Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  “Handsome was distraught, thinking a trick had been played on her. She wandered far and long, looking for her husband. Exhaustion overcame her, and she died, his name on her lips.”

  At that the Indian stopped speaking and turned once more to the fire. A silence fell upon the grove.

  “It’s beautiful,” Rose whispered.

  Black Jack laughed shortly. “Damned Indians! Always have some sad tale to tell. I’d rather speak of Belle Starr, if I had my way.”

  But Michael was fascinated. The Indians had withdrawn and sat silently once more, smoking the pipe and looking into some other world to which they were not privy. “What does it mean?”

  “Who the hell knows!” Irish spat, tucking his beard inside his shirt. “But you can wager it has some message. They do that, you know. That’s the way they tell you what they hear in the spirit world.”

  “Meybbe so,” Red Hugh said. “I’d much rather hear the spirits tell us where the gold is. You aren’t leaving us?”

  “We have to.” Rose got to her feet and brushed her pants. “We’ve a show to do, and you all must come.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Black Jack gave her another hug, then shook Michael’s hand. “We’ll be at the taproom later tonight. I got a hankering for a look at them saloon wimin. Too much talk about old Belle, I guess.”

  “Indians! I can’t believe you know real Indians.” Michael swung down from his horse outside the hotel, his expression still incredulous.

  Rosemary smiled. “I know lots of unconventional people. That happens when you run a show.”

  “But Arapaho! They aren’t known to be a civilized tribe. These were real, with arrows and knives! The kind that kill white men!”

  “Yes, I know.” Rosemary tried to sound patient but only succeeded in sounding amused. “But you have to understand. Their relationship with the troupe and the miners and trappers are very different. They understand us and we understand them. We don’t threaten them the way the train does, or the towns. We don’t cut off their hunting grounds, and we respect their wisdom.” She drew in a deep breath. “Like that story. For whatever reason, the Indians were trying to tell us something. They live closer to the land and understand more than we give them credit for.”

  He looked at her, moved by her intelligence and lack of prejudice. In his circles, even mentioning that Indians existed bordered on bad taste. But Rosemary apparently accepted all of these people as friends. She amazed him more every day that he knew her, and he was slowly beginning to understand that in spite of her hardships, she was wiser than a lot of men he knew.

  “Where are we going?” Rosemary glanced backward and saw that the hotel stableboy had taken the horses to the livery stable and that she and Michael were heading down to a crowded street.

  “Shopping,” Michael answered immediately. “You need some new things, and I thought we’d take care of that now. We’ll only be in town for a few days, and we’re going out tonight.”

  Rosemary glanced at him suspiciously. “Shopping for what? The clowns have whiskey, the foodstuffs have been taken care of, and the animals have feed. What do we need?”

  He looked pointedly at the clown suit she wore, then to her loosely braided hair. “Clothes. To tell you the truth, I am a little tired of the costumes. From observing you the last few weeks, it has occurred to me that you don’t own normal clothes. Your wardrobe ranges from that damned clown suit to gypsy costumes and skirts only a dance hall girl would wear.”

  Rosemary’s eyes twinkled, and she stared at him with mock innocence. “You mean you don’t like that yellow dress? All this time I thought you did. Especially since you started a fight over it and wound everyone up in jail.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Michael said with a wry smile. It still bothered him that she had evoked such an emotional outburst from him. “Since you obviously can’t be trusted to choose your own dress, and Clara would pick God knows what, I’m going to help you.”

  “No, thanks,” Rosemary said simply. “I don’t want to waste my money on that stuff. I have to pay you off, I want to buy a new elephant, and there’s an acrobat in Barnum’s show who’s looking for a new position. I don’t have money to spend on frivolous things.”

  They stood outside the dress shop on Fifteenth Street, where signs hawked things like furniture painting and wines. The dress shop was sandwiched between the Park stables and the liquor shop, but it displayed laces and silks, velvets and braid through a large window. Rosemary glanced at the window and looked longingly at the pretty things, but then turned away. Undaunted, Michael took her firmly by the hand and led her inside.

