Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  Getting to her feet, Rosemary visibly withdrew as the widow attempted to embrace her. Stung, Ella bit her lip and trembled as Rosemary took her cloak from the butler and fastened it without looking up. She turned to leave, wanting to be alone, wanting to be anywhere but here. It hurt too much to be close to this woman, her mother.

  “Please,” Ella said softly. “Don’t leave like this. I just wanted to know you and—”

  “Why?” Rosemary glanced back with a sarcastic expression. “So you can see me now, when it’s easy and safe? You made your decision, and you’ve gotten what you wanted. My father was right. It would have been far better if I’d never known you.”

  Ella held on to a chair for support, and she looked at Rosemary with tearful eyes. “Please don’t say that.”

  “It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Rosemary asked, choking down her tears. “This, the money and possessions, meant more to you than me. You want me to understand that and forgive it?” Rosemary wiped her eyes on her sleeve, determined not to cry. “I’m sorry, but that’s asking too much. I never should have come here. No wonder you reacted the way you did when Sean’s ghost spoke.”

  “Rosemary.” The widow’s voice was firm. “I know it must be hard, but you should try to see it my way. It will hurt less if you understand. I felt I had to leave to survive. You and Sean were content in that world—I wasn’t.”

  Rosemary forced a grin. “It doesn’t matter how you want to justify it. I couldn’t have done that to someone I loved.”

  “No?” Ella smiled softly. “How happy are you here, in this life? I’ve watched you grow up, Rose, even from a distance. Even after returning here, remarrying after your father’s death, and becoming a widow, I’ve known all about you. You are Sean Carney all over. You love the circus the same way he did, and you’ll never be truly happy away from it. You both live and breathe for opening night, think in terms of popcorn and carnivals. Do you think this life, with its rules and unforgiving customs, will ever suit you?”

  “I don’t want to hear anything else,” Rosemary said, walking toward the door. The widow’s voice, calm and pleading, sounded behind her.

  “You know I’m right, Rose. Please, don’t repeat the same mistakes your father and I did. Please.”

  She had to get away from here. Quickening her step, she almost ran to the door, bolting past the surprised butler and waking the carriage driver from his nap. She wasn’t able to think until the coach rumbled away from the house with its elegant landscaping and beautiful surroundings. It was only when the house had faded securely behind them that she broke, letting the tears flow unchecked down her face. Pain enveloped her, and she huddled into a corner, sobbing, unable to stop the tears.

  Her mother. Ella Foster. Anger overwhelmed her as she thought of the beautiful heiress coldly walking out on her, her own little girl. How could she have done that? Was Rosemary of so little worth that her mother could have treated her like a discarded piece of jewelry, no longer in style and, therefore, unwearable?

  Worse, she had instinctively liked the woman and, if she had to be truthful, admired her courage. Ella could have refused to see her, could have stayed away from the seance and not seen her at all. Could her gesture have meant something more, that perhaps she held some feelings for her after all?

  Stop it, Rose thought, ashamed of herself. You’re pathetic, scampering after that woman for a crumb of affection. Actions spoke louder than words, at least Sean Carney always said so. And Ella had shown her emphatically how little her daughter had meant to her.

  As the carriage pulled up in front of the Whartons’ mansion, Rosemary wiped at her eyes, not really caring if anyone saw her. An emptiness ached inside of her, and as she walked through the Whartons’ rich and overcrowded home, she wondered if it would ever be filled.

  And worse, if Ella was right.

  “Michael, are you coming to dinner?”

  He glanced up, buried in his papers, a half-finished glass of whiskey and water at his elbow. Frowning, he shook his head and indicated the files.

  “I’ve got too much work to do. I’ll have something later.”

  “Dear,” Catherine pleaded, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s been over a week since you’ve dined with us. I hope you’re not still angry about the seance. It was partly my fault—”

  “No,” Michael cut her off, then when he saw his mother’s hurt expression, he softened his words. “No, I’m not still angry. I just have a lot of work, but if you’re set on it, I’ll come.”

