Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  “Now, do ye have everything memorized?” Clara tugged at the back of Rosemary’s corset while the young woman nodded, struggling to get the laces lined up correctly.

  “Yes. You want me to fill in for the voices when necessary, distract anyone who appears to be interfering, and assist you in contacting the spirits.” Rosemary shifted the corset again, then tugged at the whalebone lining. “It’s just a shame Catherine can’t come.”

  “’Tis just as well,” Clara said wisely. “She does not believe. It’s nae good to have too many naysayers in the room.”

  Rosemary nodded. While Catherine supported what they were doing, she really wasn’t a spiritualist, and that could prove distracting. Recalling Clara’s card reading the previous time, she grinned. “How did you know about Alice’s young love?”

  “Bah!” Clara snorted, waving the air. “All these old dowagers have a young man tucked away somewhere. That’s why they’re old dowagers. Alice Caldwalder is no different from any other woman, no matter how much money she has. I just looked to the cards, and there he was.”

  “Her niece is very pretty,” Rose said thoughtfully, gazing into the mirror. The corset still didn’t fit right, and her green eyes squinted as she tried to fix the clothes. “She had an interest in Michael, I think.”

  Clara stared at Rosemary with a shrewd look on her face. “She don’t hold a candle to you, dearie. Don’t be worrying about the likes of Miss Coldwater.”

  “Caldwalder.” Rosemary grinned. “But she does look the part, Clara, you have to admit. Her clothes and hair are perfect.” Glancing doubtfully at the gypsy costume Clara displayed, Rosemary sighed. “Do you really think it’s appropriate?”

  “You’ll look grand, as always.” Clara helped her slip the black and silver dress over her head and clucked reassuringly. “It’s nae your fault you know aught about clothes and fancy women’s things. Your mother left when you were too young, that besom, and you spent all your time working like a man. What do you expect?”

  Rosemary settled the dress over her rounded belly, her fingers still as they touched the place where the baby rested. “Why is it no one ever talks about her? Why did she leave? Did she ever write? Does anyone know what became of her?”

  Clara’s hands stilled at the hem of Rosemary’s dress, and she glanced upward, her sharp blue eyes piercing. “And what brought all this on?”

  “I was just wondering.” Rosemary turned, seeing the dress twirl oddly around her knees. “I’m discovering some benefits to being a woman, yet I can’t understand her. How could she just leave me like that?”

  “Your father loved her very much,” Clara said hesitantly. She had known this was coming—she’d seen it when the cards had fallen to the floor. Picking up the figure of a seated woman, her head wreathed in stars, Clara had known. Now she sighed, knowing what had to be done, yet still wanting to protect the young woman before her. Didn’t her Rose have enough to deal with, pregnant in this heathen place, wed to Michael Wharton, of all men? Fates were truly a strange lot.

  “He didn’t like to hear her name mentioned,” Clara said cautiously. “Out of respect for him, we didn’t talk about her. But you are right, dearie. You have a right to know.” Breathing deeply, Clara looked at Rosemary with a sad expression. “She used to write, at least in the beginning. But Sean never answered her. There are men who love but once, and when that love turns to stone, they can never forgive or forget. Your father was one of them. He was so afraid, Rose, that you might one day grow up and become like her, that you would one day leave him, that it nair scared the life from him.”

  Rosemary turned toward the old woman. “Did she…ask about me?”

  Clara nodded, her birdlike head dipping. “Aye, she did. She wrote you long, long letters. Stories. Sent you poems and clips of her hair. Even a picture, though your father threw it out. It pained him just to look at her.” Clara sniffed sentimentally, then wiped her nose on her sleeve. “She fair broke his heart, that she did.”

  “Did she leave him for another man?”

  Clara shook her head. “Nae, though she may as well have. She couldn’t abide the troupe life. She realized that the circus was the flesh and blood of your father, and that to take it from him would have taken the man’s soul. So she up and left without a word. I ne’er forget that night. Your father was out in the rain, calling her name, looking for the evil wench until dawn. But she never came back, nor did he try to find her again. Instead, he clung to you and made you as much a part of his life as the show.”

