Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  Rosemary’s throat tightened with tears. It didn’t matter—it never would. She would never fit his ideal, never live up to what he wanted from her. She was a clown, she could make people laugh, she wanted to tumble and have a good time, to enjoy the applause of the crowd—she wasn’t what Michael wanted in a wife. It was that simple.

  In that one moment she saw it all with a crystal-clear clarity, and she realized something she’d known for some time—she just couldn’t do this anymore. She’d been primped and prodded, schooled and practiced, but she’d never be what Michael Wharton wanted. She would always be a dismal failure to him.

  And that, she just couldn’t take. Turning, she gave her excuses while Percy insisted on escorting her to her room, walking in back of her to shield her from prying eyes. She managed to keep her composure until she reached the quiet hallway, then she turned to him with tears in her eyes.

  “Thank you, I can make it from here. I appreciate everything you’ve done….”

  Percy’s arm tightened on hers, and he looked into her whimsical face with a plea. “You mustn’t give up, Rose. He’ll come around. He just doesn’t understand….”

  She shook her head. If Percy noticed, others must have. The thought was so painful that the tears stung her green eyes. “No, he’ll never come around. Don’t you see, Percy? It isn’t him, it’s me. I’m an embarrassment to him. I’m a clown. That’s what I was and what I am. I’ll never be a society matron, no matter how many nice dresses I wear. It will never change.”

  “Then you’re going home.” It was more a statement of fact than a question.

  Rosemary nodded. “What choice do I have? I’ll suffocate if I stay here. I’ve given it my best, Percy. I guess it just isn’t good enough.”

  She leaned closer and placed a kiss on his cheek, then disappeared into her room, the burned dress trailing behind her. Outside, Percy clenched his fists, wanting nothing more than to give his young, stupid friend a thrashing he wouldn’t forget. He’d given him a chance at real happiness when he’d wagered him about Carney’s. Percy had known that Rosemary, of all women, would make him happy, and it was well worth a thousand dollars in his estimation. But it was senseless, the older man realized.

  If Michael was intent on ruining his life, there wasn’t anything anyone could do to stop him.

  Clara joined Rose a few minutes later, then stood aghast at the sight of the young woman tossing her clown clothes into a bag, sniffling loudly. “Ye don’t mean—”

  “I’m leaving.” Rosemary smiled through her tears, her expression strangely relieved. “Clara, I can’t stay here any longer. I’m sorry to have hauled you all the way out here for nothing.”

  “’Tis naught that.” Clara waved a clawlike hand, then peered more closely at her. “Are ye sure this is what ye want?”

  Rosemary nodded. “It’s not a spur-of-the-moment decision, though it may seem that way. Actually, it’s been a long time in coming. I’ve tried, Clara. No one knows that better than you. But tonight showed me that I’ll never win in Michael’s eyes. That’s a failure I just can’t accept.”

  Clara clucked wisely, patting Rosemary’s arm. “I know, I know. Mercenary! You can never change a tiger’s stripes. Ah, I wish Elsa had taken a big bite out of him.” Shaking her head, she indicated the bags. “You finish packing, and I’ll fetch train tickets. Bring those warm quilts.” Clara indicated the luxuriant spreads on the Whartons’ bed.

  Rosemary shook her head. “I thought to take only what we brought—”

  “Don’t be daft!” Clara said brusquely. “It’s the dead of winter! We’ve got a few months until spring, and I’m not seeing you catch your death. Take the damned quilts. And whatever else you think we’ll need.”

  Rosemary added the quilts to her packing. It made sense, and she was sure Michael wouldn’t mind, especially since she was protecting their baby. Tears started, and she held them back. The decision had been made some time ago. Now, she was merely acting it out. Within the week she would be back home.

  At Carney’s.

  Michael sat in the parlor, twirling a glass of brandy. It was dark and all the guests had departed, leaving the smells of perfume, whiskey, and coffee as a reminder of their presence.

  It had been a good party, he had to admit that. His mother had invited the right people, people important to his business and his future. True, Melissa had captured him for the better part of the night, but he’d also been able to spend a few moments with Jay Fisk, an investor who seemed genuinely interested in some of his plans.

