Rosemary gulped. She wondered what had possessed Clara to give him any such information. Michael Wharton was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Paling even more, she pushed back from the table, wanting to get as far away from him as possible.
“Rosemary, are you all right?”
Smiling wanly, she nodded. “I think I’ll go back to the train now. We’re leaving within the hour.”
Michael nodded, then picked up the check and paid the waitress. Rosemary wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she saw laughter playing around his mouth. She didn’t know what he was up to, but one thing was for certain—she didn’t want to wait to find out. She remembered the snake incident all too well.
The Pullman sleeping car was already arranged and made up for the night. Sighing in anticipation, Rosemary undressed quickly and slipped into the bed, wearing only a light chemise. Even with the motion of the train, sleep in a real bed, even if it was small, was a luxury.
The door closed and she glanced up, frowning as she saw Michael enter the tiny car. Nodding to her in greeting, he turned up the gaslight and began to unbutton his shirt. All the breath left her lungs as he took off the shirt, his bare chest gleaming in the lamplight. Then he sat down and began to remove his shoes.
Rosemary quickly found her voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Getting ready for bed. You didn’t think I’d sleep in the aisle, did you?”
“But…” Frantic, Rosemary gathered up the covers and glanced toward the door. “Isn’t there another bed? I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable—”
“I’ll be fine here,” Michael assured her, annoyed. “After all, we are husband and wife. Don’t you think it would look a little questionable if I asked for separate quarters?”
Feeling very much like a cornered leprechaun, Rosemary tried to come up with an escape. This was something her mind hadn’t taken into consideration. With the invention of the sleeping car came beds, and of necessity, a certain closeness to one’s traveling companions. To spend an entire night with him was asking for trouble. He was too handsome, too charming, and too dangerous to her well-being. Carney the clown was running out of tricks, and this was the time she desperately needed them the most.
“I will sleep with Clara, then.” The suggestion seemed like an inspiration to Rose. “That will leave you the entire bed, which I’m sure you’ll find to your liking.” Rosemary sat up, prepared to scamper into the adjoining compartment, when Michael shook his head.
“Clara has all of her bags and apparatus in her compartment. There isn’t room for a cockroach to turn around. Besides, she’s already locked her door and is sound asleep.” He stood up, unbuckling his trousers. “But I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
She was trapped. Watching in horrified fascination, she saw him remove his pants, revealing a body that gleamed with muscle and masculine strength. He was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Every line of his body, every play of muscle and lean flesh as he moved with a devastating grace, was as appealing as it was dangerous.
Rosemary swallowed hard as he got down to his underwear and started to remove that. She turned quickly, hearing his chuckle, then the soft swish of the covers as he climbed into the bed. He was too close, and it was too easy to let appearances slip into reality. It was a game he was playing, she reminded herself. He was punishing her because of the potion. Rosemary had no doubt of his intentions. The safest course was to squeeze her eyes shut, ignore his presence, and try to sleep. Not only would that be near impossible, but it galled her as well. Carney may have been subdued but hardly beaten.
Slipping a pillow from the bed, she ignored his curious glance as she stuffed the bolster between them, forming a small but effective barrier. Incredulous, Michael stared at the cotton wall, then at the beautiful clown lying beside him.
“Madam, surely you don’t think—”
“I’m certain you won’t have any objections,” Rosemary said sweetly. “After all, you’ve made it very clear that we are husband and wife in name only. I believe it took six guns to your head to make you perform the deed.”
“Rose—”
“So I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you further,” Rosemary said with a charitable smile. “Especially since Clara gave me a potion earlier. This one is supposed to make me sleep like a dead Irishman, but there is one complication.” She winked as if imparting a secret. “It will make me snore!”
Michael’s mouth dropped as she turned over, pulling the covers up. Almost instantly she was asleep, and worse, Clara was absolutely right about the resulting complication. Rosemary snored loud enough to wake the heavens, if not the people in the next compartment.
