her. “That, Priscilla, is the sound of a thousand faces and a thousand lands and a thousand stories that will never be told. Where color and wonder give birth to the greatest show on earth. That, my girls…”

  I smile, for I feel a piece of my heart awaken.

  “Is the Circus.”

  Beside me, Sonja sighs. She knows.

  That next, Papa will lean forward, tilt his hat a tiny bit lower…and he will tell the stories.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Every story is born in a different way. This one arrived in my life one Sunday morning while in church. I sat there, wrestling over something with the Lord, an angst churning within my head and heart. One that, no matter how much I wished, would not go away. The Lord’s answer came through, and within moments, not only did I feel called to write through the anxieties that had been crushing in, but that calling came in the form of a story idea that I had to jot down. Right there on a receipt snatched from my purse.

  The tattooed man in the circus.

  The rest is history.

  At first, the story began as a reflection on Beauty and the Beast, and while those threads are still a special part of this tale, something even mightier was at hand as words tumbled onto the page. Something more than I ever anticipated.

  The story of a man who, through pain, bore darkness so that others could have life.

  A fictional resonance of a very true account: the Gospel. Has there ever been a greater love story than that one?

  So the two themes entwined together, becoming The Lady and the Lionheart. A book that allowed me as a writer to step out and feel the sun reflecting off the sides of tents. Hear the timbre of workers’ voices as they steady wagons. Smell the scents of animals from every corner of the world and watch the lines of town folk form along the midway. It allowed me to experience a world that, in the shade of the Big Top, could be heaven on earth…or at times, much, much darker. When it came to the good versus evil in this story, the circus seemed an appropriate location for such a battle to wage.

  But in life, just like within these pages, the darkest night is not the end. The battle has been won. Light has risen. A new day dawns. And though the act is complete—and the scars are forever there on He who gave His life—we, like Holland, are given hope. We, like a small pride of lions, have had the price paid for our freedom. And we, like Ella, have the honor of being invited as the bride of Christ. What a gift we have been offered. If this book could play a small role in pointing toward that gift—given by a man who did not have to walk the hard, hard road for us, but who chose to anyway—my greatest hope for this story will be fulfilled. That these pages would point to the One who is the most lionhearted of them all.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are so many people to thank for this book, and it’s with great joy that I get to sit and think of each of you in turn and how you’ve touched my life through this process.

  To my agent, Sandra Bishop, thank you for rallying around this story in its infancy, and for believing in Charlie and Ella so deeply. To my precious mom who looked at me like I was crazy when I confessed to writing a historical romance about the tattooed man in the circus. It makes it all the more special that you quickly became Charlie’s number one fan.

  A huge thanks goes to my critique partners, Amanda Dykes and Jocelyn Green, and my editorial team, Denise Harmer and Kara Swanson, for making this story its absolute best. Thanks also go to the early readers for this book: Jaime Wright, Kerry Johnson, Ashley Ludwig, Brittany McEuen, Tricia Mathis, and Joy Harrison. I rejoice when I see each of your fingerprints on the pages of this book. Thank you for helping to make it shine. And to dear Kezia Manchester, thanks for being a most wonderful assistant and delightful helper along the way!

  To the amazing team of endorsers—some mentioned above—may I add friends Rel Mollet, Kristy Cambron, Laura Frantz, Sigmund Brouwer, Rachel McMillian, and Lori Benton to the list of awesomeness. Each of you and your words are a gift to me! So much gratitude to Mindy Sato for your friendship that is as beautiful as your calligraphy—thank you for the gift of Charlie’s Carpe Diem on the paperback cover and so much more.

  Out there are several distinguished editors who thought enough of this book to take it to their publishing houses in hopes that it would be chosen. Though the outcome didn’t work out as we had all aimed for, your faith and belief in this story was a bigger blessing than you’ll ever know.

