ACT TWO

So there I was, standing on a strange four-poster bed, undressing all by myself, pulling down my striped stockings, loosening my stays. Two days after the ball, when everything changed. Two days that had lasted forever, but now I was going to have what I wanted more than anything else in the world, and yet I could not stop my fingers fumbling and my heart thumping and my whole body shaking. And it was not because of any chill in the air, or the darkness and ancient perfumes of the embroidered bedcurtains that surrounded me and kept me hidden, or because I was frightened of discovery. It wasn’t even because he was on the other side of those curtains. It was because of what Madame Clofullia told me, all those years ago, that seemed so funny at the time.

She was the bearded lady at Mr Barnum’s museum, and it was she who finally answered my incessant questions about the Act of Love. I had gotten nowhere with Lavinia, even after her wedding. She just said something vague about kissing and such. I rushed out of her boudoir and took my questions elsewhere. Mrs Bleeker said an act of love was always rewarded in heaven. Not an act, the act, I made plain; and Mrs Bleeker’s cheeks turned plum and she said I would find out in good time when I was married.

I had to wait another two years until Madame Clofullia deemed me old enough to know. First, she made me swear I would never reveal who had told me. Then she explained.

‘The Act of Love is for the creation of children and for the glory of the Creator. First, the lady must record the dates of her monthly emissions. Then she must arrange for the act to take place midway between her menses. Not a day or two before, or after. That is no good for children.’

I asked what exactly the lady should do next.

‘She informs her husband of the date. Then he visits her at night … What did your sister tell you?’

‘Kissing.’

Madame Clofullia chuckled. ‘So it begins. Then the member of the husband — you know of the member?’

I thought of the pee-pee tap on my little brothers and the bull’s raised pizzle. I nodded.

‘The member rises like a flower and the lady must climb up and sit herself upon it, envelop it and ride it.’

I tried very hard not to burst out laughing. I wondered if I would need a stepladder. I thought of Monsieur Clofullia — a thin twiggy gentleman who had a much sparser beard than his wife and wore a monocle in his left eye to make him look fierce — and I gazed dubiously at Madame’s spreading crinoline.

‘But does not the member get squashed?’

‘Not at all. It is quite firm for the purpose.’

‘And the act — is it very wonderful?’

For the first time, Madame looked down and blushed behind her whiskers. ‘It is for children. Monsieur is most particular. To have children will be very wonderful. Birth is the miracle of marriage.’

I thought of Madame Clofullia cradling a baby with fuzz on its chin. But I could not see Madame riding Monsieur. And I could not see myself doing such a thing with anyone, ever. If the Commodore would not have me — and, to be plain, I would not have him either, for what woman with self-respect will take a man whose heart is already given away? — then I would devote myself to my singing and performance and live as a nun.

But I did not have the feelings of a nun, and as I grew older, and my figure and complexion improved, I began to realise that even though marriage might be impossible, and I was no Queen of Beauty, no Robber Bride who can walk down the aisle with two hearts dangling around her neck with her diamonds, there might yet be men who would want to love me. And they were not the size of the Commodore, or a Russian dwarf, or a miniature Hottentot, but regular full-sized fellows who shouted from the theatre floor or kissed my hand and murmured compliments when we lined up to present ourselves to the public. I learned to flutter my fan and my eyelids, but I also learned that the usual rules for a young lady did not apply to me. We were touring then, from city to city, and later from country to country, and I didn’t have time to wait for a gentleman to declare himself. I had to come forward, to make discreet but firm declarations of my own, with my eyes and my fan and my voice.

So that is what I did, and what gates I unlocked, most particularly within myself. The gentlemen responded with great warmth and boldness. I know Mrs Bleeker would think they were evil men who had a horrid fascination with freakish forms of nature, but it was not so: they were my selected Kings of Beauty, responding to the frank attentions of an amative young woman. It is wonderful what you can do with the play of eyes, the brief caress of a hand, standing right next to your sister, and she does not see it. Under my dress I would squeeze and rub my thighs together and imagine the handsome stranger touching me. Once I did arrange a secret rendezvous, with a boy in San Antonio who had mesmerising eyes, but I would allow no more than kissing, and anyway he was frightened of me up close. Then there was the young doctor in Seymour, with the face of a fierce angel, his passion, his healing hands on my bosom, and I was almost ready for the Act of Love, I swear, but then the storm came crashing in on us and the poor fellow fled like a rabbit. I was sorry that my little adventure had so pained Lavinia, but she didn’t understand that everything I did was in homage to the Act of Love, to the moment when I would experience it for myself.

The moment I set eyes on him, I knew he would be the one. He was not a boy or a scared rabbit. He was a ruler of men and his broad chest was covered in glory. But I knew I would have to guide him, little by little. It is odd how grown men are frightened of little women. They think we are like fine rose-strewn teacups that will shatter under their rough hands, and then maybe the shards will hurt them.

He summoned me to this place, but he said he was my loyal subject, and mine to command. He arranged for us to be alone, and I asked to see the scar on his left side, where the bullet from the Fenian assassin’s pistol entered his body. Then I asked him to take off all his clothes. It was a test. If he did it, but did not ask me to do the same, then I would know. I remembered the date of my last menses. My apologies to Madame Clofullia, but this would not be for children.

He waited very quietly for me outside the bedcurtains. He must have been shivering too. If I told him to go, he would go. We agreed on that. But I didn’t make any sound at all.

We could not see each other. The bedcurtains were drawn against him. But I caught a glimpse. He was like a bronze of Poseidon.

The member rises like a flower, I told myself, and I will sit on it and envelop it. Dear God, what am I doing?

This is what you do when you have followed your sister all your life, and then a wall springs up between you, and you can no longer follow her.

George called me a trollop, and that word stung like a slap, but what would he know, to him all women are either goddesses or gutter creatures. There is no word for what I am. An adventurer is brave, but an adventuress sounds hard, calculating, even criminal. And it is true that if I want to be true to myself and yet not shock and hurt my dear sister, I shall have to scheme and deceive. If anyone, anyone at all in our little band, has even the smallest idea of my adventuring, they must be silenced, and I will do whatever I can to make sure of that, and all will be well.

I don’t deceive myself that all will be well with me. I will grow old with no man, no babies. All I want is a few memories of beauty that I can hold in my heart.

And then I was ready to draw open the curtains and appear on my little stage, and I who had faced grizzly bears with impunity, I wanted to hide under the bed or tremble in my sister’s arms. Courage, I told myself.