So much for potions, Michael thought in chagrin, but there was one intriguing idea that hadn’t escaped his notion. Rosemary was not completely immune to his presence. And that had potential.
“When are we going to get to this heathen city?” Clara muttered, tossing aside her books. “We’ve been riding on this train for days now. You didn’t say it would take this long to get to the den of sin.”
“We’ll be there shortly,” Michael said, giving Clara a stern look. “I’ve already wired my mother. She’s preparing rooms and is welcoming you both as guests.”
“Bah!” Clara glared back at him, her eyes bulging. “I’ll wager she’s as glad to see us as I am to see chilblains. Stick to the truth, Wharton. It was always your best defense.”
“It happens to be true,” Michael continued calmly, noticing the way Rosemary stiffened. He didn’t bother to add that his mother had been dutifully shocked, and it was only because she was so glad he was returning that she’d agreed so easily. He still hadn’t told her they were married—he’d decided to break that news to her later. “I know the rooms she means, and they are nice. I think you will both be very comfortable. I think it’s best if I introduce Clara as your aunt. It will avoid complications.”
Rosemary stared at the endless tracks, then at the distance where the city would unfold. In the past few days Michael had been obliging and courteous, if a little cold. He’d continued taking her to the Harvey Houses for meals, treating her to the best they had to offer, and was solicitous about her health. The baby, she reminded herself. That was all he cared about.
At night he still shared their bed, but thankfully, Clara’s potion did wonders. Last night she’d run out, and it had been torture lying in the same chamber with him and remembering what it had been like between them. If it was this difficult now, what would it be like in a few weeks or months? “Michael, I don’t think this is such a good idea. Why don’t we just call the whole thing off?”
She looked so vulnerable and appealing, her green eyes fastened to his, that he softened his response. “Look, if you don’t like it, I promise we’ll discuss an alternative. But the show will only be playing a few more towns and then will wait out the winter. If by spring, you don’t see it my way, I’ll reconsider. But you have to give it a chance.”
It was more than he’d been willing to give in days, but Rosemary was still cautious. “And the debt?”
“I’ll take care of it. Griggs will send me the balance of the receipts, and I’ll settle your loan. I have a feeling that Carney’s will be well into the black and easily able to repay the debt.”
“No thanks to you,” Clara muttered. “Don’t be taking any bows, boyo. Carney’s always does well.”
Rosemary smothered a chuckle as Clara and Michael glared at each other. But it did not stop the dread from creeping inside of her as they approached Philadelphia, nor the feeling that this would be her most difficult adjustment yet. Doing a backflip would be simple compared to fitting into Michael’s life.
It would have surprised her to find that Michael was thinking much the same thing.
“Philadelphia!”
The conductor called out, and the train wheezed into the city, the brakes squealing in protest as the wheels ground to a halt. Clutching her bag, R
osemary followed Michael and Clara out to the platform and looked about her in disbelief.
Denver had been a busy town, but nothing had prepared her for the sight that met her eyes. Building after building of granite rose before her, while the train station itself, with its high ceilings and arched doorways, was positively intimidating. Carriages rumbled by, jostling each other to pick up fares, while businessmen and women shopping in the dazzling array of stores filled the narrow streetways.
Michael called for a carriage, and immediately a ruddy-faced Irishman appeared, cheerfully loading their baggage onto the top and securing it with straps. As they rumbled down the streets, Rosemary couldn’t count the shops. There were tobacco rollers, carpet weavers, cabinetmakers, and upholsterers, dress shops and milliners, shirtmakers, and machine shops. Beggars offered battered tins to passersby, while women in furs with sparkling beaded purses brushed past them without an indolent glance. It was a bawdy town, elegant and tawdry at the same time. Rose was entranced.
As they passed Market Street, the buildings grew noticeably nicer and the streets more upscale. Mansions lined the walks, and streets named Walnut and Chestnut crisscrossed in an almost perfect grid with the numbered roads. The carriage stopped before a large granite house that was situated behind a park that the driver called Rittenhouse.
