Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  The thought made her ill. Thrusting the letter back into her cloak, she walked silently with Clara back toward the mansion. Surely, if she thought and prayed long enough, an answer would come to her….

  A carriage waited at the door. Rosemary glanced up without interest, assuming it was one of Catherine’s friends, then her breath caught. It was the widow’s coach. Rosemary recognized the horses, two beautiful bays that had been waiting outside the day she’d visited her house. Frantic, she turned to Clara.

  “It’s her. My…mother. Please, Clara, I can’t see her. I won’t.”

  Clara clucked, her hooded head peering forth at the sight of the elegant carriage, her mouth pursed in a frown. “I told ye to stay away from that besom! But ye should see what she wants. Mayhap it would do you good—”

  “No!” Rosemary’s emphatic tone startled Clara. “No,” the young woman repeated, with a bit more composure. “I’ve heard everything she’s had to say. My God, all this time she couldn’t be bothered with me, and now she comes…”

  “She did write.” Clara frowned, torn between loyalty to the girl beside her and the truth. “I took Sean’s letters from the rubbish and answered her. She wanted to know about you.”

  “I don’t care.” Rosemary covered her ears, aware of the childishness of the act but unable to listen to any more. “I’m going in the servants’ entrance. Tell her I’m not at home—tell her anything you want.”

  Clara nodded, her heart heavy. She watched as Rosemary skittered into the alleyway, then disappeared through the back door. Much as she hated to admit it, the cards had been right. Rosemary needed her mother.

  But she wouldn’t allow the woman to come near her.

  Night had fallen when Michael returned. He’d spent another frustrating day trying to settle his accounts, poring over endless columns of figures. Another panic was in the air; the bankers were nervous and inclined to question every expenditure. Interest rates were up and money was getting tighter.

  God, he was tired of all this. Unbuttoning his cravat, he longed for a hot bath, a good dinner, and maybe a drink. He wanted to forget, wanted to enjoy at least part of the day, and he wanted to see Rose.

  He felt badly about the way he’d been treating her. He knew she was trying, but every mistake she made, every social gaffe, made him once again aware that she just didn’t fit in. He tried to teach her, to give her pointers about etiquette and deportment, but she seemed to take his suggestions as criticism. If only she’d forget about that circus…but he knew Carney’s was never far from her mind. It was more important to her than the baby, than him, than anything. It was as if the circus had become a wall between them, one they just couldn’t surmount.

  Tonight, he would talk to her. Clara or no Clara, he would lock them in a room together if necessary, the way they had once been locked in a wagon, and demand that she make a commitment to this life. It was really ridiculous; he was offering her everything: good food, a nice place to live, beautiful dresses. The circus offered her nothing but moldy tents and constant work. She would be a fool not to agree.

  Congratulating himself on his plan, he poured himself a drink, completely unaware of what really motivated him. Although he’d never admit it to anyone, even himself, he was jealous of the circus. He’d never worry about Rosemary leaving him for another man, but the show was another matter. He knew she was homesick, that she missed the circus desperately, and that frightened him more than he wanted to think about. Once the child was born, there was nothing to make her stay unless she had grown so accustomed to this lifestyle that she wouldn’t dream of leaving.

  He had to convince her, and he wasn’t going about it the right way. The past few weeks had shown him that. They were practically living like strangers. Tonight, he would talk to her. Then he swore as he remembered the party. Dammit! Catherine had invited quite a few of society’s best to a gathering in Rosemary’s honor that evening. Apparently, his mother felt that by introducing Rose to the Philadelphia contingent in a formal way it would help ensure Rosemary’s success.

  Michael frowned. The last thing he felt like doing was going to a party, especially in his own house. He wanted to have this out with Rose, and the sooner the better. After the baby was born, she would no longer stay because she needed to.

  It would have to be because she wanted to.

  “Are ye going to wear that?” Clara gaped at the gown Rosemary wore, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  Rosemary nodded, surveying the dress in the mirror. “Yes, and I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Melissa Caldwalder wears dresses like this all the time.”

