Mother stayed for many weeks during Wash’s recuperation. Soon, her circle of friends visited as well, delighting in his stories of Civil War exploits. Wash was never so happy as when he had a new audience for a story. Mother, Henrietta, Carrie, and Eleanor gathered around Wash, who was propped on pillows on the long chaise in the parlor. The ladies pulled needles in and out of squares of white fabric nesting in their laps. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace, sending flashes of light and shadow across their faces.
I sat between Henrietta and Eleanor on the divan, admiring their work. Eleanor passed me a palm-full of new hairpins like a schoolgirl passing a note. I snuck a peek at them before secreting them away between the cushions. These were shaped like the others—which had rusted into uselessness—but the metal had more spring to it. Along with the tiny rounded blob of hardened glue on the tips, they were coated with bright blue paint. “Blue?” I asked in a hushed tone.
“Isn’t it pretty?” she whispered back.
As Carrie stoked the fire and Mother fussed with Wash’s blanket, he launched into a familiar yarn. “This reminds me of a night so dark, I saw nothing but the glowing tip of my cigar. I was all alone, deep in enemy territory—”
Having heard this story a time or two or ten, I was relieved by the knock at the door, providing the opportunity to excuse myself. I opened the door to PT, sporting a broad smile and a bottle of whiskey. Next to him was Henri, dressed for a night on the town.
Miss Mann and Henri departed, and I invited PT into the library. Maps and diagrams papered the desk and every horizontal surface; steel samples glittered on a marble-topped table. His scent of cherry tobacco and clove at once stimulated and calmed me.
“Sorry to arrive unannounced, but I’ve promised a progress report to the Connecticut investors.”
“And I apologize for neglecting your requests.”
He waved away my comment. “Your priorities are in order, my dear.”
I reviewed our progress and described my meeting with Benjamin Stone. PT pretended to be Stone. He sank into Wash’s leather chair and plopped his feet on the desk. Tossing a ream of paper into the air, he bellowed, “Ahhhemmm! You should be bending over backward, missy!”
I was laughing so hard, I could barely choke out, “PT, have you no respect?”
A polite cough from the doorway. Mother. Her lips were drawn tight enough to sling the arrows her eyes aimed at us.
“Oh, Mother, PT was doing the most marvelous imitation of Benjamin Stone.”
“So I see. Perhaps Mr. Barnum would like to join your husband and our other guests in the parlor?”
“I’d be delighted, but please call me PT. And may I be so bold as to call you Phebe?”
“You may not,” Mother said.
“We’ve heard those stories time and time again, Mother, and we’re conducting business here.” A familiar profile appeared behind Mother’s head. Wonder of wonders, it was my tall, handsome brother. “GK!”
“Aha! Here you are, Little Sister! Mother, greetings.”
“Oh, please come help us.” I embraced his slender frame, then dragged him into the room. “This is our friend P. T. Barnum.”
GK shook PT’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Come, Mr. Barnum, let them have a chat,” Mother said. I sensed another motive as she escorted PT from the room.
“It took a bit of searching, but it turns out I still have them.” GK tapped a roll of yellowed, tattered plans against his palm.
“John’s original designs?” I took the roll of papers and gingerly removed its rubber band.
“Somehow, I never got around to destroying them.”
“Wise of you, considering the change in plans. Once again, the bridge committee wants to accommodate trains on the bridge.” I unrolled the delicate papers and spread them across a table, using several of Wash’s rock specimens as paperweights. Schooled in geology and a devoted hobbyist, he’d amassed a collection of rocks and minerals that would rival that of any museum.
“I didn’t think the railroad barons would give up easily.”
“That’s not my battle to wage. Let’s see what we have to do if the railroad wins and they come up with the money.” We compared the old diagrams with the current plans, using a magnifying glass to read Papa’s faded handwriting.
GK ran his hand through his dark hair, releasing the minty scent of his hair cream. He was nearly as gray as Mother. His presence brought me a sorely needed sense of calm, and my mind tumbled with the possibility of him growing more involved in the project.
“They’ll win, I assure you,” he said. “Why don’t you ask Washington if the current infrastructure will support trains?”
I glanced toward the parlor where Wash delighted in tales of past glories.
“He always had a gift for storytelling,” GK said. “Got me through many a dreary night.”
“I’m afraid it would take much effort to bring his mind back to this question.”
“It’s that serious then?”
I nodded, avoiding his gaze. He had loved Wash like a brother since before we were married, and seeing pain in my brother’s eyes would cause me to weep. “So let’s see what we need to do.”
We resumed comparing the two sets of plans and did some calculations on the few differences we found.
GK rolled up the old plans, tapping the end into alignment. “He hardly changed it. John, the old bastard, couldn’t bring himself to do it.”
“I truly worry for him.” I nodded toward the laughter in the parlor.
“I worry for you.”
I dismissed his comment with a wave.
“I say this because I love you.” He hesitated, put his hand on my shoulder. “There’s been some talk.”
“Heard all the way in Iowa?”
“You must tread a fine line each day. Working among men shoulder to shoulder.”
I nodded, but his words fell like rain off a duck. I’d grown too old to be lectured by my big brother.
“There can’t be any hint of impropriety.” He glanced toward the parlor. “I assume there is nothing but professional regard between you and Mr. Barnum. And his museum moving to Brooklyn has nothing to do with you?”
