The new P. T. Barnum Grand Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Hippodrome in Brooklyn was a maze of curiosities and a delightful escape. Rows and rows bristled with jars of pickled animal parts, stuffed two-headed animals, and costumes, deflated and frightful without the clowns in them. What appeared to be a taxidermied mermaid slumped in a corner, beady brown eyes staring vacantly above a matted, hairy torso and fishy bottom.
I thanked Henri, the watchman, for letting me in after normal hours. Over six feet tall, he was soft-spoken and had a slight limp, developed during his decade as a slave.
“Mr. Barnum is in his office, ma’am.” Henri nodded toward the eight-foot oak door, with PT’s monogram in a fancy script carved into it. “He salvaged this from the old museum.”
He pointed to a sculpture next to me. “Don’t touch the giant,” he said with a grin.
Guarding PT’s office was a ten-foot-tall statue of a naked man. The statue’s hands were crossed modestly over its private parts but failed miserably, as its large member presented at precisely my eye level. A placard proclaimed: The Cardiff Giant—a mummy created by an ancient civilization. Despite Henri’s admonition, I touched a fingertip to its mottled gray surface. Chalk came off on my glove. It was clearly fashioned from plaster.
Henri leaned toward me conspiratorially. “A giant hoax is what it is.”
I nodded. It was certainly imposing, but how anyone could believe it was a petrified mummy eluded me.
Henri knocked and opened the thick door to PT’s muffled “Enter.”
PT sat in a spectacular walnut and red velvet chair, rather like a throne for a king, behind a desk replete with carved lions and elephants. Somehow, anything less would have seemed out of place. Painted posters advertising his circus and museum plastered every inch of wall. Even the rug was alive with color, vibrant blues and reds and gold.
PT was engrossed in paperwork. “Are we all locked up for the evening, Henri?”
“Yes, sir.” Henri’s soft baritone was quickly followed by the click of the door as he closed it behind me.
I cleared my throat while slipping off my gloves. “Am I intruding?”
His face registered surprise, then widened into a smile as he looked up and took me in, head to toe. “Well, well, my dear Peanut. To what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure?” He tucked his pen in its ornate holder and donned his tailcoat before coming around his desk. “Have you reconsidered attending the soiree?” His lips brushed the top of my offered hand.
“I’m afraid not. But it’s always a pleasure to see you, Phineas.”
“Ugh. Phineas is so stiff and formal.”
“PT.” I slipped my hand from his. “I need to ask a great favor of you concerning a rather private matter.”
“As always, I am at your disposal.” He moved behind me to check the office door, making me a bit uncomfortable with my choice of words.
“I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?” He slid open the sideboard, and a well-stocked liquor bar appeared.
“So much for the temperance movement,” I teased. “Maybe a wee taste.”
“Don’t confuse me with my public image. One is real, the other sells tickets.” He chose two crystal snifters and poured a generous amount of whiskey.
“It’s about the bridge. We’ve reached a critical point.”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve heard.” We touched glasses. “To success in this great endeavor.” He sipped. “I know your devoted husband is still rather indisposed. And although gossip about you abounds, I’m sure you’re not half as guilty as most would have us believe.”
I could see his grin straight through his whiskey glass. “Ugh, rumors. You know I’ve been serving as the coordinator of the entire project.”
“I’ve heard juicier bits.”
I sniffed the heady aroma of the whiskey. Even better than the taste. I sucked in a hefty swig. “I have not usurped my husband’s role nor taken on a lover if that’s what you’re implying. My works puts me around men all the time. Must that make the tongues wag?”
“Shocking, isn’t it?” He chuckled.
“I wish to defend Mr. Roebling’s honor and my own as well. I’ve come to you for help.”
He swirled the amber liquid. “Perhaps you are entirely too devoted to your husband’s honor and his bridge.”
I finished my drink, a pleasant warmth rising up my throat to my face. “I am well aware you’re not half the scoundrel you pretend to be.”