  “Look, you need a dress and that’s the end of it.”

  “But the money…!”

  “I’ll forgive part of your interest on the loan,” Michael growled. “But you’re getting a real dress. Can we have some help here?”

  She hid a smile as an elderly woman bustled out from behind the counter, giving Michael and Rosemary a bored look. Michael was still clad in the shirt that Rosemary had dirtied, while she wore the hated and much used clown suit. Evidently the woman had decided that these two were no-account show people and not the newly rich of Colorado.

  “Did you want to buy something, sir?” The woman looked at him doubtfully.

  Michael smiled coldly. “The lady needs a dress, and we need it by this afternoon. Something nice.”

  “Impossible!” the woman scoffed, throwing up her hands. “Even if I work all day, I cannot…”

  Michael calmly pulled a wad of bills from his trousers and thumbed through them while the woman sputtered into silence. “You were saying?”

  “Ah…nothing, sir. Perhaps if the lady sees something she likes, I can alter it for her. And if you are not leaving immediately, I can work through the night and make up some lovely things. A few day dresses, some shirtwaists, perhaps a few nice skirts…”

  “Good.” Michael nodded, replacing the money. “I suggest you get started. There are several dress shops in Denver, I believe. And I’m certain one of them can make Miss Carney happy.”

  “Oh, ours will, sir, you will see.” Forcing a smile, the suddenly friendly woman turned to Rosemary, then held out a dress. “Will this do? I was making it for another woman, but she hasn’t called for it. I can take it in for you and have it ready by tonight.”

  “No.” Michael waved his hand at the somber gray and black dress. “A green velvet would be nice. And everything else she needs to go with it.”

  Rosemary stared at him in astonishment. What he was suggesting would cost a fortune. The woman’s eyes popped, and she nodded frantically, aware that she would lose a huge sale if she didn’t handle this right.

  “Yes, you are right, sir. It will be done. Lucy! Jane! Come quickly. We have work to do!”

  Rosemary had no idea that looking beautiful required so much work. Michael, after instructing the woman as to what he had in mind, put the rest in Rosemary’s hands and disappeared to see to his own needs. She was poked and prodded, told to inhale and exhale as pins were pushed through fabric, turned and positioned as if she were a mannequin.

  But the results took her breath away. Warming to the task and delighted to work with the pretty young clown, the dressmaker hauled a mirror to the center of the floor when she was fitting the forest-green velvet dress and smiled at Rosemary’s stunned silence.

  “You will look beautiful tonight. When I finish this dress, you will outshine all of those society ladies. You are staying at the hotel?” At Rosemary’s nod she continued. “Good. I will send everything up before nightfall. That will give you time enough to bathe and take a rest.”

  Rosemary stepped out of the dress, exhausted by the process and the endless fittings. A bath and a nap sounded like heaven, but she had to see that the show was being set up and that the posters had been sent ahead. Relieved when the woman was finally finished, she put on her costume once more. Today she was Carney the clown.

  But tonight…

  Nightfall
came all too quickly. Thankfully, everything was going right with the show. Although normally Rosemary didn’t target her business to the larger towns, Denver was an exception, and the advance ticket sales would more than justify the stop.

  Stepping from the copper tub, Rosemary wrapped her naked body in a warm, luxurious towel. Michael had insisted that they lodge at the hotel instead of the cheaper boardinghouse the troupe usually stayed at, and the abundance of towels, hot water, scented soaps, and maids was overwhelming.

  Even her room was beautiful. She glanced around at the pink silk wall coverings, the lush lace curtains, the thick throw rug at her feet. For a woman who’d grown up in canvas, the daily richness of other people’s lives astounded and awed her. Coming upstairs earlier, she’d glimpsed crystal chandeliers, dining rooms gleaming with polished woods, glowing china, and linen cloths. It seemed like a fairy world, enchanted and unreal.

