Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  Morris shook his head. “I know, my boy, but the bankers won’t buy it. You and I have more control over the mill investments, simply by owning a majority of the holdings. The rest of the investments aren’t structured that way. I’ve met with the bankers several times, and your proposal falls on deaf ears. A few of them,” Morris said cautiously, “even suggested that your time away at the circus has affected you adversely. That you’ve lost your edge.”

  Michael glared at the rotund banker in disbelief, though the logical part of him warned him not to be surprised. “That’s ridiculous,” he said harshly.

  “Whether or not, it’s something we have to deal with,” Morris said evenly. “I don’t have to tell you that investors are a fickle lot and have always thought in terms of payback. Concepts like incentive management, increased productivity, motivating the work force through a better standard of living and education, holds no meaning for them. The dollar does. They want instant gratification.”

  Michael paced the room in frustration. He knew Morris spoke the truth. Immigrants, by and large, were viewed by the bankers as a nameless sea of bodies, easily replaceable and less than human. No one cared if they dropped dead from exhaustion, that their children didn’t have enough to eat, that they were freezing and tired in the name of ten more shirts or a new building. He had known all that, yet somehow had been fooled into thinking he could make a difference.

  “I can’t believe this.” He turned slowly and faced Morris, his face pale. “How can we know that a more humane way of doing business will not only increase profit but help others, and yet be unable to implement it?”

  “That’s the world, Michael. I didn’t make it, and neither did you.” The banker smiled sympathetically. “Don’t take it so hard. Your holdings are doing extremely well. I understand you have a wife and a new baby on the way.” When Michael nodded briefly, Morris’s smile disappeared. “Let me give you some advice. I’ve known you and your family for a long time, and you’ve done a tremendous job in restoring your father’s holdings. Don’t jeopardize all that by some new radical ideals. You’ve worked hard, you’ve earned your place. Stay within the confines of the elite, and you’ll continue to prosper.”

  Michael’s eyes grew like steel. “You mean you want me to sell out, to keep my mouth shut, even though I know I’m right?”

  Morris shrugged. “I’m only advising you as a friend. People in this business can turn on you very quickly if they see you as a threat. Already the changes we’ve made at the mills have caused some rumblings. Riots are nothing new to Philadelphia, and the workers’ unrest is every banker’s nightmare. You’re giving them ideas, Michael. Once these immigrants think they’re entitled to certain benefits, they’ll want them across the board. And that’s when the trouble will begin.”

  Morris picked up his polished hat and his greatcoat, then stood beside the door. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d strongly advise you to listen. You have entirely too much at risk not to.”

  The banker stepped through the oak door and was gone. Michael sank down into his chair and buried his head in his hands. My God, he couldn’t believe this. If he believed what Morris said, and he had no reason not to, he was doomed to making his money at the expense of others or suffering just like them. It was worse than that story about the emperor’s new clothes, where a boy was the only one who dared tell the truth. He would be effectively silenced, and his only choice was to go down fighting and lose everything—or stand by quietly and let business run as usual.

  “Mr. Wharton, Mr. Whitman is here to see you.”

  Michael ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Business waited for no one and had no conscience. It was a fact he was just beginning to appreciate.

  “How did she know Sean Carney?” Rosemary demanded as Clara sifted through her book of chants and potions, trying to ignore the young clown. “She knew him, I could tell by her face. And she ran out right after that.”

  “You’re daft,” Clara said bluntly, although her eyes strayed from Rose uneasily. “That widow woman was just upset by the seance. It always happens, as you know. Do you remember that time in the circus—”

  “But it was Sean’s name that did it,” Rosemary interrupted, refusing to be diverted. “I’ve been thinking about it all night—I can’t get that woman’s face from my mind. And there was something else, something about the way she looked at us. You acted strangely when you met her, as well.”

