The Ringmaster's Revenge

The Ringmaster's Revenge: Phase Nine

Phase Nine

23days: 7hours

Until the Ringmaster’s Revenge

Wynne

Many years had passed since she’d last worn it, yet the black dress still fit, with the exception of a few inches around the waist.  And, if memory served correctly, it had rained that day too.  But then, rain was a frequent feature in Quill Hollow. 

Nine years, Wynne marveled.  Nine long years ago she and Roland had stood side by side over the tiny mound of wet soil, under which her infant child had been buried, feeling the unending drips of heaven’s weeping.  Now Roland laid beside his namesake.  Or, more accurately, a casket containing a pocket watch, a badge, and a bloody shirt was planted six feet down in the rocky soil of the churchyard.  For that was all they ever found of Roland Senior who had disappeared six months prior.  Rumor had it, he’d crossed the wrong man and a deal gone awry had turned to murder.

Rubbing her thumb raw on the lacy black skirt, Wynne sat on the edge of the bed, still sodden from the service in the cemetery but not quite ready to shuck her mourning attire.  She would wear black, she decided.  Not for the rest of her days, like Madame, but for a time.  A few months, maybe a year, to pay respects to the man who she’d married, hated, and sorely missed.

Wynne had always believed the greatest mystery in their marriage was that Roland had never lost interest even after conquering her.  In fact, just the opposite was true.  In the beginning, she had hoped he would be cruel, quick to rage, and abusive.  Not because she held any fondness for such explosive emotions but simply because she had so painfully wanted to despise him forever.  Unfortunately, Roland had been kind and attentive, almost to the point of obsession.  Not only had he fed her well, clothed her in the latest fashions, and showered her with trinkets but he had craved her guidance as well.  Roland had often requested her presence upon entering the manor after work, asked her to join him for cigars with his friends in the parlor while they discussed business, and even attended her bed nearly every night of the week, occasionally just to ramble about his day and get her input, until Wynne was not only his wife but his companion in everything.  A role Wynne had detested.

Her spite over that matter, and several others, had supplied the fuel for many heated arguments.  All of which had been won by Roland who merely had to say, “I could always call in the magistrate to settle this,” to make his wife back down.  Yet it had only ever been in those times of strained patience that Roland reminded Wynne of her delinquency.  However, Madame Sissy had mentioned it daily.  And while Wynne’s evenings had been spent reading, sewing, and debating with her husband’s guests, the daylight had often seen Wynne on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor beside the servant girls.  For when Roland had left the house, Sissy ruled. 

But despite the initial hatred of Roland, fear of her sister-in-law, and disgust of her own weakness, Wynne had blissfully awaited the child who was growing fat and content up to the very hour of its birth.  An experience Roland had missed to investigate a local robbery.  He’d returned only moments after Wynne received the news of the infant’s death, from Madame’s cruel lips, and endeared himself to her over the next few weeks by being sympathetic and supportive.  Though he could not have fathomed the depths of his wife’s despair, for she had not only mourned the passing of her baby but the very futility of her own empty life without a child but saddled with a husband, Roland had grieved with her.  For he, too, had lost his premature son.  Or so he’d thought.

Laying atop the bedspread, Wynne considered Roland.  He’d been an ignorant, foolhardy, and grossly selfish man, who had murdered and imprisoned innocent people, manipulate the justice system, and committed more crimes then he’d ever solved.  But still, thought Wynne, the sheriff had been her protector, her confidant, and lover for the better part of a decade.  Now he was gone, leaving her with only memories and the title, widow.  “You stupid, stupid man,” she grumbled.  “Serves you right for all the wrong you’ve done.  And don’t you think I’ve forgotten about poor Efrim.  Just because you went off and got killed doesn’t mean I forgive you for all the trouble you’ve caused.  In fact, I’m all the angrier now.  You stupid, stupid man!”