Rosemary stared around her in awe. She’d never seen anything like it, not in any of the towns she knew well. It was a mansion. Even from the road she could see the elegant architecture of the building, the rounded windows and carved cornices, the scrollwork and polished brass trimmings. Michael disembarked and paid the carriage driver, then knocked on the door. Rosemary and Clara stood directly on the step as the driver plunked their bags beside them. A servant appeared clad in a dark suit and a spotless shirt.
“Yes?” The man looked at Clara and Rosemary with obvious disdain, then his eyes fell to their bags. Clara had at least five, all of them bulging with her fortune-telling aids, while Rosemary had one battered piece. “If you are looking for the Hibernia Club, it is two blocks down and to the right.” The man started to close the door when Michael stepped forward and quickly stopped him.
“I don’t think that’s the right address, James.”
“Mr. Wharton!” The servant’s face changed from disapproving rigidity to outright pleasure. “I apologize. Your mother did say you were coming home with guests, but she failed to mention that they were of this interesting variety.” He opened the door wide, then stooped to fetch some of the bags. “Upon my word, sir, this should be intriguing. Do come in.”
Rosemary entered the house cautiously, while Clara scowled at every new sight. Inside, the foyer floor was black and white marble squares, while a monstrous mirror framed them all like a poorly executed painting. Statues and chairs were placed about in every available corner, while patterned wallpaper in burgundy and gold ran up the walls and even over the ceiling. Odd-looking seats, positioning one person behind the other, were placed in the adjoining parlor, while thick woolen rugs covered the floors. Gilt dripped everywhere, and art objects, especially fat roses, decorated every available space.
“My God, it looks like a museum,” Rosemary breathed, and Clara cackled in agreement.
“Yes, it is atrocious, isn’t it?” James glanced blandly around the room, then back to Michael. “It seems your guests don’t have an appreciation for modern-day design.”
“Nor you,” Michael responded, seeming amused. If he was angry at the servant’s audacity, he didn’t show it. He was about to comment further when a woman stepped gracefully down the stairs. She was slender and elegant, her hair a polished silver, her body beautifully gowned in a lovely shade of pale blue. She had a patrician face, and in her eyes there was a dreamlike quality, very unlike her practical son. Yet, she was obviously thrilled to see him. She rushed into his arms, ignoring everything else. “Oh, Michael, you’re finally home. I’ve been so worried…let me look at you. Why, darling, you look so thin and pale. You must have some tea right away.”
Michael gently disengaged himself, then turned toward Rosemary, an indulgent smile on his face. “Mother, I want you to meet my wife, Rosemary. And this is her companion, Clara.”
“Rosemary,” Michael’s mother repeated, and her eyes widened at the sight before her. Rosemary stood dressed in one of the gowns Michael had purchased for her, but any attempt at current fashion ended there. Her hair, never tame to begin with, curled riotously around a face that although apprehensive, seemed twinkling with amusement. Green eyes danced, and freckles were sprinkled like cinnamon over a nose that was unfashionably turned up. Instead of appearing shy or retiring, as most women in her predicament, Rosemary seemed about to burst into laughter.
“Carney.” Rosemary took the woman’s proffered hand and shook it heartily. “Like Carney’s Circus. I think you may know of us—your husband was our benefactor.”
“I see.” Michael’s mother looked about to faint, then her eyes fell on Clara. The gypsy fortune-teller was digging feverishly in her bags, displaying noisome bottles and odd, scarred books. Tarot cards fell out onto the floor, their lurid pictures staring up like a witch’s curse. Gasping in delight, Clara retrieved a glass jar and straightened, her sugar-white hair pulled back and revealing a face like a worm-eaten apple.
“Me spiders.” She grinned, indicating the jar. “I thought this boyo had lost them. I need them for me potions.”