  Rosemary nodded, her heart breaking as she pictured her strong, masterful father driven to such lengths. “And the dresses…?”

  “Your father ne’er encouraged any of the things in you that reminded him of your mither. Women’s clothes. Sewing. Jewelry. Hair frippery. He felt far more comfortable with you in your clown suit, tumbling through the hoops. That was something he understood.”

  Rosemary wiped at her own eyes. “I wish I could have known him before. And her.”

  Clara nodded. “They were a grand couple, but some things are bigger than two people, no matter how much they love. They were just too different.”

  Rosemary nodded, a cold dread brushing through her. Clara had just described her biggest fear where Michael was concerned. Glancing once more into the mirror, she saw an Irish gypsy wench, her earrings dangling, her dress gaudy and bewitching. Deep inside she knew she wasn’t the grand lady Michael expected her to be.

  And she didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do about it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE CALDWALDER RESIDENCE was even more imposing than Rosemary had anticipated. As they pulled up to the gray marble house with its Grecian columns, Federalist windows cloaked in lace and velvet, and its solid brass doorknocker, she had to fight the urge to enter via the servants’ entrance. But the door swung open and a butler whose passivity rivaled James’s led them into a parlor.

  Excitement swept through Rose as she watched Clara survey the room, appraising its suitability for their seance. My God, she’d missed all this. There was nothing like the crackling tension that filled the air just before a performance, even if it was only a spirit meeting. The feeling of uselessness and boredom that she’d been fighting for the past two weeks seemed to vanish as their first act was about to go on. With the instincts of a true showman Rosemary knew it would be a good night. And if it was successful, it could mean other engagements….

  “I am so glad you could come.” Alice Caldwalder entered the room with her niece, her face beaming. “Everyone wanted to be invited, once word got out. I must say you’ve made us very popular.”

  Rosemary smiled, then handed her cloak to the butler. She heard Melissa’s sharp intake of breath as her black and silver dress was revealed, along with the dangling earrings. There was a trace of envy in the young woman’s voice as she examined the costume.

  “I’m surprised Michael approves of you wearing such an outlandish outfit, although I suppose he’s used to it.”

  Melissa’s sharp words cut her deeply, especially when she surveyed the other woman’s elegant rose-colored gown and artfully fashioned hair. But Rosemary grinned, unable to stop her own mischievous nature.

  “Yes, he is used to it. Why, in working with the circus, he had some experience with costume himself. He once stood in for Clara, you know.”

  “As a mystic?” Melissa asked in disbelief.

  Rosemary nodded. “He almost put Clara out of a job, he was so good.”

  “Bah!” Clara glanced up from her work of setting the table. “I need those lights turned down and me bag.” Leaning closer to Rose, she spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Did ye bring the tins?”

  Rosemary indicated the bag. “They’re inside.”

  “Good.” Clara turned to the two women. “We need time to set up. Would you greet the guests in the other room and leave the fixings to us?”

  Alice nodded, trembling as Clara brought out a pair of candlesticks from her bag, t
hen a black cloth. Taking Melissa by the arm, she led her niece toward the door. “Come now, dear, we’ll leave them to their work. I can’t wait to see Agnes’s expression when she arrives!”

  No sooner did the two women leave than Clara brought out the tins and gestured to Rose. “Sit here while I tie these to your legs. You know what to do?”

  Rosemary nodded, stretching out one calf while Clara secured the tin to the inside of her knee. “I clang them together when you say the word ghost.”

  “Right.” Clara tied the second tin firmly, then slipped pieces of wood into Rose’s sleeves. “And these?”

  “For the table,” Rosemary recited. “When you want the table to rise, I slip these beneath.”

  “Good. It’s only the living that need these props, me girl. But otherwise, they do not believe. I think we’re ready.” With that, Clara lit the candles and tied a gypsy cloth around her head. “Tell them to come in.”

