Contrary to Wash’s intimation that he would rely more heavily upon me, I found myself consigned to running our home, feeding him at odd hours, and patiently listening to the travails of a man possessed. He seemed to go through the motions of mourning Papa’s death as if he had no place for his grief. Instead, he masked it with overwork and refused to speak of it. Did he have the same feeling of emptiness that I felt? Sometimes, it seemed I existed as an outer shell, my innards torn away like the horseshoe crabs stranded on the beach.
I longed for my life in Europe or even Cincinnati. There, Wash kept regular, even if long, hours. It had seemed I was of some use to him, and I enjoyed the role of travel companion. Of course, part of that longing was for Papa, for the time we were all together, father and son working, building, arguing.
But in New York, we fell into the same expectations I had always resented. For some women, the pleasures of home and hearth, the daily tasks of creating an atmosphere of domestic tranquility, are paramount. Although I adored little Johnny and enjoyed all my time with him, it shamed me to admit that it wasn’t quite enough. I rankled at the thought that my sole purpose in life was to amuse a baby and keep a respectable home. How could I fully enjoy his sweet scent if I spent half the day changing and boiling diapers? Wasn’t it better to seek fulfillment of my desire to make a difference in the world, however tiny, and then return to my beloved son, content with accomplishment?
But Mother was of a mind, and I agreed: Wash and I could both benefit from more domestic help.
“Do what you wish,” Wash told me.
* * *
Those words echoed in my ears a few days later when a letter arrived from PT. He had agreed to financial support of the bridge project but insisted he be kept informed of its progress, a welcome task for me.
My heart skipped about at the sight of his elaborate script upon the missive. It was an invitation to a private tour of his latest adventure: the building of a circus in midtown Manhattan. If by “do what you wish” Wash meant to include visiting a man unaccompanied was a question I neglected to ask. After all, his mild contempt for PT was understood, and our son would love the excitement nearly as much as I needed it.
We traveled to Manhattan on the despised ferry, Johnny delighting in the spray on his face and fascinated by the action of the paddle wheel. A happy moment to cherish, even when it entwined tragedy like a green vine growing on a dead, hollowed tree. I turned my face to the wind and relished the salty spray on my own face. It was good to be out of Brooklyn.
I hired a hansom cab to take us to Barnum’s Circus, a cluster of huge tents, animal housing, and some small buildings, nestled in the middle of Manhattan.
PT greeted us, opening the scrolled-iron gate himself, arms wide open, a look of elation on his face. I could feel my spirits rising as if a hot air balloon had captured me and was lifting me away from ordinary life. A capuchin monkey rode on his shoulder, sometimes hiding its tiny face in its master’s hair, the salt-and-pepper coloring providing excellent camouflage.
Having four daughters of his own, PT fussed over Johnny with an ease I found charming. He bent low and inquired, “Do you want to see the elephants?”
At Johnny’s shy nod, he hoisted him onto his shoulders as the monkey scrambled down and ran ahead.
We stopped at a supply bin and scooped peanuts into a big burlap sack. The monkey screeched. PT tossed a peanut to quiet him. We made our way to a large animal barn, followed by a trail of chickens, ducks, and the occasional kitten.
The smell of hay and animal dung hit me first, ahead of trumpeting calls that announced we had reached the elephants. PT set Johnny down, and my little boy raced down the row of stalls as fast as his little legs could carry him. I smiled, and my sore heart felt some healing as joy leaked into it once again.
As we walked past each stall in turn, Johnny helped fill the troughs with peanuts for the enormous beasts. Johnny’s eyes widened, and he covered his ears with chubby hands when they trumpeted their thanks. An elephant nudged me with its trunk. Johnny laughed, and I picked him up so he could pat its forehead.
“You know, they’re quite delicious,” PT said.
“The elephants?” I gasped.
He chuckled and pointed to the trough, bristling with peanuts.
“You eat the animals’ feed?” Nothing surprised me about this man. I had seen my first peanut not long before, delivered for horse feed. They were a recent arrival from the southern states.
PT grabbed a handful and opened his palm to me. “Try one.”
I scowled but bit into one, then promptly spit it out. It was horrid—powdery, dry, and tasteless. I grabbed the one Johnny was about to put in his mouth.
PT bellowed. “No, like this.” He shelled the peanut and brushed the nutmeat across my clamped lips. “Mmm. Be brave.”
Gooseflesh prickled my arms. It was hard to imagine PT doing such a thing if Wash were present, so it seemed we were teetering on the line of improper behavior. That, of course, was where he most enjoyed being, and I felt a tingle of excitement. I pinched the nut from his fingers, parted my lips, and popped it into my mouth, watching and enjoying the amusement on his face. He was right—it was tasty, chewy, and mellow.
We walked between tents, the corridor lined with posters of circus attractions: bearded ladies, dwarfs, and contortionists. I couldn’t imagine making a living by being on public display. I’d had enough difficulty making a speech on my mother’s lawn. “Do they choose this life, or do their circumstances offer no better choice?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ve rescued them all, human and animal alike, from much worse fates.”