  “Miss Coldwater can wear what she wants.” Clara sniffed disapprovingly. “You’re half dressed!” She glared at the beautiful sapphire-blue gown Rosemary wore. Cut low in the front, the gown fell to an empire waistline that was very flattering to Rosemary’s rounded figure. The square neckline exposed quite a bit of her white skin, while the soft material moved sensually with each step. She looked every inch a beautiful woman, and a far cry from the clown.

  “I am not half dressed,” Rosemary said firmly. “The gown is supposed to be like this. I just wonder…do you think Michael will like it?”

  “He’d be blind not to,” Clara muttered, aware of her doings. “Although he may not like to see you so displayed to the rest of the world.”

  “Bah!” Rosemary said, then peered into the mirror again, examining her eyes. They were still red and swollen, a noticeable testimony to the way she’d been feeling. “Is there something you can do for this?”

  Clara nodded, then hastened to her bag and withdrew an ointment. Bidding Rose to lie on the bed, she smoothed the cucumber and aloe mixture around the younger woman’s eyes, clucking to herself as she rubbed the potion into her swollen skin.

  “Damned fool notion, seducing your own husband! Bah! What do you think that will get you?”

  Rosemary hid a smile. Clara was hitting close to the mark, but not for the reasons she thought. She’d spent the afternoon praying, and this was the best inspiration she’d come up with.

  In truth, she just couldn’t take it anymore. Somehow, she had to make Michael listen, had to work out a way that she could find some happiness in their relationship. Coldness hadn’t worked; neither had arguments or anger. It was only when she made love to him that she felt close to him once more.

  And she needed him. She felt cold and lonely since the encounter with her mother, and her self-esteem was at an all-time low. Guilt plagued her, for she knew she was needed at the circus, yet she had given Michael her word that she would try to make the best of this life.

  Yet even as Clara smoothed the fragrant lotion into her skin, she knew she was kidding herself. Michael would never come around to her point of view—he thought life here was the correct way to bring up their child. He refused to see that it was only driving them apart, and that the only time they’d really been happy was…at the circus.

  Rosemary sighed. Was it really so crazy to prefer a life of work to one of leisure? Even as she formed the thought, her mind gave her the answer. The circus wasn’t just any life. It was sawdust and glitter, hardship and applause, danger and breathtaking acceptance. It was part of her very existence, and she could no longer ignore that.

  “There now.” Clara hauled her up and handed her a mirror. “I think it’s done the trick, though you’ve been crying so much these past few days. I ne’er saw you shed a tear as a wee one, no matter how bad you hurt. Here you’ve done nothing but.”

  “I’m through with crying,” Rosemary said resolutely as she stared into the mirror, satisfied. “It’s time to act. Tonight, I will try to be just what Michael wants—a real lady, proper and elegant. Maybe then I can make him proud of me.”

  Clara patted her hand, though her face was worried. It was pathetic to hear Rose talk like this, and the cards hadn’t boded well. She couldn’t picture Rosemary Carney fitting into society, especially here. Still, stranger things had happened.

  Clara ju
st couldn’t remember when.

  The parlor was filled to overflowing when Rosemary came down. She was already dizzy, having passed at least a dozen people in the hall or on the steps, all of them claiming to know her or know of her. Rosemary smiled and nodded, made polite murmurings, then hastened on. It was much harder to be a society matron than she thought, and it was not nearly as much fun as it looked.

  “There you are.” Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and extended her hands to Rosemary. “I was just telling everyone about you. Percy, you already know. Let me introduce you to the Armitages, the Girards, the Pasleys, and the Ellsworths.”

  Rosemary smiled and nodded as the ladies fluttered and the gentlemen sought to give her gallant compliments, all of which were enhanced when their eyes fell to her gown. Rosemary accepted a glass of wine, grateful that the dress seemed to have been well chosen. At least it was producing the desired effect in other men. Now if it could just do the same for Michael…

  “Do you miss the show very much?”