  Rosemary headed for the door while Clara hummed and muttered to herself in an attempt to contact the spirits. One thing was for certain, she mused. For the sake of Catherine Wharton, she hoped at least one spirit would put in an appearance.

  Michael fought his rising impatience as the two businessmen in his office debated the merits of stock investments versus bonds. Tonight of all nights he was impatient to get home, to see Rosemary.

  My God, how she’d pleasured him last night. Michael glanced toward the green leather sofa of his office, recalling her on the love seat in their parlor, her body afire, her eyes glazed with passion. She had looked bewitching, her hair tumbling about her as she innocently asked him to take her….Every time he thought about it, he lost his breath.

  And she had decided to try. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but with Rosemary Carney, it was enough. He was so proud of the effort she was making to fit in, to become a society lady. He didn’t expect her to give up everything without some qualms, but surely she could see it was better this way. Their baby would be raised in a normal, healthy environment, and Rose could stop working and enjoy what every woman wanted: a home and peace.

  Even his mother had softened. Somehow, Rosemary had wriggled her way into her heart. Catherine grew more fond of Rose each day, and once the baby came, the bond between them would surely solidify. And Catherine was taking great pains to tutor Rose in the art of being a lady. She was meeting the right people, learning how to manage a household and how to get along with society women. With his mother behind her, Rosemary’s introduction to society was practically ensured.

  A strange twinge of guilt pricked him as he envisioned Rosemary, her face smeared with greasepaint, tumbling through the dirt. It was only at times like this, and only to himself, that he’d ever admit he sometimes missed the clown. She’d teased him, cajoled him, fought him unmercifully, and made love to him with an adoration that made him feel funny inside whenever he thought about it. And he missed his old life at the circus more than he would have thought. Strange for a man who had everything to find his mind turning back to the barroom brawls, the whiskey-drinking clowns, the late-night camaraderie in one of the trainer’s tents, or the euphoria unmatched by anything else when the show was going right…What was wrong with him?

  “…rates should double this year. Now that the market has stabilized, I mean. Don’t you agree, Michael?”

  Glancing up, he nodded, forcing aside a grin. Rosemary Carney was beginning to be a distraction. One that he didn’t mind in the least.

  “I must ask that everyone be quiet,” Rosemary said firmly, and the women obediently stifled their conversation. She glanced around the table, only vaguely aware that all of these women were from the finest Philadelphia families. She’d been introduced to Mrs. Wetherill, the Misses Scott, Mrs. Pew, Mrs. Girard, and the Widow Naylor. There was something distracting about the latter. Rosemary noticed her patrician face, her deep-set green eyes, her silvery hair. When she’d been introduced to Clara, the old gypsy had looked at her askance, then retreated from her quickly. That was curious, just as the widow who had wanted to attend a seance now seemed as if she wanted to be anywhere but. There was something else about the woman that compelled her, and she was forced to look away as Clara gave her a signal to begin.

  The air was filled with tension and excitement as Rosemary doused the lights, then spoke in a solemn tone. “Tonight we will attempt to contact the spirits of the other world. I must ask that you direct your questions to Clara one at a time, and that we allow each person a sufficient opportunity to visit with their missing loved one.”

  The society women nodded, each glancing at their sophisticated neighbor with a nervous giggle. Only Melissa seemed disgruntled as the noise died down and the women took their places at the table.

  “Now I would like everyone to hold hands.” Rosemary gathered Alice’s hand within her own, then gestured to the others. “We must let Clara feel the vibrations of ourselves, our desire to speak to the other world. Ladies?”

  One by one each woman took the hand of that beside her while Clara hummed softly, rocking back and forth in her chair, her eyes rolled upward in her head. The women stared at her collectively while Clara’s humming grew louder and she seemed to grow smaller in the chair, her body scrunching up into a ball.

  “We are now entering the world of the dead,” Rosemary said while Clara moaned, intoning a chant. “I must ask everyone to concentrate hard, envisioning the person they would like to contact.”