My grip on Johnny’s hand tightened instinctively at his tone. “Of course, I mean no offense to your work.”
His face brightened, his mood changing with the quickness of lightning, and I struggled to keep up. “The noblest art is that of making others happy.” He parted a sumptuous gold velvet curtain to reveal a circus ring. The high-topped tent was as big as a three-story house. Cabling, ropes, and swings hung from the ceiling like an enormous spiderweb. Acrobats practiced their routines, walking tightropes and swinging from trapezes. A man coaxed small, bouncy dogs through rings of fire. Johnny bounced with glee and clapped his hands.
A bucket of animal feed gave me an idea. “PT, why don’t you sell peanuts to your audience? A new treat to enjoy while watching the show.” I plucked a circus flyer from a stack, rolled it into a cone, filled it with peanuts, and handed it to PT with a flourish. “That will be five cents, please.”
“Hmm. Excellent profit margin. You’ve quite the mind for business.” His smile sent a warm rush up my face.
“Roast them like chestnuts and add some salt,” I suggested as I helped myself to another nut.
He led us to a swing large enough for four adults. It consisted of a wooden platform suspended on four iron pistons. The pistons were attached to a twenty-foot-high circular iron frame. He gave the platform a push, and it traveled in an arc, remaining flat as the pistons did their work.
“My performers will take this full circle, but that may be a bit too high for the baby. At least his first time.” He lifted Johnny onto the platform.
PT stepped on, then held out his hand to help me on as well. Johnny giggled as he wobbled on the unsteady floor. PT pumped higher and higher. I screamed and we all laughed heartily. With Johnny safely in the middle, I went to the opposite side from PT, and together, we pumped it into a great arc, reaching ten feet into the air. My spirits soared as we sailed high, then were sucked down by gravity, then up, breaking free again, like a bird on the wing.
“High enough?” he yelled over Johnny’s squeals.
“Yes!” I laughed, and we stopped pumping. As the swing slowed to a lazy back-and-forth, an acrobat climbed a rope, catlike, all the way to the peak of the tent. He hung from one arm, securing a trapeze.
“Supple,” PT said.
“He certainly is,” I agreed.
“No, that’s his name. Harry Supple. A ship rigger until I rescued him.”
Johnny rolled on his belly, resisting PT’s efforts to pull him off the swing.
“Sailors make wonderful performers, having no fear as they climb around masts and ropes a hundred feet in the air.”
I remembered the dozens of cable spinners performing their own tightrope act as they built the bridge in Cincinnati. We would need those skills, and there were several shipyards in New York City. A fine labor pool and untethered to the price-gouging of our current labor contractor, Kingsley.
He handed Johnny to me, squirming and kicking in protest.
“PT, you mentioned that you had a wonderful nanny in your employ?” I had written to him about my frustrations.
“Ah, yes. I believe you’ll find Miss Mann an excellent candidate.” PT produced a peanut from behind Johnny’s ear and amused him by making it appear in his opposite hand, already shelled. “My children were quite fond of her. She’s seeking a new position, as my youngest is no longer in need.”
“Mr. Barnum, sir?” The disembodied voice of his assistant seemed to float in. “Mr. Otis is waiting to see you.” I could see no one. Nothing was ever normal in his world.
“We should leave you to your work. Thank you for the tour.” It saddened me to leave, and as I took Johnny’s hand, he resisted, two feet planted firmly on the ground, just as I wished to do.
“What’s this?” PT pulled a toy elephant from Johnny’s collar and gave it to the wide-eyed child. He plucked a pink rose from his sleeve for me.
I nodded my appreciation as I sniffed its fragrance while Johnny stroked the tiny carved elephant.
“What do you say, Johnny?”
“Thank you,” said my little cherub.
“The addition of Miss Mann to our household would be a godsend. The bridge construction requires all of Mr. Roebling’s time—” I paused, cringing at my own criticism of my husband. “Perhaps I shall soon be able to assist him more directly. We are in your debt.”
“Nonsense, Peanut. It’s my pleasure.”
Before I could work my first glove over my fingers, PT lifted my hand and kissed it full on, his lips hot against my skin. A shiver ran down my spine. He raised his eyes to mine, and I yearned to kiss him. I slipped my hand away from his. Slowly, too slowly. What is wrong with me? I loved my husband and would never intentionally hurt him. Yet I knew if he had a sense of what I was feeling at that moment, he would be most disturbed.
PT didn’t play by the rules, so I had to be the one to set limits, and we were already flouting them. I was torn by opposing forces: my pleasure in his company and also needing his financial backing for the bridge, and society’s rules—I shouldn’t be visiting him without escort. Although I was fairly sure I could resist temptation to go any further, it seemed wrong to put myself in a delicate situation.
I had only my instincts to guide me, and it seemed my instincts were clouded by emotion. It seemed the answer then was to separate those emotions from any action. I could feel what I must feel; there was no controlling the yearnings of the body. The sin was only to act upon them, at least with someone other than one’s husband. I was suddenly eager to get home to Wash.
“Where has the day gone? I must be getting home.” I swooped up Johnny and hustled through the curtain, dropping one of my gloves in my haste.