  “Bah.” Clara slammed the book shut and glared at Rose. “I have work to do, girl, and you’re worse than a dozen Englishmen. The woman got upset because a ghost appeared. That is all.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rosemary said, unconvinced. Rising from her seat in the parlor, she put aside her badly done needlepoint and reached for her cloak. “I’m going to see her.”

  “Are you mad?” Clara’s eyes bulged, and the older woman glared. “You’re carrying a wee one, and you want to barge into some woman’s house like a vagabond? I thought you were trying to fit in here, to act like a lady.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with visiting her,” Rose said defensively. “Catherine said we should begin calling on everyone we’ve met, with or without her. She even made me up some cards.” Rosemary displayed a package of white linen cards decorated with shamrocks. “She said it would only help to get to know everyone. And since the seance, they’re all eager to meet us.”

  “I want no part of this.” Clara gave Rose a compelling look. “And I have a feeling that your husband will be no more pleased with the idea than I am. Have you told him your plan?”

  “No,” Rosemary said uneasily. She had a feeling that Clara was right on that point. Michael had been cold and withdrawn since their argument about the seance, and he’d been adamant about upsetting the widow. He’d been dead-set against anything that might unnerve her further.

  But Rosemary just couldn’t let it go. There was something about that woman, something vaguely compelling and, if she had to be honest, familiar. She had a feeling that Clara knew much more than she was saying, and that only piqued her curiosity even more. After days of painting, playing piano, and sewing, the prospect of intrigue was like a balm to Rosemary’s active mind. She had to find out what Sean Carney meant to the widow, and why she’d acted so strangely.

  “I’ll be back before Michael returns. There’s no reason he has to know,” Rosemary said, her brows lifting. “Unless you tell?”

  “I’ll not be tattling on you.” Clara sighed in resignation. “If you’re determined to do this fool thing, I canna’ stop you. I never could. But be careful, lass. I’ll be waiting for you to get home.”

  Rosemary nodded, then gave Clara a quick kiss on her tired cheek. Wrapping her cloak around her, she stepped into the street and hailed a carriage. She didn’t look behind her, nor did she see the twitch of a lace curtain as Clara watched her with a worried gaze.

  Returning to her cards, Clara flipped over the one with the woman and the stars. She had seen this coming. There was no point in going with the girl—it had to play itself out. She could do little to stop the Fates.

  The street was cold, the cobbles frigid. Trees poked frozen branches into the air like stabbing fingers, their trunks slick with ice as if they’d been dipped in rock candy. Everything was gray, from the bleak Philadelphia sky to the granite buildings edging each other on the side of the street, to the frozen ground below.

  Rosemary sighed and snuggled more closely into the carriage robes. She missed the great plains of the West, when winter descended on the land and frosted everything with a white mantle of snow. There was something about that empty vastness, marred only by the curious murmurings of a snowshoe rabbit or a hungry fox, that felt so much more like home than the city. By now they would be heading south, and every day was a story. They’d meet miners on the way, lumberjacks and woodsmen, trappers and hunters. They’d pass villages and Indian camps, the single column of smoke known as a greeting everywhere to come share a fire. A pang started deep
within her as she thought of old Griggs, Biddle, Leonardo, Zachery, Rags, and all the others. God, how she missed them.

  The carriage slowed to a halt before a white stone mansion with a gray metal fence. Rosemary glanced outside, an odd feeling of recognition sweeping over her. Something about the place was eerily familiar. She struggled to recall if Michael had driven past it or had pointed out this home the day they’d gone shopping, but the street and the surrounding neighborhood looked strange and far from the mercantile district.

  “Is this correct?” Rosemary asked the driver, indicating the address. “Are we on the Main Line?”

  “Yes, madam.” The carriage driver, a dour-faced old man, indicated the house with his horsewhip. “Would you like me to wait?”

  “Please.” Rosemary disembarked, swallowing her apprehension as she walked through the gate. Even the doorknocker looked familiar. It was as if she’d dreamed this place, though why she ever should have was a mystery. Raising her hand to the brass lion’s face, she clanged the metal ring clenched in his teeth, a sense of wonder filling her.