  But then Rosemary had to embarrass him. His hand tightened on the glass as he thought of her dress catching on fire and the uproar that followed. In all the times he’d been to parties or any other winter gathering, he’d never seen a woman’s dress ignite the way hers did. And worse was her reaction.

  Cringing as he thought of the people whispering behind her back, he wanted to strangle her. Rosemary always had a unique way of getting under his skin. He wondered if she wasn’t trying to tease him, if this wasn’t some other Carney trick designed to mortify and humiliate him. If so, she was doing a very good job and could now add subtlety to her resume.

  Why in the hell couldn’t she be like other women? A small voice reminded him that he’d avoided these other women for years, that it was Rosemary’s very difference that made her so appealing, but he ignored it. Fired up in his righteous rage with the fortification of brandy, Michael felt the injured party and was in no mood to consider another point of view. She would have to be brought into line.

  After downing his drink, he placed his glass aside with grim satisfaction. For too long Rosemary called the shots. He knew he was right, wanting a better life for her and their child. He’d have to lay down the law and make her understand that it was for everyone’s good.

  He’d have to change her. Before it was too late.

  Clara muttered and grumbled when Rosemary appeared like a specter, a candle in one hand and her finger on her lips. Startled, Clara rose up in the bed, then glanced grumpily at the stark gray scenery outside.

  “The train doesna’ leave until noon. What in the name of God—”

  “I have something I want to do first,” Rosemary said, pulling down the covers and forcing Clara out of bed. “And we want to get to the train on time. Are you coming, or do you want to stay here and be a Wharton?”

  That was more than enough to rouse Clara. Muttering and cackling, she slipped into her clothes, talking almost to herself.

  “Rich man, poor man, banker, and thief; we will be gone and leave you to grief.”

  Rosemary shot her a stern look while Clara cackled, obviously anticipating Michael’s reaction when he discovered they’d fled. That thought erased any smile from Rosemary’s face as she envisioned the scene.

  He would be furious. She had no doubt that he would storm and curse Carney and everything she stood for, but other than that, she really didn’t believe he’d come after her. Knowing Michael, his pride hurt, he would turn cold and formidable, making life as difficult as possible for whoever crossed him. He would probably refuse her letters and ignore the child.

  That part hurt, but Rosemary had to face it. As she snuggled into her cloak, feeling the slight rounding of her stomach, she sighed as she thought of the child growing up with just one parent, as she had. Perhaps Michael wouldn’t be so unyielding. Maybe, with the right kind of persuasion, she could even visit once in a while….

  “Let’s be off, then.” Clara saw the emotions choking Rosemary and hastened her toward the stairs. “We have to go before he wakes up.”

  Nodding, Rosemary tied on her bonnet and followed Clara noiselessly down the stairs.

  Outside, it was as cold and grim as it looked. Rosemary took one last glance at the mansion, saw it shrouded in dying leaves and frosted ivy vines. It seemed symbolic that all of her visions of this home would always be like this: desolate, cold, and unfriendly.

  “Where to, miss?” The carriage driver yawned, not to
o happy with being wakened so soon. Rosemary handed him an address. “The Widow Naylor’s. And be quick about it.”

  “What!” Clara started from her sleep and turned to Rosemary with an expression that clearly said the young woman had lost her mind. “What are ye thinking of, visiting that besom? Hae ye not enough pain?”

  “I want to see her,” Rosemary said softly as the carriage rumbled down the frozen cobbles. “I just need to tell her something.”

  “Bah!” Clara scowled, wrapping her cloak around her for protection. “Just remember, girl. When ye sup with the devil ye need a long spoon.” Then, softening, she said, “Don’t open yourself for more heartache.”

  Rosemary nodded, aware that Clara was worried for several reasons. But this would be the last time she’d see her mother.

  And she wanted to tell her that she finally understood.

  The widow came down to the parlor, looking pale and much more fragile than the last time Rosemary had seen her. Glancing at the two odd inhabitants of the room, she rang for tea, then joined them at the fire.