  The maid knocked timidly at the door and brought in the packages from the dress shop. Rosemary was amazed at the green velvet gown, the skirts, the satin underthings, the silk stockings, and the accessories that the maid brought in. Shyly the young girl stood to one side while Rosemary fingered the sleeve of the dress.

  “They are lovely, mum. Look at the fancy hooks and buttons! I ain’t seen much nicer, not even on Jennie Rogers’s girls,” the young girl whispered, speaking of the elegant bordello queen who had outrivaled even Mattie Silks with her elegance. “The dressmaker said she’d send the rest up later. Your gentleman friend must be very kind.”

  Kind. The word wasn’t one she would have used a month ago to describe Michael. He was known by all the performers for his cheapness, yet he had forgiven a large part of the interest on her debt to provide all this.

  “Yes, he is.” Rosemary laid out the dress, the silk stockings with matching green velvet garters, and the glittering earrings. “My God, this dress is beautiful.”

  She ran her hands through the lush fabric, thinking of the dozens of times rich women would pull their skirts scornfully away when they spotted her in town, dressed as a clown. She remembered herself as a child, walking with Sean through the great eastern cities, and looking longingly at the beautiful lemon yellow, pink, and rose-colored dresses of the city women. They had looked like living, breathing flowers.

  And tonight she would be one of them. A thrill of nervous excitement passed through her. Once she would have shunned all of this, secretly insecure in the feminine role. Yes, Carney could play them all, from clowns to farmwives. But this dress was not a costume, and it was meant for a real woman.

  Her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MICHAEL STARED as she descended the stairs. He had been waiting for half an hour, dressed in an elegant black suit with a sparkling white shirt and silk cravat. Women sent him curious glances, for the lean and sophisticated man was startlingly handsome. But some of that composure was shaken when he spied Rosemary.

  He had known that she would look pretty in the new dress; what he hadn’t anticipated was just how beautiful. For the first time since he’d known her, he saw her garbed like one of the women of his social class, and the results were astounding.

  The forest-green dress set off her fiery hair perfectly and brought out the creamy richness of her ivory skin. Her eyes picked up the color and twinkled impishly, while her soft coral mouth twitched, as if stifling laughter at his stunned reaction. The dress, dipping low in the front to reveal a small, firm bosom, fitted her slender, athletic body with a grace that most women couldn’t attempt. There were no fancy bustles, no ruffles, no disarming laces or ribbons to detract from the simple beauty of the dress, nor the spectacular beauty of the woman in it. Rosemary Carney was an original, and it was never more apparent than tonight.

  “Do you like it?” Rose almost giggled when she asked. A warm flood of pleasure washed through her at his approval, particularly when he lifted her face to his, his finger delicately tracing her jawline.

  “My God, you are so beautiful. I never knew that just a dress— Who did your hair?” He admired the stunning upswept style that tamed just enough of her red curls, while a few rebellious locks softly framed her face.

  “The maid.” Rosemary let out a sigh. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, wanting so badly to look perfect, to be what he would have wanted. “Where are we going to eat?” She slipped her hand through his arm, feeling self-conscious at the gesture. It seemed ludicrous that Carney would need help to walk from one room to the other, but his chivalrous invitation was too compelling to ignore. And it was strangely enjoyable to be cosseted by a man.

  “We’re going to the opera first. Then we’ll get a late dinner at the hotel.”

  “The opera?” Rosemary tried to sound enthusiastic, but a thick steak and plenty of ale sounded a lot better to her right now than a highbrow play. “Isn’t that where they sing in a different language and jump around on the stage and nobody understands it?”

  “Something like that,” he said, amused. “But I’ll explain it to you, and you’ll understand. Actually, I’m glad to be with you. One’s first opera is a powerful experience.”

  “I’m sure.” Rosemary tried to sound convinced, but she hoped that the show wouldn’t be dull. She knew she should try to share Michael’s tastes, but what she’d heard of the opera was not encouraging. For a circus performer to sit through someone else’s boring show was a torment, indeed, and she bravely forced a smile, hoping it wouldn’t look too transparent.