  The women closed their eyes, and Rosemary could feel the power of their thoughts. Clara’s humming grew louder, then she suddenly groaned as if in pain. Alice gripped Rosemary’s hand tighter as Clara threw back her head and began to speak in a strange, guttural tone.

  “Who are you?” Rosemary asked softly, directing her question to Clara. The old gypsy stared straight ahead, her face and eyes immobile.

  “I am not of the living,” Clara moaned. “I am a ghost!”

  Rosemary rubbed the tins together on her knees and a weird metallic echo filled the room. Alice’s hand tightened, and Melissa gasped, the color draining from her face. Mrs. Pew looked scared, while the Misses Scott sobbed quietly.

  “What spirit are you?” Rosemary asked softly. “Are you known to one of us present?”

  “I am.” Clara rocked back and forth, her body moving without seeming part of her own effort. “I am known to a woman here who once loved me. I have never forgotten you, dear. Do you remember the time I picked you violets up on the hill? It was springtime and the earth was green?”

  “Thomas!” Alice’s face lit up and assumed an unearthly pleasure. Tears misted the older woman’s eyes, and she stared at Clara, suffused with joy. “Thomas, it is you!”

  “We were but children then. How I loved you! I am with you always, though you did not know it.”

  “I did.” Alice nodded quickly, brushing a tear from her face. She leaned closer to Clara, her expression urgent and excited. “I could feel your presence. There was a day when I almost stepped in front of a carriage on Market Street. Someone stopped me, and after the carriage had hurtled around the corner, I looked about. No one was there.”

  “That was me,” the voice said softly. “It was not your time.”

  The women stared at each other incredulously as Alice smiled, filled with joy. Rosemary grinned. Clara was really gifted. She’d seen things since Rose could remember, and knew what was going to happen long before it did. Now that she was older, some of her predictions were a little forced, but she still maintained that the spirit world was as close as breathing.

  Alice looked sixteen again, alight with excitement and expectation. Melissa stared at her aunt in wonder as Alice spoke quickly. “Are you…happy, Thomas? Was your death so terrible?”

  “I was shot by a rebel. Gettysburg. Defeated Lee. My God, the bullet hurt!”

  The Scotts sobbed openly as Clara shrieked, and Alice cried softly, “I was so worried about you, I didn’t know…”

  “Buried me,” the voice came once again. “Cemetery
Hill. Me and Taylor. He left a wife and children.”

  The voice slowly faded, and Alice gripped Rosemary’s fingers more tightly. “Please don’t leave me! I want you to know that…I love you. I’ve never forgotten…”

  Clara nodded twice, and Rosemary released Alice’s hand and slipped her wrist beneath the table. Inserting the poles of wood under the table top, she raised the table a scarce inch from the floor while Clara did the same from the opposite side. The women’s faces turned to astonishment as the table slowly levitated and seemingly floated in midair.

  “My God!” Mrs. Pew whispered, and Melissa paled. “It’s…moving!”

  “Is there anyone else with you, Thomas?” Rosemary questioned as the table floated. Suddenly the wood snapped at her wrist, and the table dropped awkwardly to the floor. Clara scowled, but the women were so entranced that no one noticed.

  “Yes,” Clara said, falling back into the trance. “Many and none. One of us wants to speak. I will let him now.”

  The women stared in fascinated terror as Clara slumped down as if sleeping, her eyes rolled back into her head. Slowly she jerked, as if two spirits battled for her body, then she sat up directly, her eyes staring unseeing at the candle.

  “Is there a spirit present?” Rosemary asked. Clara still stared directly ahead, her body rigid. Concerned, Rosemary leaned closer and tried again. “Does someone wish to speak?”

  There was silence for a moment, except for the soft breathing of the audience. Then suddenly something seemed different. The air was filled with a strange kind of tension and power. The candle blew out, and the room was plunged into darkness. The women shrieked, the sound chilling in the blackness.