Hopefully, it wasn’t too late.
Freddy stared at her daughters, sitting like bouncy lambs across the carriage from her. They could not keep still, and she did not blame them. She’d brought them to the circus only one other time, and they had both been pleading to come again since their riding lessons with Grant. Their feet popped up and down, up and down, and they chattered nonstop at one another.
“I’m most looking forward to Mr. Webster’s performance, aren’t you, Mama?” Izzy asked.
“I am,” she admitted, “but Cousin Max’s performance is always riveting, as is Nora’s.”
“Oh, yes,” Bridget said, “we own most of the performers.” She sat up tall and prim, her hands folded in her lap, her lips curled into the most pleased smile. Smug, she was.
“Own?” Freddy asked.
“They belong to us. They are our people.”
Freddy chuckled. Grant was their person now. Twenty-four hours ago, that would have turned her blood to ice, but her blood sailed smooth and warm through her veins now. Having more people to love, to love you in return, was not the tragedy she feared it. She’d not been able to sleep away Nora’s words. It was why she had trundled the girls into a carriage to take them to a show. To see if she could handle the proximity of danger to Grant and the girls. It was a … trial run, practice. Rehearsal, Grant might call it.
Nora’s revelation suggested the girls might be able to handle the danger, the proximity. It was only her own weak heart that could not. But what if she could? What if she wanted to because what could be gained in a week with Grant might be worth years of pain if … if …
She took a breath and mustered a smile. “Izzy, Bridget, may I ask you both a question?”
They leaned forward, eyes wide, their heads bobbing like little birds.
Freddy ran her knuckles down each girl’s fluff-soft cheek. “Thank you, my dears. Do you … do you miss your father?”
They leaned away from her and slumped into their seats. They shared a look then turned back to her.
“I do,” Bridget admitted. “A bit.” Her face scrunched up, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. “I do not miss him as much as I should.”
“What do you mean, love?”
Bridget wiggled, rolled her lips between her teeth. “Only that sometimes I feel … bad because I do not feel as sad as I used to feel. And because I feel happier now than I used to. Some days,”—her voice small and fragile, as a robin’s blue egg in spring—“I don’t think about him at all. Is that very bad of me?”
“No,” Freddy said, keeping the sound of her breaking heart from her voice. “It’s quite natural.”
“I feel bad too,” Izzy said.
Freddy crossed the carriage and nestled between her daughters, wrapping an arm around both and pulling them in tight. “Why is that, darling?”
“I do not remember him very well.” Izzy had been but three and a half when her father had died. Of course she did not remember him well. Freddy was surprised the girl remembered him at all.
Freddy stroked the young girl’s cheek. “It’s all right, darling. Do not feel bad for that. Would you like for me to talk about him with you more so that you can have memories of him?”
Izzy pursed her lips, and her eyebrows dove together. “Yes. Please.” Her features softened as she looked up at Freddy. “If you would like to do so.”
“Yes, I would.”
“I’d like that, too!” Bridget bounced up and down in her seat. “We’ll have stories of our first papa and maybe even a new papa. This one to tell us stories.”
Freddy turned sharply. “What do you mean, Bridget?”
“A new papa.”
“Oh, yes!” Izzy tugged her arm. “That would be nice, too. Please.”
Her children were stout little things, much stronger than she’d given them credit for. They would survive if something happened. The only remaining question was … would Freddy?
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Freddy helped the girls out. They procured their tickets and found their balcony seats right next to a little platform halfway between their balcony and the ground. Those who had seen the show before knew which act utilized it and how. The girls called it “Max’s stage,” but most of London called it the Beast’s Lair.
The gas lamps flared, and the show came to life below. The girls alternated between jumping up and down and sitting still as stone, their gazes riveted on the action below. The fifth act in belonged to Grant, his first appearance in the arena each night. The gas lamps burned low, a rustle of movement from the back, then the light blazed high as a man on horseback galloped into the amphitheatre.