  Michael hid a grin as the carriage halted before the Tabor Opera House. Rosemary’s eyes widened at the imposing redbrick building constructed by the silver king. Huge oval windows stared out of the building like a woman’s coquettish eyes, while inside the ivory and gold theater boxes glimmered from the stage corners. Signs advertising everything from Dan Desmond’s carbonated sodas to the Sawdust Corner Saloon hung from the stage ceiling, and well-dressed ushers escorted them to the front box.

  “My God,” Rosemary breathed, awestruck by the elegant theater and the gorgeous people filling it. Denver’s wealthy poured in, the women beautiful in their gowns, the men sophisticated in black suits and silk cravats. Heads turned as Rose and Michael made their way through the crowd, and people paused to admire the handsome man and the tiny auburn-haired woman before him. Several acquaintances who remembered him from Philadelphia waved to Michael, their curious eyes falling on Rosemary and wondering who his beautiful and vivacious companion was.

  Rosemary was unaware of the attention she was receiving and could only stare around her in wonder, pointing out each new item of interest. The chandeliers were imported and blazed from the ceiling. The ceiling itself was decorated with a creamy-white plaster that was molded so artfully it resembled a buttercream cake. Her feet sank into the soft burgundy carpet that covered the floor.

  “What do you think?” Michael pulled out the chair for her, and Rosemary slipped into it, her eyes sparkling.

  “It’s gorgeous. If the opera is half as nice as this, it will be good.”

  “It will be,” Michael said, more amused by the moment. He handed her the program, then leaned over her, explaining the foreign writing.

  “It’s Mozart, The Marriage of Figaro. This play was banned many years ago because it was considered too risque. But Mozart persuaded the high court to hear it and produce it. It’s actually pretty tame today, considering what they have right down the street.”

  “You mean the red-light district,” Rosemary said, unconcerned as several people nearby turned to stare at her. “The clowns all talk about it. Poor Rags lost half his pay there last year.”

  A lady beside her coughed delicately while the gentlemen gave her broad smiles. Michael changed the topic quickly, although he, too, was amused. Without any of the trappings of society, Rosemary’s approach to life was much more simple and honest than most women, and she had no inhibitions about saying whatever came into her head.

  The lights dimmed, and the program began. The orchestra assembled an
d began to play the sweetest music Rosemary had ever heard. Entranced, she leaned forward on the box, heedless of the people around her. When the opera began, she sank back into her chair, mesmerized by the beautiful women and the handsome male actors who appeared on the stage. Michael leaned closer and explained the story. In spite of the language difference, Rosemary could feel the characters’ pain, and an overwhelming emotion filled her. Clutching the seat before her, tears spilled down her face, and she wiped them with the back of her hand, moved by the story set to incredible music.

  At the end she stood up and applauded loudly, heedless of the men beside her who, enchanted by her beauty and artless enthusiasm, tried to get her attention. But Rosemary turned to Michael and hugged him openly, filled with a kind of joy that defied explanation.

  “Did you like it?” he asked, smiling as he looked down into her still-wet eyes.

  Rosemary grinned. “You know I did. How can I say thank you? It seems so…trite for something like that. I would never have seen it if it wasn’t for you.”

  She was looking at him with such open adoration that the men around her glanced at their own companions, wondering if there was ever a time when a woman had looked at them like that. Michael smiled uneasily, then took her by the hand.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes. It must be the mountain air, but lately I feel like I could eat one of the elephants.”

  “Will the hotel dining room do?” Michael asked, chuckling. Rosemary nodded, then clung to his arm as he led her through the crowd into the soft autumn night.

  The mountains gleamed in the distance, and the lights twinkled from the saloons and restaurants. Rosemary sighed in contentment as they drove in a cab back to the hotel, and Michael put his arm around her, encouraging her to snuggle closer to him. It was an enchanted evening, perfect in every respect.