  At once a servant appeared, looking unsurprised at the visitor. “Do you have a card, madam?”

  Rosemary stepped into the hallway, fishing through her pockets. Producing the newly inked card, she waited while the butler placed it on a silver tray, then disappeared into the dark hall. Whistling loudly to dispel her tension, Rosemary glanced around, the hair prickling on the back of her neck.

  She’d never been here, but she knew that the stairway would be white. And that the parlor would contain a gray marble fireplace with a picture of a woman over the top. And that the wallpaper would consist of trailing arbor roses, much like blots of blood on the wall. She’d never been here, couldn’t have known this, and yet, she couldn’t stop the memories from flooding through her. Yet how could she remember…?

  “Rosemary.” The widow appeared, looking pale and beautiful in a silvery dress, her face both delighted and apprehensive. She extended her hands, taking Rose’s in her own, then indicated the parlor. “Come with me, I’ve ordered tea. I’m so glad you came. I wanted to apologize for the way I’d behaved, it was so silly…”

  Wave after wave of emotion flooded Rose. She stood in the parlor, remembering herself as a little girl, standing in the exact same place. Turning, she saw the doll she knew would be behind her, sitting on the shelf, waiting for a little girl to pick up and cradle, the china eyes staring back as they had over ten years ago. She had been here once before, Sean brought her here, the only time Carney’s had played Philadelphia. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned toward the widow, who was watching her with mounting fear…

  “My God,” Rosemary whispered, tears choking her throat. “It’s you! You’re…my mother!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE WIDOW’S FACE PALED at Rosemary’s words, and she nodded, tears misting her eyes.

  Somehow, Rosemary lowered herself into a chair. Her legs seemed like lead, and there was a faint humming in her ears. Yet the widow’s acknowledgment only verified what she’d known all along herself.

  It was her mother. Through a haze of emotion, Rosemary stared at the face that her father had never forgotten and saw that it had once been beautiful. The delicate bone structure was still easy to see, the slight tilt of her nose, and the sparkle in her clear green eyes was still much as it had once been. When Rose looked even closer, she could see a faint resemblance to herself, not in overall color or features, but subtle things, like the curve of the woman’s mouth and the arch of her brows. Even her scent, lavender and vanilla, was familiar.

  “…couldn’t resist the opportunity to see you. I never thought you’d come out this way. You’re so much like your father, Rose, just as I knew you would be. You even look like him.”

  The widow was crying, delicately daubing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Rosemary struggled to make sense of it all, even as the butler brought the tea and discreetly departed.

  “Then you knew? When you came to the seance, I mean?”

  The older woman nodded, giving Rose a tremulous smile as she poured the steaming liquid. “I know it must be hard to understand. But I hadn’t seen you in so many years! When I heard that Michael Wharton had married a circus girl, the temptation was just too great, especially when I heard her name was Rosemary. You father picked that name. It suits you.”

  Rosemary gulped the tea, barely aware that it stung her tongue. A thousand questions flooded her mind, along with a torrent of emotion. She didn’t know whether to be happy at the revelation or sad, or overwhelmingly angry. Still in a state of shock, she shook her head in denial.

  “Ella Foster. It can’t be! You’ve been gone for so long. Surely I would have heard something about you in all this time….”

  “I tried to write.” The woman’s eyes brimmed with tears, making them softer and bluer. “Your father didn’t permit me. He thought it best if I stayed out of your life altogether, to avoid confusion. Actually, I think he couldn’t bear the thought of you and I having a relationship after I left him.”

  “So you’ve been here all this time? In Philadelphia?”

  Ella nodded. “Clara’s kept me informed, begrudgingly, but I’ll always be grateful. And I’ve seen the show whenever you’ve come to the area, though Carney’s was always loath to play the cities. I suppose it’s one of Sean’s traditions that you kept.” She was smiling as she placed the teacup aside. “You’ve grown up so pretty, Rosemary. And such a lady.”

