Read The Circus in Winter for Free Online

pillow next to her, she saw the note."
Checking on stock. Breakfast at 8. Love, Wallace Porter.
"That he'd signed his note so formally, with first and last name, made her laugh. She pictured him chewing on his pen,
Love, Wallace
staring at him from the white page and at the last minute scrawling
Porter
as an afterthought. Jennie rose from the bed, folded the note, and tucked it into her pants pocket where she hoped Porter might find it later, peeking out like a secret sign between them.
    Jennie stood shivering before a full-length mirror, but her skin warmed with quiet heat the more she looked at herself. She was a stomach sleeper, and so knew that what she saw in the mirror—taut legs and buttocks, a cascade of blond hair—was what he'd seen that morning. To see herself head to toe was a rare treat. On the road, Jennie applied her makeup with the aid of a small mirror mounted into the lid of her Saratoga trunk. No full-length mirrors were allowed, since glass of any kind was a liability in railroad travel. When they made stands in cities, Jennie frequented department stores, not to shop, but to see herself fully. Standing before Porter's looking glass, she decided that what she wanted from this man was her own private Pullman car with her name painted boldly on the side for all America to see. Inside, it would be lined floor to ceiling with mirrors, and before each of her performances, she would stand in the middle of her car, costumed and beautiful, and know before she stepped into the ring exactly what the crowd would see. Jennie Dixianna was a star, one who suffered for her brightness, and she saw herself as deserving not only of her own railcar, but also of the power of prophecy.
    Jennie pulled on her tights, her layers of clothes, wishing she had a nice dress to wear to breakfast instead of mannish pants. Deciding to leave her hair loose and long, she left her hairpins on Porter's dresser for him to find later. A maid would probably find them as well, but Jennie wanted to leave a mark, a whiff of indiscretion. She heard a noise from the window and peeked outside. A carriage driver sat stiff-armed at the reins, nose red, breath billowing from his mouth. A foot of snow had fallen overnight, and the horses stood to their fetlocks in heavy, wet snow. Elizabeth Cooper stepped lightly out of the carriage, followed by her daughter, Grace. They visited the winter quarters frequently, Jennie knew. Like a doting father, Porter took the girl on endless tours of the winter quarters to watch the performers, trainers, and animals. Perhaps, Jennie thought proudly, she'd made Porter forget he'd arranged a visit.
    As Jennie descended the stairs, she heard the front door opening and closing, and called out, "How are we this morning!" Halfway down, she stopped. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were Mr. Porter."
    Elizabeth stood frozen in the foyer, her eyes wide. "Excuse me. Where is Wallace?"
    "Checking on the stock, I think."
    Silence. Elizabeth lowered her gaze to her hands nestled in a gray muff. Jennie crossed her arms and propped herself against the newel post. Grace stepped forward. "You're Jennie Dixianna, the acrobat."
    Jennie offered her hand. "That's right. I don't think we've ever met properly. And you are?"
    "I'm Grace. Cooper." She shook Jennie's hand limply.
    "Ah, yes. Your father is a friend of Mr. Porter. Doesn't he run that carriage business?"
    "Cooper & Son."
    "You have a brother?"
    "No."
    Jennie laughed. "Then why would he name his company that?"
    Grace's brow creased. "I don't know, ma'am," she said finally. "I'll have to ask."
    Jennie laughed again, like a string of tiny bells pealing.
    "It was his father's business, if you must know," Elizabeth said. There was no mistaking the look in her eye—bright green jealousy. She grasped her daughter's hand. "Dear, please go find Uncle Wallace for me. He must be down at the barns." Once Grace was out the door, Elizabeth said, "Please tell Mr. Porter that I