Michael’s mother turned a curious shade of gray, then turned quickly to her son. “I don’t feel well, darling. Would you take me to the parlor and order a sherry?”
As Michael obliged, Rosemary fought a giggle as she heard the woman say something about show people.
She wouldn’t have to convince Michael to let them go. Apparently, his mother would do that all by herself.
“This way to your rooms.” James led them up the carpeted stairs, to a hallway choking in cabbage-rose wallpaper. Gaslights dripping in gilt with huge ruby-colored bowls gleamed from the ceilings, while delicate little tables strewn with lace and tiny figurines were displayed in every nook and crevice. Rosemary shuddered. She could just picture the clowns in this setting, and the damage they would wreak.
“I think you will be comfortable here, madam. And if the lady will follow me.” James held open the door for Clara, while the gypsy fortune-teller peered suspiciously into the room. Large oppressive furniture was interspersed with delicate dried flowers, while lace covered everything like an overindustrious spider’s web.
“Humph.” Clara settled into the chamber, opening drawers and closets. But the room was a vast improvement over a tent, and the gypsy found little to complain about.
“This way.” James led Rosemary down the hallway into an adjoining room that seemed a twin of the first. Rosemary glanced at the excessive furnishings and the overabundance of decorations and tried to appear enthusiastic. “It is…unbelievable.”
James glanced at her, and for once his forbidding demeanor lightened, and she could have sworn she saw laughter in his eyes. “I think that is precisely the word.” He hefted her bags inside, then stood very properly at the door. “Will there be anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
“We dress for dinner here. Good afternoon.”
The butler turned and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Rosemary stared at the chamber, observing the horsehair chairs, the thick velvet draperies at the window, the gilt mirrors, and the needlepoint pictures hanging from the walls. Uncertainty filled her. Even the room seemed to echo her lack of welcome, and her one small tattered bag looked sadly out of place on the thick blue carpet.
She didn’t belong here. Rosemary thought of Michael’s mother, and how elegant and graceful she appeared. The epitome of the woman who had always snubbed her, his mother was like one of those graceful feminine wonders that Rosemary longed to be like but could never feel comfortable around. There was no way the woman would ever accept her, nor their situation. Idly Rosemary wondered if Michael
had told her about the child, then realized almost certainly that he hadn’t. One shock at a time was enough. Mischievously, she grinned, picturing the woman’s reaction when she found out that her son had fathered a would-be clown, then her smile faded. God, she didn’t want that rejection for the child or herself. If only Clara had a potion that could transport her back to the circus, to her own people.
We dress for dinner here.
Her nose scrunching, Rosemary wondered what on earth the butler could have meant. Didn’t everyone?
“But she’s a clown, for God’s sake!”
Michael poured out another glass of sherry as Catherine Wharton fanned herself frantically, gazing at him in horror.
“Mother, it isn’t all that bad—”
“Not that bad! Think about what you’re saying! My God, what has happened to you?” She stared impeachingly at her son, who had always done the right, proper thing. “Show people! Michael, you have such a future ahead of you. Half the eligible young women in Philadelphia adore you, women from good families with connections, women with dowries…”
“I know,” Michael said soothingly. “I know how this must seem to you. I’m not even sure how it all happened myself. But it did. Now she’s carrying a child—my child. What should I have done, just left her there?”
His mother turned even whiter and gulped the sherry. “You say she’s…in a family way?”
“That’s right,” Michael said calmly. His mother averted her eyes in mortification and fanned herself so hard that her hair blew softly around her face. “I didn’t plan any of this. It just happened. But now you can see, I can’t just ignore my responsibilities.”
“No, of course not.” Catherine put the glass down and refused to meet his eyes. “A child. Dear God, how could this have happened?”
“The way it usually does,” Michael said softly, hiding his amusement. “Mother, it’s been known to happen, even in the upper classes. It isn’t a tragedy.”
Defiant Rose Page 25