  “Fine.” Catherine smiled gratefully. “I know Rosemary will be relieved. She seems so sad and preoccupied that I thought a dinner together might perk her up.”

  Michael shrugged. “Rosemary does as she pleases no matter what. If she seems moody, I’m sure it’s because I’ve curtailed her fortune-telling activities. She doesn’t care to be told what to do.”

  Catherine watched her oldest son, aware that his jaw had tightened when he spoke of his wife, and that his manner grew even more withdrawn than when she had entered the room. Starting toward the dining room, she wondered how she could help mend the rift between them. They seemed to grow more distant each day and treated each other like polite strangers.

  Sighing, Catherine almost smiled when she realized that a few weeks ago she would have welcomed such an eventuality. Then, Rosemary had been a showgirl, an upstart, a gold digger looking for nothing more than an excuse to squander her son’s money. But something had changed between then and now, and if Catherine had to be honest, it was more than the fact that Rosemary was her daughter-in-law. She had become a daughter in a lot of ways, and the whimsical outlook and happy-go-lucky nature of the girl-clown was a joy to the older woman. Rosemary Carney had added something to her life, and she didn’t want to see it end like this, not now.

  The table was brilliantly set, as always. Catherine noticed Rosemary glance up with an almost pathetic eagerness as Michael entered the room behind her. Yet he barely gave his wife a cool nod as he helped himself to a refill of his drink and took his place at the head of the table. After a moment’s hesitation Rosemary took the seat Catherine indicated, directly beside Michael.

  He glanced at the elegant gown she wore, a sapphire blue that set her hair off perfectly and made her green eyes almost turquoise. She stared demurely down at her plate in a way that Rosemary Carney would never have done, and he felt a pang of guilt. He had done this, had brought her here and forced her to fit into his life. At first glance it seemed the right thing to do, but even he noticed the redness around her eyes and her lack of color.

  So she’d been crying. Thinking back over the last few days, he realized he’d hardly spoken to her. But every time he thought about that seance, he became newly angry. Yet, this reaction wasn’t like her. She seemed pale and distraught, a far cry from the rebellious clown who’d parried him at every turn.

  “It’s so nice to have everyone together. The cook prepared a rack of lamb, your favorite, Michael.”

  Michael didn’t comment, and neither did Rose. Catherine rang for James, and they sat silently waiting while the servant brought the first course.

  “Where is Robert tonight?” Rosemary broke the silence. It was Catherine who answered, after giving Michael ample opportunity to do so.

  “At his club. The house is so quiet without him.” Another pregnant pause followed as James served the soup, ladling the steaming liquid into the shallow bowls. “Is Clara at home?”

  Rosemary nodded. “Clara isn’t feeling well. I’ve sent for a priest—”

  “Oh, my dear.” Catherine stared at Rose in astonishment. “She isn’t—”

  “Clara dies on a regular basis,” Michael said dryly, ignoring the heated look Rosemary sent him. “But she always picks a fine night, so none of the clowns ever mind. My God, do you really mean she plans to continue this here? We’ll be a laughingstock.”

  Rosemary flushed, then placed her napkin on her lap and answered demurely, the way Catherine had taught her. “Clara is
feeling a little poorly, but I am very optimistic that she is fine. The priest is only to add to her comfort.”

  Michael flinched. He had turned her into the same kind of woman he’d avoided for years. Secretly he wondered if she was doing it to annoy him, or to prove a point. Scowling, he sipped his soup as his mother tried frantically to resume conversation.

  “I’m so glad,” Catherine said. “I’ve become very fond of Clara and wouldn’t want to see anything happen to her. Has she been with the circus long?”

  Rosemary nodded and picked up the wide spoon, grateful to know now that soup called for such clearly defined utensils. “Yes, since I can remember. She was like a second mother to me after…my mother left.”

  “She must have cared about you a great deal,” Catherine observed.