  Somewhere around day one, I asked a friend to talk me out of writing this idea because I worried it wasn’t fitting for the CBA. One more thanks to Amanda Dykes for sitting with a gentle ear and a heart of wisdom, then telling me to please write this tale because you wanted to read it. Thank you for always being the brave when I run out of brave. I couldn’t imagine dedicating Lionheart to anyone but you.

  And to the God who made mountains. Who made clouds and forests and sunlight and the eagles of the air. To the God who made every image that is forever etched upon my husband’s skin. Thank you for restoring my joy when I felt so very joyless about the marks that won’t ever wash away. Thank you for sitting me down that Sunday morning and prompting me to deal with my desire to change that which couldn’t be changed. For prompting me to pull that old receipt out of my purse and scribble those six words that began everything—all starting with a journey on pen and paper that changed this girl’s heart.

  SELECTED

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Dale, Bruce and McDowell, Bart. Gypsies: Wanderers of the World. Washington D.C.: National Geographic Society.

  Davis, Janet M. The Circus Age: Culture and Society Under the American Big Top. The University of North Carolina Press, 2002.

  Dotson, Rand. Roanoke, Virginia, 1882-1912: Magic City of the New South. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press.

  Garbutt, Bernard. Up Goes the Big Top. California: Golden Gate Junior Books, 1966.

  Harris, Nelson. Images of America: Downtown Roanoke. Arcadia Publishing, 2004.

  Immerso, Michael. Coney Island: The People’s Playground. New Brunswick: Rutdgers University Press, 2002.

  Kasson, John F. Amusing the Million: Coney Island at the Turn of the Century. New York: Hill and Wang, 2011.

  Maxwell, Anna Caroline and Pope, Amy Elizabeth. Practical Nursing: A Text-Book for Nursing. G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1907.

  Osterud, Amelia Klem. The Tattooed Lady: A History. Colorado: Speck Press, 2009.

  Park, Tony and Richardson, Kevin. Part of the Pride: My Life Among the Big Cats of Africa. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2009.

  Tarcher, Jeremy P. American Sideshow: An Encyclopedia of History’s Most Wondrous and Curiously Strange Performers. New York: Penguin, 2006.

  READER’S GUIDE

  1. If you were a part of the circus during the Victorian era, what might your role have been? If you could be a spectator at The Graven Brothers Circus, what, or who, would you most like to see?

  2. Ella recalls Dr. Penske’s warning that men with tattoos were considered felons since such markings were often obtained in jail in the Victorian era. In 1890, what do you think this type of taboo means for Charlie’s life? What kind of risks might a young woman like Ella face as she befriends him? Would you have done anything differently?

  3. When the baby’s name is changed from Antonia to Holland, what did you sense were Charlie’s reasons for this? Isaiah 43:1 states, “Do not fear for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.” In what ways was this verse paralleled in the story?

  4. Each of Charlie’s tattoos was carefully chose
n – some by him and some by Madame Broussard. With chapter twenty-six being the first time they’re described, what did you think about the choice and locations of the images on his skin? What do they say about him? What do they say about Madame Broussard?

  5. With a broad cast of secondary characters—both human and beast—did any stand out as your favorites? What was it about their character that drew your heart to them?

  6. Though he was but the son of a poor man, Charlie was named after a king. The theme of royalty was continued throughout his story in subtle ways. Can you recall any instances where this was noticeable? What does the connection of royalty symbolize to you for Charlie’s life?

  7. In the New York brothel, Charlie recalled the words, “Rock of Ages, cleft for me. Bind my wandering heart to thee,” mixing together one line from “Rock of Ages” and one from “Come Thou Fount.” What does this say about his state of mind in this scene? What was he holding on to?

  8. At the end of chapter 19, Angelina tries to encourage Charlie by saying, “God will make a way for you.” Is there a time in your own life that you had to do a very difficult thing in hopes of honoring the Lord and might have clung to words such as those?

  9. When Ella faces her greatest fear by bringing the small offering to the reverend’s doorstep, what do you believe that moment meant to her? To the reverend? At the end of the novel, do you think this was the same reverend who performed the wedding ceremony? If so, what did that symbolize to you?