  Rosemary glanced up, startled that someone had been speaking to her. She’d been so preoccupied thinking about Michael that she hadn’t heard anything but the last comment. She smiled in relief when she saw it was Percy, and she nodded truthfully.

  “Yes. I got a letter from them today. Griggs is ill—I’m really worried.”

  “Ah. You are referring to the older clown.” Percy grinned at Rosemary’s look of surprise. “Remember, I’ve followed your show for some time. I recall Griggs; he was with Carney’s for a good long time.”

  Rosemary nodded. “He’s one of the original players. Griggs always had a heart condition. I hear it has gotten much worse.”

  “I am sorry,” Percy said sincerely. “Please send him my regards.”

  Rosemary smiled. He was so different from the rest of them. Even Catherine, though she tried to be kind, was still very much a society person. Only Percy seemed genuinely interested in her real life, and not the frosted veneer she’d assumed since arriving in Philadelphia.

  “Where is your husband?” Percy continued, glancing around the room. “I could have sworn I saw the dear boy’s carriage.”

  Rosemary was wondering much the same thing. As she glanced around the room, through the swarm of beautiful gowns, glittering jewels, and snow-white shirts, she finally spotted him. Seated at the far end of the room, he was talking with Melissa Caldwalder, looking unbearably handsome in a midnight-blue jacket and a sparkling white cravat.

  When would he ever stop affecting her? She had merely to glance at him, and her heart pounded faster and her breath came short. He was leaning toward Melissa, his expression serious, his face intent, when something she said made him laugh, and he was suddenly transformed. He looked young, carefree, and vital. He hadn’t appeared that way in days.

  Rosemary frowned, twirling the glass in her hand. She’d made him look like that at Carney’s. But here, it seemed only Melissa could break him out of his work and make him laugh. Or perhaps it was her pregnancy. Worried, she glanced down at the gown, at her rounded belly and her swollen breasts. Maybe it was her shape that had caused him to lose interest in her.

  Percy saw her expression and leaned closer. “Melissa has been a spoiled brat of a chit since the day she was born. She’s trying to annoy you, and apparently, doing a damned good job. Don’t let it show.”

  Smiling tremulously, Rosemary turned to Michael’s friend. “I’ll try, but she has an advantage. She isn’t pregnant and trying to look attractive. I feel like one of Zachery’s elephants.”

  “You certainly don’t look like one,” Percy said honestly. “Will you do an old man pleasure and let me take you in to dinner?”

  Rosemary smiled and accepted his arm. Percy had offered just to keep her from walking into the dining room alone. Apparently, Michael was too preoccupied to accompany her, and although she was grateful to Percy, she felt more than a little disappointed in her husband.

  Michael was directly behind her when they walked toward the table. Rosemary saw him draw out a chair for Melissa, then he turned to her with an apologetic smile. But his face froze when he saw her dress, and he glanced up at her sharply, obviously upset.

  “What’s wrong?” Rosemary asked softly. “Don’t you like the gown?”

  “I think it’s perfect, if you want to show every man in the room your charms,” he said coldly. “But then, when did you ever listen to what I thought?”

  “That’s not fair—” Rosemary started, but the others came in and her protest died. She didn’t know that he was jealous, that she looked so stunning that he hadn’t been able to take his eyes from her, or that Melissa had entrapped him for her own means while he tried to free himself. Instead, Rosemary took it as another rejection, and she sat beside Percy, determined not to appear upset.

  The crowd gathered around the table, taking their places, and ohhing and ahhing over the freshly cut beef, the turkey, the oysters procured from the bay and brought to the dock that morning, and the ham. There were cheeses and fruits, salad and tongue. Rosemary glanced at the groaning sideboard, aware that this meal would feed the troupe for months. She picked at her food, smiling at the men’s words and the ladies’ polite discourse.

  This time she knew what fork to use, but it gave her little pleasure. Choosing one correct utensil after another, she found her mind returning time and time again to the show. Wondering how they were doing. Worrying about Griggs. Thinking ahead for the season.