  Rosemary cupped the slight roundness of her belly. She thought of her own child, and the newly protective feelings she had for the unborn babe. Pain tore at her, and she stared unflinchingly at the widow. “How? How could you have done that? Whatever your problems were with my father, how could you just leave me?”

  The widow’s tears dropped steadily, and she extended a hand that Rosemary refused. Embarrassed, she folded her fingers together in her lap and looked beseechingly at the young woman before her.

  “Try to understand. I know it’s hard, but you see, I wasn’t able to adapt to that life. I fell in love with the glitter of the circus, the glamour and the applause of the crowd. Your father seemed so handsome, so young and masterful! I’ll never forget the first time I saw him.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “I was away at boarding school in Boston when the show came to town. I, of course, had never seen anything like it. Oh, I’d been to plays, concerts, and stage shows, but the circus!” Ella’s eyes warmed visibly. “The circus was larger than life! First it was the elephants, huge creatures that I’d never been able to imagine. Then the clowns, dressed in those funny costumes. Then the trapeze performers, glittering in spangles. Finally your father walked out into the center ring.”

  Ella brought out a picture, which she gave to Rose. Glancing at the creased and faded daguerreotype, she saw Sean Carney mugging at the camera, unbelievably young and handsome. Dressed in a top hat and silk coat, he looked charming, wonderfully appealing, and happier than Rose had ever seen him. Ella nodded as Rosemary stared at the picture.

  “I carried that with me for years. It wasn’t until after the show that I contrived to meet him, though my friends were horrified.”

  Rosemary looked up, finding it hard to imagine the widow as a young woman, laughing and giggling over a circus performer. But Ella nodded ruefully, sitting back in her chair with a wistful sigh.

  “You have to understand that my background was very different from Sean’s. I was one of the Fosters, my family expected me to marry well, to live in the city, to enjoy what money they’d earned from the shipping business. I was rebellious at that age, and to me, the circus life seemed exciting and free. I didn’t think ahead to the reality of it all, to the tents that leaked when it rained, to the cold winter winds that made my fingers ache, to the endless work. All I saw was the sparkle.”

  “So you ran away with my father,” Rosemary said quietly, knowing what was coming next.

  The older woman nodded. “I thought I loved him, and for
a while I did. We were married quietly, by a minister passing through town. But the excitement soon wore off. It was a struggle just to pay the bills. No one knew where the next meal would come from, or even how the next show would fare. We lived a dime to a dollar, with no end in sight.”

  The widow sighed softly. “My family, of course, disowned me. At sixteen that also seemed adventurous at first, but very quickly I missed them. I think I would have left that summer, except something happened that none of us had planned.”

  “Me,” Rose guessed, fighting the pain and outrage that filled her.

  Ella nodded. “I couldn’t leave then, not pregnant with Sean’s child. I was hoping for the best, but the things that tore us apart only got worse. I loved you and wanted you as no mother ever wanted a child, but daily the troupe life wore on me. After you were born, there was but one way out.”

  “So you left.” Rosemary put down the cup with a cold clink.

  Ella’s eyes closed as if shutting out some terrible picture, then she opened them and gazed at Rosemary. Her chin lifted slightly, and she nodded, almost defiantly.

  “Yes. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, and one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. There was no question of taking you with me; my family would have never accepted me back with a child, and Sean wouldn’t hear of it. He told me quite emphatically that while I could leave, I wouldn’t take his darling Rose from him. I did the only thing I could have done. God forgive me.”

  The ticking of the polished cherry clock on the mantel was the only sound in the room. Rosemary looked at the elegant furnishings, the good pictures, the crystal chandelier overhead and felt suddenly ill. She’d been traded for these things, she and her father. Sean’s outrage suddenly became very clear, as well as his desire to protect her from ever knowing the truth. It was little wonder why he shunned this woman’s letters, as well as any physical reminders of her.