  “Actually, I gave her quite a bit of trouble,” Rosemary said, smiling at the memory. “It seems I was used to having my own freedom by the time Clara attempted to take me in hand. I rebelled against everything she tried to teach me. Eventually, she just gave up.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t turn the lion on her,” Michael said pointedly. When Catherine gave him a frosty look, he continued in the same tone. “Rosemary is a formidable foe, as I can well attest. And she tends to cheat when she doesn’t get her own way, including stooping to any depths just to win.”

  Catherine looked shocked, but Rosemary laid down her spoon, her appetite gone along with her patience. Giving Catherine an apologetic nod, she continued sweetly.

  “Perhaps Clara wasn’t as easily daunted as most, since she never gave up. Or perhaps she had more brains. I was never able to fool her for long, especially with a trick like disappearing into the night. No one but a gawker would have ever bought that.”

  Michael didn’t answer but stabbed at the meat James brought with a renewed vengeance. Catherine was just beginning to wonder whether it was wise to even continue the dinner when she noticed Rosemary fighting to cut the lamb with her butter knife. The dull blade sawed unevenly at the tender meat, ripping it into shreds. Her stunned silence caught Michael’s attention, and when he glanced up, he chuckled.

  “For God’s sake, Rose, haven’t you learned the difference between the knives yet? Use the one on your right.”

  He didn’t add “stupid,” but he might as well have. Mortified, Rosemary put down the butter knife and fled from the room. She wasn’t able to take any more of this, especially after her meeting with Ella. Her psyche was too weak, and she just felt too insecure to do battle with Michael. An even more awkward silence followed her departure, and Catherine turned angrily on her son.

  “Michael, what in God’s name is wrong with you? I’ve never heard you speak to anyone like that! I think you should go to her. You were horribly rude.”

  Michael stared at the hallway where his wife had disappeared, then glanced at his mother coldly. “Rosemary can take care of herself. She’s been telling me that since I met her. If she wants to come back down and finish her meal, she will.”

  Catherine shook her head, knowing that the seat would remain vacant. It seemed Michael was driving his wife away from him. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “ARE YOU SURE THIS IS RIGHT?” Clara huddled beneath her shawl as the cold north wind blew through the streets, then tangled up in the empty trees and quarreled with the branches. Rosemary nodded, her breath a vapor in the chill.

  “Yes. The doctor said I should take daily walks. He thinks I’m depressed because of the baby, that it’s made some changes in my body.”

  “Fool bloodsucker!” Clara said, disgruntled. “So each morning we have to trudge to the park and back, freezing our…knees, because of some city doctor.”

  “He knew Michael’s father,” Rosemary said pointedly. “And he’s supposed to be the best.”

  “Ah.” Clara nodded, satisfied. Old Doc Wharton had been like a saint to the circus folk, and if he thought this physician all right, then the man passed muster. Shivering, Clara rapped her cane on the sidewalk in protest but diligently accompanied Rose to the park.

  Few others were about in the cold morning hours. The city seemed bleak and unfriendly, the cold unlike any cold found elsewhere. Immigrants huddled on corners, warming their hands over flaming barrels of creosote, trying to stay warm, while others hawked wares to few customers. Even the park was empty as the rich dwellers of Rittenhouse Square stayed near their warm fireplaces, waiting for spring.

  Clara sighed. This place did her bones no good. She longed to be back at the circus, with her kinfolk, a good whiskey in her blood and warm blankets covering her old frame. But she couldn’t desert Rose, especially now. Of all people, Clara understood what the girl was going through, and her heart bled for the once vivacious clown.

  “Hae ye heard from them?” Clara asked, wanting to distract Rose. The girl had been so pale and listless in the last few days. Clara’d gathered that she and Michael had fought, and that added to her Rosemary’s melancholy mood. The old gypsy was beginning to really worry—more than one woman had been permanently altered by a pregnancy, and not for the good. The cards had been strangely vague where Rose was concerned, and that bothered Clara even more.

  Rose nodded, bringing out a worn and wrinkled letter. “I was going to talk to you about this anyway. The postboy brought it this morning.” Rosemary bit her lip as if choking back tears. “Griggs is ill.”

  “What?” Clara’s eyes bulged, and she gazed at the young woman in disbelief.