He took my empty glass, tilted it, raised his eyebrows. “A full scoundrel is a more apt description. But I have been utterly beguiled by your charms from the first, since I sorely lack anything remotely resembling finesse. Now, what is this great favor?”
“It is quite simple and in line with your talents.”
“Ah, you wish to have a show! Perhaps a circus on the riverbank? Think of the positive publicity! Why, General Tom Thumb could make an appearance, and the Cardiff Giant!”
“Well, no, that’s not what I had in mind. I want you to teach me some of your skills.”
His eyes twinkled. “There are so many. Animal training? Magic? Philanthropy?”
“No.”
“Ah, dancing.” He hummed a tune. “I’m quite light on my feet.” He raised my arm for me to twirl under, but I stood my ground. “No? What then?”
“Your professional skills. Your showmanship.”
He hammered one fist into the other. “You want to go into show business.”
“Heavens, no!” I laughed. “I need to speak to the board, to vouch for my husband’s competence. I suffer quite a fright at the thought of speaking in front of an audience.”
“I remember,” he said softly.
“And I must explain the delicate matter of his health.”
“As it happens, I’m quite an expert in the field. Speaking in public, that is. I know little of health matters.”
“You will help me?”
“I shall like nothing better. It has always been my pleasure to be with you, Peanut.” He took both my hands in his and gazed intently into my eyes. “How could I not, when your very presence lights a room? A delight to the senses, a fresh breeze in my cluttered life.”
I cleared my throat and my mind from his spell and drew back. “I am, of course, prepared to pay you.”
“Of course. I am a professional.” He rummaged through a humidor for a cigar and held it between his teeth, patting his pockets for a match. He fumbled with a blue glass contraption, producing a tiny flame that failed to light his cigar. “It seems you are the only light in this room.”
“In that case, what do you believe is a reasonable fee?”
“Five hundred dollars. Cash up front.”
“Five hundred!” I extracted several banknotes from between my blouse and bodice. “I am prepared to pay twenty-five dollars.”
He took the cash, slowly passed it under his nose. “If my fee is too steep, I have an alternative.”
My heart sank. The bridge company. PT was already a financial backer. “Do you want the bridge named after you?”
“Ha! A wonderful proposition. But no, dear Peanut. I will train you to be a convincing and eloquent speaker. And I wish no cash nor eponymous bridge in return.”
“Am I about to be compromised?”
“I am a flawed but more or less moral man. As fate would have it, we both have spouses to consider. I ask only a kiss. A simple kiss to seal the agreement and privately cherish in my memory forever.”
“A kiss. Or five hundred dollars.” My lips tingled from the whiskey, and my increasingly foggy brain tried to make sense of the deal. But it made no sense. Of course it didn’t. This was PT.
“That’s the offer. Valid only today.”
He poured us both another shot. I contemplated the deal while nosing the whiskey, then downed it in one swig. I shook my head when he held up the bottle for a refill. He wiped our glasses and set them back into the bar.
When he returned, I pointed to my cheek as if to inquire Will this do?
He shook his head, his offer clear.
I pried my blouse away from my chest, suddenly sticky from sweat. What was the harm? Give him a swift kiss, a token for his memory. No one would ever know. I twisted my wedding ring. What had Wash said? I fought the warm fog and remembered: Listen to what your gut says, make the decision, then carry on. The office door was closed. Henri wouldn’t hear. And part of me, loosened by whiskey, pined for the press of forbidden lips against mine.
“You are a scoundrel.”
He grunted and slid his cigar into the humidor. “Indeed. But I am foremost a businessman, and I know the value of my services. The choice is yours.”
“And I am a businesswoman. Therefore, I accept your offer.”
He smiled and rubbed the bills of cash together in one hand and held out the other, beckoning the exorbitant balance. I slipped the banknotes from his hand and returned them to their hiding place, scratchy on my chest. His eyes widened, and he took my hand. I closed my eyes and tilted my head, ready for a kiss. He gently brushed back my hair, kissed my forehead and cheeks. Then, the softest brush of his lips against mine.
