White Horses. Joan Wolf

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      “We had only been married for a few months. It was very sad,” Gabrielle said. “And now let me introduce you to my companion, Madame Emma Dumas.”

      He turned to the older woman and held out his hand. “How do you do, Madame Dumas.”

      They shook hands and then he turned back to Gabrielle. “I appreciate the awkwardness of this situation for you, Madame Rieux. You are very generous, allowing me to masquerade as your husband.”

      She shrugged again. “I myself do not think it is necessary, but Monsieur Rothschild insisted. Frankly, Colonel, you are likely to call more attention to us than to be a help.”

      He said stiffly, “I will do the best I can to blend into the circus, madame. You are carrying a huge amount of money that is vital to the British forces. It is only natural that the army wants someone along to keep an eye on it.”

      She bristled visibly. “Monsieur Rothschild trusted Papa implicitly!”

      “But your father is not here any longer,” he pointed out. “And even if he was, the army would probably want to have someone go along.”

      She crossed her arms and eyed him up and down. “You are not the sort of person who can easily blend in,” she said.

      He was annoyed. “I will do the best that I can, madame.”

      There was a little silence. Then she said, “If we are to be married you must call me by my Christian name, Gabrielle.”

      “And you must call me Leo,” he said.

      “Leo,” she said. Then, briskly, “It is too late to leave Brussels today. We should plan on leaving early tomorrow morning. That way we will make Lille before it gets dark.”

      He asked, “The circus is at Lille now?”

      “Yes. We wintered there. We usually begin our tour in mid March, so we will be starting a little earlier than usual. But not so much earlier as to make us noticeable, I think.”

      “Very well.” He looked at Emma. “May I invite you ladies to have dinner with me this evening?”

      “Thank you,” Emma replied with dignity. “That will be very nice.”

      Gabrielle nodded.

      “At seven o’clock, in the dining room?” he asked.

      “That will be fine,” Emma replied.

      He gave the women a perfunctory smile and went to the door. It had not quite closed when he heard Emma say, “Whoever would have thought our escort would look like that?”

      The door closed before he could hear Gabrielle’s reply.

      The dining room of the Hôtel Royale was small, with room for perhaps thirty people. When Gabrielle and Emma entered they saw Leo immediately; he was sitting at a table near the fireplace.

      “Good evening, ladies,” he said, rising to greet them.

      “Good evening,” the two women replied in unison.

      A waiter held Gabrielle’s chair and she seated herself, carefully arranging her plain yellow silk evening dress. Emma, who was dressed in emerald green, was seated as well.

      Gabrielle looked at the man who was to pretend to be her husband for the next month. André would be jealous, she thought as she took in Leo’s clean-cut features, his blue-green eyes and his thick golden hair. She noted the breadth of his shoulders underneath his black evening coat. This man was very different from André, who had been dark, whippet-slim and only a few inches taller than herself.

      He’s big enough to carry water and help with the tent, she thought. She looked at the unconsciously arrogant tilt of his head. He’ll probably think those tasks are beneath him, though.

      The waiter was standing by to take their order and she gave her attention to the menu. Once they had chosen, Leo looked at Gabrielle and said, “So tell me about your circus. How many people do you employ and what do they do?”

      Gabrielle folded her hands in her yellow silk lap and replied, “It is called the Cirque Equestre because we feature horses. We have five Arabians who perform at liberty, we have a grand old fellow who is our rosinback, and we have two Lipizzaners that are trained to High School and who do a pas de deux. They also perform individually.”

      Leo held up his hand to stop her. “You have Lipizzaners trained in High School?” he asked incredulously.

      “Yes. Two of them. Papa was able to buy them off the farm in Austria and he trained them himself.”

      “He trained them with your help, Gabrielle,” Emma put in.

      “Papa had the knowledge. I just followed what he said to do.”

      Leo said in amazement, “I had no idea you had horses of this quality.”

      Gabrielle was insulted. “Did you think we were just a carnival? I’ll have you know that the Cirque Equestre is well-known for its horses.”

      Amusement glinted in his eyes. “I did not mean to denigrate you. Forgive me. It’s just that I am very interested in classically trained horses. I had an opportunity to see some Lusitanos in Portugal and I thought they were marvelous.”

      Gabrielle didn’t care for the amusement, but she accepted the apology by nodding gracefully. When she spoke she kept her voice cool. “Portugal has a wonderful history of classically trained horses. France, of course, did also, but the Revolution destroyed it. Papa was determined to keep alive the tradition as best he could. All of our horses are classically trained.”

      “That’s wonderful. Who rides your Lipizzaners?”

      “I do. And my brother Mathieu accompanies me in the pas de deux.”

      “I look forward to seeing them perform,” he said with such obvious sincerity that Gabrielle was appeased.

      She smiled at him. He did not smile back.

      Very well, monsieur, she thought with annoyance. If you want to be all business, then we will be all business.

      “How many people do you employ?” he asked.

      “The part of the circus that is permanent is my family—myself and my brothers, Mathieu and Albert. Then there’s Gerard, who is our ringmaster, and Emma and her dogs. That makes five. Then we have the acts that accompany us.”

      “And what acts are those?”

      “First there is the circus band—that is four members. Then there is Luc Balzac, our equestrian, Henri and Franz and Carlotta Martin, who are rope dancers, and the Maronis, who are tumblers—there are four of them. Sully is our clown, and Paul Gronow, our juggler.” She tilted her head a little. “How many is that? I have lost count.”

      “Fourteen plus the five permanent members,” he said.

      “Oh, and we employ two grooms.”

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