Defiant Rose (2 page)

The clown sat at a dressing table and slowly removed the bright red wig. Red-gold ringlets tumbled down the clown’s back, glinting in the dim lamplight. Carney shook the mane free, allowing the curls to fall past the awkward yellow clown suit to the round blue fasteners that paraded up the front and back of the costume. Methodically the jester reached for an old rag and dipped one corner into a vat of cold cream. The mask of clownwhite, a mixture of lard, tincture of benzoin, and oxide of zinc, was whisked away with the rag, and the smooth visage of a woman took its place.

Rosemary Carney stared into the mirror, silently inspecting her face. The reflection that looked back at her showed a woman of no great beauty but a wealth of character. Her chin was square cut, betraying her determination, her nose upturned, her cheeks sprinkled with a deluge of freckles. Her eyes were lit with mischief even in the dim light, and she grinned, mentally flexing her muscles like a fighter preparing to enter the boxing ring.

She knew what she had to do. It was an acting job, the same as any other, though calculated to provide a different result. Rosemary had grown up around circusmen, around paint and costumes, glitter and illusions. So it was with a practiced hand that she whipped the long red mane into a somber braid and stepped out of the clown suit and into a loose, demure dress. A jar of makeup provided a sallow base that deepened her skin and made her look older, and a darker shade gave her tired-looking circles under the eyes. By the time the minister stepped inside the tent, Rosemary had folded her hands at the dressing table and looked up with a blurry distraction as if he’d interrupted her prayers.

“Yes, Father?” Her eyes widened innocently as the preacher approached.

The minister gaped, shaking the firm white hand extended toward him. It was a woman, all right, as sober and practical as any of the farmwomen who cleaned his tiny chapel. His eyes took in the plain farm dress she wore and the tight braid that held back a rope of fiery hair.

“You…you’re Carney? Carney’s Circus?”

“Please join me. I am so glad that a man of the cloth is interested in our show. You know, I had some misgivings about coming to this town, but when a minister comes calling to give us his blessing, I am reassured. Praise the Lord.”

“But…but…”

“Do have some tea. I was just going to have some myself. I always do, after morning prayers.”

She had a lovely voice, Irish and deeper than most. Her expression was pious, and she glanced down modestly, shielding her eyes with her lashes. Dumbfounded, the minister reluctantly took a seat and nodded his acceptance of the tea.

“Good.” She smiled and poured out his cup. “I was just thinking how happy we are to be in a God-fearing town like this one. The last village we were in was full of prejudice and meanness, though I can understand why.” Rosemary leaned closer, as if imparting a secret. “We have been the subject of a dishonesty campaign!”

“No!” The minister forgot his mission, engrossed in a love for gossip.

“Yes.” Rosemary sank down into her chair, her hands folded in her lap. “Joey Boyle’s troupe has been trying to discredit us. He knows we run a clean show, and he’s circulating rumors that we don’t. Good heavens…” She stared at the minister in alarm, her eyes glistening. “You don’t suppose the people of this little hamlet are susceptible to such tales?”

“Why, not at all,” the minister said gruffly, rubbing his round chin. “The people of Mayfair will not listen to vile lies and deceit. I can tell that you are an honest Christian woman. Rest assured, dear lady, that Mayfair will welcome your troupe, provided it is a clean show.” Remembering his duty, the minister cleared his throat. “They have asked me to secure—”

“Permission for them to go?” Rosemary nodded sincerely. “I think since you are the father of this congregation, perhaps you should see the show yourself. Then you shall judge. Here is a free pass.” She indicated a brightly colored ticket.

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” The minister looked embarrassed. “What I mean is, I wouldn’t ask for—”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Rosemary said brightly. “A man of your honest beliefs would never ask for charity. But please don’t look at it that way. Think of yourself as my guest. It is my way of thanking the Lord for all my good fortune.”

“Why, I suppose you’re right.” Completely befuddled, the minister took the pass and shoved it inside the worn lining of his frock coat. “Thank you.”

“You aren’t leaving?” Rosemary demurred. “I was just about to finish my prayers.”