  “There isn’t something wrong? I’m so glad to see you, but it’s so early—”

  “I’m leaving,” Rosemary said quietly.

  There was no surprise on the widow’s face. Instead, she nodded as if expecting this, that it had only been a matter of time. “When?”

  “Now.” Rosemary accepted the tea, grateful for the steaming warmth and the fortification from the chill. “I just wanted to see you before I left. To tell you that…I’m sorry, and that I understand. And I’d like to write, if you’ll permit me.”

  The widow stared at Rose incredulously, then glanced at Clara, who was rocking back and forth on her heels indignantly. Tears sprung into the older woman’s eyes, and she embraced Rose joyously, hugging her with a fierceness that surprised even Clara.

  “If you knew how much I’ve wanted this, prayed for this…”

  “I’m not much of a letter writer,” Rosemary said with a smile. “And there’s so much to do at the show. But I will try.”

  “Cable. I’ll pay for it,” Ella said enthusiastically. “There’s a telegraph office in every town you play in. Please, Rose. It’s been so long that you’ve been out of my life, that now I want it all. Tell me about the baby, about what you’re doing and feeling.” The widow smiled through her tears, then glanced once more at Clara. “Michael. Is he—”

  “He doesn’t know yet.” Rosemary got to her feet, handing Ella the teacup. “I would ask one favor of you there. Would you see him, perhaps try to explain? I think maybe only you can.”

  Ella nodded, more than aware that Rosemary spoke the truth. “What changed you, dear? You wouldn’t even see me before.”

  “I know,” Rosemary said, giving her a pugnacious grin. “But I have inherited some of Sean Carney’s stubbornness, you have to allow. I was so hurt for so long, thinking that you didn’t want me, that I just couldn’t see your side of it. Recent events, however, have made them very clear.”

  Ella nodded sadly. “You were meant for the circus, Rose. It’s in your blood. Sean gave you that, and I wouldn’t begrudge him.” After slipping off a gold locket from her neck, the widow pressed it into Rosemary’s hand, then forced open the clasp.

  Rosemary glanced down at the warm metal and stared in amazement at the pictures. One was of Sean, a tiny picture that looked as if it had been clipped from a newspaper and carefully preserved; the other was of her. Gazing at the widow in amazement, the older woman nodded, smiling through her tears.

  “I carried that with me for years. It made you seem more real to me and helped me remember. Keep it. I won’t need it anymore.”

  Rosemary nodded, putting the locket around her own throat and feeling the metal caress her skin. “I will. Thank you…Mother.”

  Ella hugged her once more while Clara clucked. “We hae a train to catch….”

  The widow nodded, releasing Rose and giving Clara a hug as well. “Take care of her, as you always have. No one could have done a finer job with her than you. I can never thank you, but know that I have always been grateful. God be with you.”

  Clara pushed away in embarrassment, but Rosemary could tell she was pleased. As they left the house, Rosemary felt as if her heart would break. She had her mother back once more.

  But her husband was forever lost to her.

  “What the hell do you mean, she’s gone?” Michael stared at his mother in disbelief while Catherine wrung her hands.

  “I took her tea in to her this morning,” Catherine tried to explain while Michael glared. “And she was gone. Clara, too. All of their belongings, everything except the nice dresses you bought her. Oh, Michael, she’s pregnant, and it’s so cold and dangerous out there!”

  “She can’t have gone far,” Michael reasoned, fighting the fury that threatened to overwhelm him. “Did you ask the carriage driver?”

  Catherine nodded painfully. “He said he took them to…the widow’s house first, then to the train depot. Michael, you don’t think—”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Grabbing his coat from the butler, he ignored James’s cold expression and started for the door. Inside, he was furious and shaking from disbelief. Why? Why had Rosemary done this? She’d given him her word, and yet she was gone, leaving no note, no explanation, nothing.