  Melissa tried to engage her in conversation, but Rosemary smiled and demurred, the way she’d been taught. Why did Melissa have to be so blond and pretty and sophisticated? She was everything Rose was not, and this night it was terribly apparent. Rose wished the evening was over, especially since Michael seemed to be fighting the urge to look at her. Every time he did he seemed pained, and he returned to his conversation with the people around him.

  “…Paris this spring. Oh, you’ve never been there? You must come.”

  “Cape May in the summer. We have the most darling little cottage with indoor plumbing…”

  “Oh, you must come to the Fitzhughs’ ball next week. I’ll see that you get an invitation, even though it is short notice.”

  Rosemary smiled so much her face seemed on the verge of breaking. They were nice, but they were not her kind. They all seemed like polished and sophisticated puppets, talking about nothing. Didn’t they ever think about anything more important than their own pleasure? She was relieved when dinner was over and grateful when Michael came to escort her to the parlor for coffee and brandy.

  It felt so good to feel his arm in hers once more. She could see Percy beaming as Michael held her possessively and took her ahead of the other people. Even Catherine seemed relieved as he led her toward the fireplace and went to get her coffee.

  Smiling, Rosemary felt she could take anything now. Whatever his displeasure over her dress had been seemed to have vanished, for he fetched her a cup of coffee and a plate of cakes, then stood by her side, helping her to fend off the gossips and the questions. Rosemary relaxed for the first time all evening. From the way he glanced at her when introducing her to an acquaintance, she thought that he may have even been proud of her.

  That made her heart swell, and she leaned backward, heedless of the flowing train of her dress. The gentlemen were smiling, and the ladies whispering niceties. It wasn’t until she spotted Clara’s face that Rosemary suspected something was amiss. Sniffing, she noticed the distinct scent of burning fibers. Spinning around quickly, she saw that her dress was on fire!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ROSEMARY WATCHED IN STUNNED AMAZEMENT as the flames curled the sapphire material of her gown, enveloping the hem in an orange banner. After a shocked moment Robert and Percy quickly pulled Rosemary forward, away from the Fireplace. They stamped out the flames, halting the fire’s progress.

  Staring in dismay at the remains of her dress, Rosemary saw that the fabric had been torn and shredded, and that the sapphire silk had melted
under the flame’s intense heat. Most of the back of the dress had been scorched, and a generous quantity of her petticoat and undergarments were painfully exposed.

  Melissa gasped in horror, and several of the other ladies looked askance. Rosemary glanced up at them, then back to the dress.

  Any other woman would have been mortified. Any other woman would have politely slunk from the room, buried herself in embarrassment, and shunned future invitations for a good long time.

  Any other woman wasn’t a clown.

  Rosemary burst into laughter, the humorous aspects of the situation striking her fully. At first several of the gentlemen beside her looked as if she were mad, but then Percy began to chuckle, Robert joined him, and within a few moments, everyone was discreetly laughing or openly guffawing.

  It was simply the best pratfall she’d ever performed. Not only was the audience perfect, but the stunt itself couldn’t be topped. Rosemary laughed so hard she cried. Every time she looked behind her, saw the blackened silk and the snow-white bloomers peeking out beneath, she dissolved into giggles again. The room echoed with laughter as the incident was repeated over and over, embellishing each time, and her dress reexamined to further peals of amusement.

  For the society folk the joke was a relief. Steeped in boredom, used to their own company and the predictability of their parties, the incident caught all of them off-guard and produced welcome merriment. Rosemary grinned, grateful that they shared in the joke, that she’d been able to do what she loved most—make people laugh. Wiping at her eyes, she searched the room for her husband, wanting to share her triumph with him. She spotted him a moment later, standing directly across from her. His expression made her smile die.

  He looked disappointed. Their eyes held and locked for one brief moment, but it was more than enough. Disapproval and chagrin reigned there, along with a veiled accusation. He glanced down to his elegant companion, one of the Girard sisters, and she saw that he was making excuses, that he was embarrassed for her.