“I really must.” He rose, and Rosemary lifted her face and looked directly at him. It was then he noticed a smear of red greasepaint on the left side of her cheek. Suddenly it all made sense. Carney was well known as a clown. Apparently, Miss Carney had several well-developed facets to her personality.

The minister tried to be outraged, but as he looked at Rosemary’s dancing green eyes and wild Irish smile, all he could do was grin back. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Carney. You drive a hard bargain.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rosemary curtsied prettily. “Me own father would have been delighted to hear it. And when you speak of me, sir, be kind.”

The minister chuckled, then withdrew, fondling his ticket. Carney played by the rules. No one, not even the minister, could begrudge her that.

The sun shone brightly on the red-shingled train station as Michael Wharton stepped onto the platform. Gripping a dusty valise, he glanced disdainfully at the sign boldly lettered “Mayfair, Kansas.” A sandy-haired boy, spotting the stranger’s elegant greatcoat and general air of wealth, sprang forward from his lounging position on the bench and reached for the case.

“Mayfair. The end of the earth.” Michael sneered, his face tightened in mockery. “Are there sleeping accommodations to be found?”

The boy’s nose wrinkled in confusion, and he indicated the hotel. “The Brass Bed is about the best. Ain’t much to look at, but my ma makes the best corn fritters you ever tasted.” He stared at the stranger’s sparkling white shirt, jeweled cuff links, and gold watch chain swinging from his waistcoat. “You staying here long?”

“Not if I can help it.” Wharton strode toward the indicated hotel, a much neglected Victorian cottage overrun with weeds and badly in need of a coat of paint. “I don’t suppose a bath or a drink might be had?”

“Howard Applegate, the barber, can get you a bath. Give him an extra quarter if you want hot water,” the boy answered earnestly, sensing the stranger’s animosity. “And the Gilded Cage Saloon has good whiskey.”

“Wonderful.” Michael groaned inwardly. It was like every other backwoods town he’d visited in the past two weeks. He could close his eyes and visualize the ramshackle hotel, the boorish barbershop where every man’s voice hushed when he entered and demanded such luxuries as shaving cream and soap, the western saloon with its mirrored bar, the smoke-filled interior, and the loutish men scraping just enough money from their weekly wages to buy a pint of beer on a Saturday night. When he opened his eyes, it was exactly as he had pictured, if not worse. At least Dodge City had a card game. Mayfair didn’t look as if its citizens could boast even that entertainment.

A scarlet and blue poster was tacked to the wall of the feed store, and Michael stopped to read the colorful advertisement. The young boy, hefting the heavy valise, seized upon the poster as a safe topic of conversation.

“That’s for the circus. Carney’s is in town. The parade starts today at two o’clock.”

“I know.” The stranger ignored the boy’s crestfallen face and scanned the sign. Of course Carney’s would be here. It was the only reason he was traipsing into this godforsaken place, enduring the horrors of a country inn and the company of rustic America. He mentally pictured this Carney as a drunken Irishman bent on conniving his father out of a small fortune. He’d glanced at the ledger books on the train and had been freshly appalled. Carney had sent a payment every once in a while— guilt money, Michael assumed—but it was barely ten percent of the interest due on the loan. The principle was still intact. Carney had made no honest attempt to rectify the matter. There were no letters, no explanations, no indication that the Irishman ever intended to satisfy the debt.

Michael nodded in satisfaction. It had taken him two weeks and several aborted attempts to catch up to the circus, but he’d finally managed to do just that. Like most traveling troupes, Carney’s stayed in town overnight, long enough to put on one show and milk the ignorant farmers out of their hard-earned money. It was not that he begrudged the circus a living. It just infuriated him to hear the glowing reviews of Carney’s and see the inactive loan column in his father’s ledgers.

“Do you know where it is? The circus,” Michael asked patiently.

The young boy nodded, placing the bag on the hotel step. “They’re setting up on the outskirts of town near the depot. You can get a horse at the livery stable.”