  She couldn’t have gone home. Some of his anxiety dissipated as he realized she wouldn’t have dared make such a journey, pregnant as she was. No woman would undertake such doings. Then he remembered it was Rosemary Carney, Rosemary who’d stood on top of a horse at the beginning of her pregnancy, who’d taken a fall that could have seriously injured her or the child—

  His blood ran cold as he knew that’s exactly what she’d done. Guilt assailed him. He’d done this, driven her away from him. He’d all but shown her the door. He didn’t know where she went, but he had to find her. And he knew where to start.

  The carriage stopped at the widow’s house. Michael leapt from the coach, taking the steps two at a time. He pounded on the door, then, when the butler answered, strode past him to find the elegant woman seated before the fire in her parlor. Ignoring the butler’s indignant protests, he confronted the widow angrily.

  “Where is she? Where has she gone?”

  The widow smiled, then nodded to the servant, indicating that he could leave. When they were alone, Michael shaking with impatience, she spoke softly.

  “I suppose you mean your wife?” At his furious nod she continued. “She was here, but she left several hours ago. I’m afraid it’s impossible for you to catch her.”

  Sinking into a chair, Michael stared at the woman incredulously. “Then she’s gone back. To Carney’s.”

  The widow nodded sympathetically. “Yes. She came to see me early this morning and had already purchased a ticket. She wants to go home, Michael. It’s where she belongs.”

  “She belongs with me!” he said furiously. “Didn’t you try to stop her? Why didn’t you send for me? I would have—”

  “You would have what?” the widow asked coldly. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m on her side in this. She doesn’t belong here. She tried to be a Wharton, but it just about defeated her.”

  “So what are you saying?” Michael sneered. “You can’t make a silk purse?”

  “No,” the widow said firmly. “What she wants isn’t wrong, Michael. There comes a time when you have to stop thinking in terms of dollars and cents. The affluent life you lead isn’t the one that makes Rosemary Carney happy. It would never have made her father happy, either.”

  Michael stared at the widow, remembering Rosemary’s recent unhappiness and the way the older woman had run out at the seance upon hearing Sean’s name. An eerie premonition came to him, and he asked accusingly. “Who are you?”

  The widow smiled. “Ella Foster. You’ve known me and my family for ages. What you don’t know is that I’m also Rosemary’s mother.”

  Michael felt the blood pound within him as he search
ed the woman’s face for possible deception. Yet she held her head proudly, obviously speaking the truth and not at all unhappy about it. “So it’s you. You left her when she was a baby—”

  “And came back home,” Ella said simply. “Rosemary’s doing the exact same thing. She was never meant to be an heiress. She’s a clown.”

  Stunned, Michael sank back in his seat while Ella rose, fetching the china doll from the corner and bringing it to him. “She was here once, as a child. The show was playing in Philadelphia and Clara—God knows how—convinced Sean to bring her here so that I could see her. Odd that Rosemary remembered it all! They gave her my doll to play with. Rosemary sat where you are sitting and played with this, while my father explained to Sean that I would never be at home to him. Can you imagine what that did to them?” Ella shuddered visibly. “Rosemary was too little to understand what took place that day, but like most children, she knew something was very wrong. They left, and it was years before my father told me they’d been here at all.”

  “My God.” Michael stared at the doll in his hands. It had blue eyes and brown hair, but otherwise, looked remarkably like Rose. “So that’s why she’s been so upset!”

  “You mean she didn’t tell you?” Ella turned from the fire and looked at Michael perceptively. “It must have been a terrible shock. Imagine how she felt, alone in this cold city, pregnant with your child, scared and insecure. Then to discover this! I’m amazed you didn’t notice something was wrong.”

  Michael flinched, well aware that he’d been too obsessed with business to come to her aid. Defensively he glared at Ella. “Rosemary keeps her problems to herself. She doesn’t tell me anything.”

  Ella nodded. “She has that Carney pride—I saw it in her when we met. In any case, Sean took her away and groomed her for the circus. I’m afraid he also discouraged anything feminine about her, since it must have been a constant reminder of me. It wouldn’t have worked except that Rosemary is so much like him. She was made for the show. It’s where she belongs.”