My lips parted in surprise, and I heaved a sigh of relief, only for his lips to press harder, his tongue to seek mine, offering a mix of whiskey and clove. He kissed me again, one hand caressing my cheek, the other firm to the small of my back. I clung to his shoulders and answered him in kind, my hands delighting in the smooth silk of his jacket, my body tingling from hairline to boot laces. I needed him. I needed to stop. But my mind swirled powerlessly above me as he kissed me like Wash didn’t, and his hand crept toward my breast.
His lips bussed my neck, his sideburns tickling me. I stepped back, but he moved forward, leaning me against the rolled top of his desk.
An alarm rang up my body, and I palmed his chest. “Please—”
But still he held me. I placed my hands against his chest and pushed gently. “Please stop, I mean.”
He let go and stepped back. He shook his head. “I got carried away.”
My own participation made me squirm. I wanted it as much as he did, my body reacting to a basic need, my mind enjoying the attraction of a forbidden other. The difficulties Wash and I faced kept me from physical pleasures I so craved, but that was no excuse.
My mind reeling with shame, my body a mix of heat and chills, I bolted. Using both hands, I yanked open the heavy office door and ran through the maze of creepy atrocities in the darkened museum. Smash! A jar hit the floor, and a two-headed fish spilled out. I sidestepped it and kept running. The exterior door was locked, and I banged my fists on it. Henri rushed over to let me out.
“Good night, Mrs. Roebling.”
* * *
The next day, a courier delivered a white box containing the gloves I had once again left behind. They were cleaned and spotless, nestled in a cloud of silk along with a sprig of violets upon Carrie Beebe’s book. The card read: In the language of flowers, you inspire me: “Violets for watchfulness, faithfulness, I’ll always be there.” Please allow me the honor of upholding my part in our business venture. —PTB
I thought of the first time I had left a glove with him in a hurried exit after visiting the new circus. And now again. It seemed PT was aware of his effect on me and was willing to brush it aside in the name of business. Exactly what I wished to do.
* * *
The museum was different in daytime as I returned for my first lesson in public speaking. Warm sunbeams cast the collections in a more playful light, no dark corners to offer cover for frightening creatures. Patrons milled about, including several unaccompanied women. Henri chatted with Miss Mann as she minded Johnny.
“Don’t break anything.” I kissed Johnny’s sweet face. His big blue eyes blinked in puzzlement that I would anticipate such a thing. So much like his father.
Conflicting thoughts tumbled in my mind, the wisdom of coming back here, wondering if there were other ways to solve my dilemma. Questioning myself regarding my true motives, I determined our intrigue had been nothing more than weakness and whiskey. I set back my shoulders. To be successful in a man’s world, I would be strong.
PT appeared at exactly the appointed time and escorted me to a quiet area but within view of others. “Am I forgiven?” His mouth curled into a sheepish grin.
“I’m not blameless.” I opened my purse and pulled out my traveling ink jar, eyedropper, and fountain pen. Lastly, I slipped out the two bank notes and held them out to him. He cupped his hand over mine, but I wriggled my fingers from his grasp. “And this is a business arrangement.” My hands shook as I filled the pen, spilling ink on the oak table.
He paced behind me. “Nervous?”
I nodded, tried wiping the ink with a rag, but created more of a mess.
“Do you feel blood rushing to your head? Are your hands clammy and your nerves playing a symphony from here”—he touched the back of my neck, then ran his finger down my backbone—“to parts unknown?” He leaned closer, close enough to whisper in my ear, “Are you remembering our kiss?”
“This was a bad idea.” I scraped back my chair, but he stopped my progress with a firm hand on my shoulder.