“Very good.” Begrudgingly the stranger withdrew a coin and placed it in the boy’s hand. The lad stared at the tiny piece, then at the elegantly dressed man before him.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said sarcastically. “And at the stables, ask for Buttercup. He’s the best.” His mother was right, he mused as the stranger disappeared into the hotel. It was the workingman who tipped, not the rich gentlemen from the city. After flipping the coin into the air, the boy pocketed the money and shrugged. Billy Perkins had told him if he helped the circus set up, he could get in for free.

The boy raced down the stairs and started for the depot. With tips like this morning he’d have to do something. Otherwise, he’d miss Carney’s entirely.

Michael felt much better after his bath and the whiskey. Food came next, and he had to admit that the young urchin he’d met that morning was right. Mrs. Barret made a good meal, and after being stuck on the train the last few days, he appreciated the roast chicken, hot potatoes, snap beans, and cherry pie.

By the time he strode down to the livery stable, he felt like a new man. His linen fresh, his shoes newly polished, his accounting ledgers tucked neatly into his case, he stepped into the dim recesses of the stable and was immediately assaulted by the drunken smell of the groom.

“Can I ‘elp you, sir?” The groom belched.

Michael didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “I came for a horse. I believe Buttercup will do.”

“Butter—” The groom stared at the man with surly resentment, then an odd smile came to his face. “He hasn’t been ridden in a while. Do ye mind?”

“I happen to be an experienced horseman,” Michael said in annoyance.

“Right.” The groom sauntered out of the barn, leading the horse. The animal pawed the ground, then tossed back his head as if fighting the reins. “Here he is. Buttercup—”

“How far to the circus grounds?” Michael cut him off.

The sodden groom glanced from the stranger’s polished boots to his crisp ascot. “Down the end of Main Street, where the tracks curve. You’ll see the storehouse and the big field just beyond.” He stared curiously at the lordly-looking man before him. “Fan of Carney’s, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Michael tossed the groom a coin, then mounted the horse, barely noticing the way the animal chafed. He would finish this and be out of here tonight. Then he planned to get roaring drunk and forget Carney’s even existed.

CHAPTER TWO

S
HE WAS DISAPPEARING
.

That was Rosemary Carney’s secret worry as she walked about the circus grounds dressed as a clown, barking orders and polishing the acts. She fit so perfectly into the disguise as a man, as a clown no less, that she sometimes feared the costume would become permanent.

But there were times, and they were happening more and more often lately, that she felt a strange stirring at the sight of a beautiful dress. She and Clara, the circus fortune-teller, had been in Topeka a few days ago and had stopped outside of the dram shop, waiting for the clowns’ whiskey. Inside the store had been a collection of lovely gowns, frilly laces, silver mirrors, and beautiful hats. Rosemary had looked longingly at the feminine apparel, unable even to imagine herself in one of those dresses.

Clara had scowled and hastened her off, shaking her head and muttering to herself. But alone in her tent that night, Rosemary had wrapped a sheet around her in the same general shape as the dress, then glanced into the mirror, amazed to discover that her body did resemble the sewing form she’d seen in the window. Somehow, her body had changed, allowing for the looseness in the top of the gown and the tightness in the slender waist.

That discovery added to her confusion. She was beginning to wonder who she really was and what she felt. It had become so necessary to play one role after another—to slip effortlessly into whatever persona would best suit her needs—that she feared the real Rosemary Carney would become only a collection of her acts, a circus trunk full of spangled costumes and glitter. Since her father died, there had been much to do and no one else to take the responsibility. Carney’s Circus must go on, no matter what, and without her guidance there would be no circus.

The music from the calliope drifted up from the rear, the soft strains carried on the wind, and it lured children for miles. Rosemary glanced up, noticing the thunderclouds. She’d have to hurry. Shaken out of her thoughts, she called to the men. The roustabouts hitched the horses for the parade, the animals bedecked in gold braid and satin ribbons. The trapeze girls, beautiful in their sparkling costumes and feathered headpieces, slipped gracefully onto their mounts while the clowns tumbled into line, carrying paper flowers and polished derbies. The lion tamer cracked his whip, and the gaming acts juggled balls and flipped hoops. It was a beautiful world, whimsical and bawdy, daubed with brightly colored greasepaint. A world she was lucky to rule.