  “The doctor says it’s serious, some kind of heart ailment. They’ve given him medicine, but they aren’t sure what will happen. Rags wrote me that Griggs fell last week from his bicycle, and that the injury only made matters worse.” Sniffling, she wiped at her nose with her sleeve. “Clara, I would never forgive myself if something happened to him—”

  “Bah!” Clara shrugged, though her own expression was worried. “What could you do even if you were there? Griggs has always been sick, since the day your father hired him. He lost his speech in the war, when shock addled his brain. Thank the Lord he met up with your pa and that Sean Carney was able to give him work. Poor Griggs would have starved long before that, had it not been for Carney’s.”

  “I’ve written that I want him taken off duty,” Rosemary said softly. “Catherine said she would post the letter this morning. But you know how he is! They’re practicing now until the spring. But once the show starts, they’ll never be able to keep him from working.”

  “He’s an old fool,” Clara concurred, though her words were filled with pain. “And you’re right. But there’s nothing ye can do, lass. Your place is here, with your husband. You’re going to have a wee one, and you need to take care of yourself—”

  “But they need me!” Rosemary turned to Clara, her green eyes filled with anger. “Don’t you see? I’m the only one he’ll listen to! If I don’t return, he’ll work himself to death! Oh, God, Clara, what can I do?”

  Clara stood in the park and embraced her, mindless of the cold wind that whipped through the open field. “There, there, lassie. Your Clara’s with ye—it will be all right. Cry if ye want to.”

  The tears fell easily now, even though they stung in the cold and reddened her cheeks. Rosemary sobbed, hugging the woman tighter, the old gypsy who’d been far more of a mother to her than the elegant woman who resided just a few miles away. Clara had lived with her at the circus, had been her confidant, and had understood what it meant to her.

  The emotion finally spent itself, and Rose lifted her face with a rueful expression. “It seems I’m always crying lately. I don’t know what’s happening to me—I feel so out of control.”

  “It’s the babe,” Clara offered, indicating Rosemary’s belly. “Lots of women act the way you are.”

  The young woman shook her head wisely. “It’s not that, Clara, and you know it. It’s everything. I’m so unhappy here. I’ve tried to be what they want, and I just can’t stand it. Every time I get a letter from
the circus, I get so homesick that I burst out crying. They’re a part of me, Clara. When Griggs is ill, I get ill. When the show does well, so do I. I can’t be apart from them anymore.”

  “Hae you talked to Michael about this?” Clara questioned softly, leading Rose back toward the house. “The man has a brain, lass. Surely he is not so cold and unfeeling that he wouldn’t understand….”

  “He doesn’t talk to me anymore,” Rosemary said, wiping at her face. “Oh, Clara, that is the worst part of it all. I’ve done what he wanted, became what he wanted, and he acts as if I don’t exist. All he cares about is his work. He hates Carney’s and doesn’t want any part of it in his life. He really doesn’t want any part of…”

  Her voice trailed off. The rest was too painful to put into words, but Rosemary knew it for the truth. What was wrong between them was real and not getting any better. Every time she thought of those horrible dinners with him, when he treated her with such cold formality, making her feel every faux pas with one uplifted brow, she could die.

  It had been so good once. What had happened? Instinctively Rose knew it was this place. Like a field daisy that had been transplanted to a hothouse, she was doomed to failure. She couldn’t thrive here, couldn’t grow. The very things that Michael had loved about her at Carney’s were useless here, unwanted, and an embarrassment. It tore her apart.

  Worse, she could see no way to make it better. It had been weeks, and the distance between them had grown. Soon they would be treating each other with the polite cordiality that reigned between other society people. Rose had seen them, the married couples at elegant dinners, sharing a table, yet unable or unwilling to speak to each other all through the meal. She’d shuddered at the scene but found it repeated over and over.

  They’d become like that. Soon they, too, would sit at the same table, and she would try valiantly to think of something she could share with him. Failing that, she would turn, as women did everywhere, to other women, filling the loneliness with social callings and teas, while he filled his time with work and, as other society gentlemen, affairs.