His ringleader voice rang out. “It is well to remember. Those are the same sensations you will have before an audience. Consider this a dress rehearsal, and learn to accept the discomfort, embrace it even, as a sign of your passion.”
I stayed put.
He clapped his hands, startling me with his transition. “You must own the stage.”
Own the stage, I wrote in my journal.
“No, no, put that down.” He flung my journal away. “It must come from here.” He tapped his chest. “You must connect with the audience.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at mine.
I held his gaze, hoping to convey sincerity and strength of will.
His eyes clouded in confusion. Or hurt. Or perhaps indifference, as in a second, it was gone, and he moved away and circled around me. “One by one, eyeball to eyeball.”
* * *
We met many more times over the next few weeks. PT demonstrated speaking techniques. Imitating his style, I would laugh and gesture grandly. He corrected my posture and hand movements until I found a style of my own, and he made me practice speeches with himself, Henri, and Miss Mann as my audience.
One of his techniques allowed me to test my strength against temptation.
“The Chinese acrobats taught me this.” He had me sit while he stood behind me, then pressed his thumbs on various points on my neck and shoulders. Each time, he said, “Feel this muscle. Let it go.” He made circles with his thumbs and dug them deeper as I relaxed the muscle, causing me to wish he’d never stop. It was somewhere between pain and pleasure, and my body responded with a glow I’d never known before.
When he stopped, I fought the urge to beg for more. That would be against the rules I had set up for myself. If only there were someone to discuss this with, I could perhaps have quieted the voices in my head that insisted I was doing something wrong. Then I could have fully embraced the experience, reveled in the attention and physical pleasures without a care for how it might look to others. But one of those voices, coming from deep inside me, knew there was no one with whom to discuss my situation, because no one would properly have advised me to continue, even under the watchful eyes of Henri and Miss Mann.
* * *
On the day I was to present my case—or rather Wash’s—to the American Society of Civil Engineers, the auditorium bristled with life. Or rather death: row upon row of men in dark suits, as serious as undertakers. Standing in the stage wing, my heart beat too rapidly, and my throat choked with anxiety. I placed a clammy hand on my burning cheek to cool it. PT’s instructions echoed in my ears: Accept the discomfort, embrace it.
The president of the academy introduced me, and I took my place on the podium. What seemed like a million faces stared back at me. Having practiced and imagined the moment so many times, I separated my terror from the various muscles that controlled my speech. First, I focused on my breathing. I had learned to concentrate on what can be controlled: one needs a steady breath to bring words to life. I saw the audience not as a mob bent on humiliating me but as individuals who I would converse with one by one.
I began the speech I had committed to memory. “Thank you for the honor of being the first woman to address this great organization. I hope to assuage your concerns—” The words rolled off my tongue too tightly. The men sat back in their chairs, regarded their fingernails, checked timepieces.
My cheeks warmed, and my insides tumbled. No matter. Let my face burn with the passion of my message. Let my gut protest. I sought out one member of the audience, captured his gaze, spoke to him directly. He responded with a nod. Then I moved to the man next to him, and behind, and just in front of me. I spoke words not memorized like a child’s catechism but etched into my soul, given life by my work.
They leaned forward in their chairs, listening as I ticked off our accomplishments. I stood tall, as if lifted from the ground. Perhaps this victorious rush of excitement coursing through my veins was what PT so enjoyed about the stage.
“Therefore, gentlemen, you can rest assured in my husband’s mental acuity and technical brilliance as an engineer. I am deeply grateful for your efforts and concern.” I paused for effect, scanning the entire audience. “But if, despite the lack of any evidence of mechanical flaw or wrongdoing on my or my husband’s part, you still believe in your minds and hearts that he should be removed from this great effort, then I shall see in it the hand of God, which all my care could neither direct nor change.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them to see the audience on its feet, applause filling the auditorium and my heart. And there, in the front row, was PT. He held up his arms, hands clenched together in victory. I nodded, forgiving him for extracting payment with my honor. But I could not absolve myself.