I hesitated a beat too long before blurting, “It’s not—”
He held up his hand. “Remember this, dear one. You’re blazing a path for all women. Don’t make them pay for your mistakes.”
“You’ll see. You, Mother, everyone. When we finish the bridge, no one will care about any of this silliness. And you won’t be the only hero in the family anymore.” The words poured out, exposing a goal I didn’t realize I had.
“At the rate that bridge is going up, I’m not sure either Mother or I will live to see that moment.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
He tapped his chest. “People in our family are like pet goldfish. Polite enough to die before you have a chance to get tired of us.”
“You’re being morose. Is it your problems with the army? Have they not yet come to their senses and restored your rank?” I retrieved the papers PT had flung.
“Afraid not. Old Sheridan refuses to back down. I’m still a coward in his eyes, and Grant backs him up.”
“You mustn’t give up. You did the right thing and probably saved hundreds of Union soldiers.”
“History will show the truth, dear.”
“History? You’re here, flesh and blood. You deserve recognition and honor, not living under this cloud of suspicion. It’s not right.”
He patted my hand as he helped square up the stack of paper. “You worry about my reputation when it is yours I came to talk about. It’s enough that we and all our loved ones know what happened in the war. Focus on getting Washington well and building the bridge. That’s far more important than my rank.”
“Come. I’m sure Wash is eager to see you.”
“There’s one more thing,” GK said just above a whisper, giving me a chill. “I wonder if I did the wrong thing, back in the war. For you, I mean.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“Sometimes, I think I pushed you and Wash together. With good intentions, of course. You were a wild filly, and my instinct was to protect you. From yourself, actually.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I thought Washington perfect for you. Strong, stable, a good influence.”
“He is.”
“But perhaps you belonged with someone closer to your own temperament. You might be happier if I had allowed you to find him on your own.”
“Do you think someone of my temperament could be led into a marriage not of her choosing?” I took his hand, and we headed to the parlor.
“I am rather persuasive.” He squeezed my hand.
“Well, you can clear your mind of this nonsense. I married the right man, for the right reasons. You simply found him before I did.”
The lines in his face softened.
“My marriage is all twisted up with the bridge for now. Wash grew up in the family business, but it’s new to me and rather difficult. And he’s suffered so. But we love each other, and we’ll overcome this.”
I was glad GK couldn’t see my face at that moment. If he did, he might have detected a lack of confidence in my own words. If I were to be fully truthful, PT occupied a large and growing place in my heart while Wash seemed to be pushing me away.
GK and I joined the others, now including Millie, in the parlor, pausing at the doorframe so as not to interrupt. The fire had burned down, and the timbers glowed red, the scent of smoke warm and relaxing.
“Eleanor, this is a thing of beauty.” Wash must have been speaking out of politeness, for Eleanor was not the most talented seamstress. Her square was mottled with brown lumps.
“I’ve always thought GK was striking,” Carrie said to Millie.
“Didn’t he send you alone on a mission through enemy territory?” asked Henrietta.
“That he did.” Wash reclined on the chaise, inspecting the women’s handiwork as they filed past him, his eyes magnified by reading glasses.
“Was that before or after you started courting his sister?”
GK laughed, giving away our position, and the ladies beckoned us in.
“Ooh, do tell us the rest of the story,” said Carrie. “It might turn up in my next book.”
Wash nodded, held up his hand to shake GK’s. “Just before Gettysburg, General Warren sent me home to New Jersey. My father had surveyed Pennsylvania extensively, and his maps were critical to our mission. After six straight days and nights of riding home and back to retrieve the documents, my thoughts turned to finding someplace, anyplace, to rest my weary bones.” He lit his cigar and studied its smoldering tip.
“Go on!” said his admirers.
“I came upon a home along a lonely stretch of road through Pennsylvania farmland. Weeds had overgrown the walk, threaded through roses that had gone rangy. Glass from broken windows littered the front porch. I knocked but wasn’t surprised when no one answered. I creaked open the door to a parlor—not dissimilar from this one, save the overturned furniture and mice scurrying about.
“I settled myself on the floor for a nap. Although it was the end of June, it was quite chilly in that old stone house, and I fumbled about for a blanket, being too lazy to return to my saddlebag.
“I lit a match and spied a cedar chest, marveling at my luck as I opened it.” He struck a flame for effect in our parlor, his face eerily aglow in the dark. “But the old blanket folded on top wouldn’t budge. I tugged harder, and it flew open, revealing the head of a woman.”
“Eeeeeck,” the ladies screamed in unison.
“So what did you do? Get back on the horse and skedaddle?” Carrie had taken out her journal and was furiously scribbling notes.
“No, I curled up with the blanket and fell blissfully to sleep, waking every so often, wondering about my dear departed companion.” He caught my eye. “But I’m afraid the hour is late, and I should draw my storytelling to a close.”
“Please, do go on. I love war stories,” PT said.
“Very well then.” Wash cast a sidelong glance at PT. “The following morning, desirous of returning the blanket to its rightful place, I creaked open the chest. But instead of a dead woman—”
PT interjected, “He found a lovely marble bust. A likeness of Martha Washington, was it not? Quite a treasure!” He laughed and slapped his thigh.
The ladies laughed too, but Wash glared at him, then at me, no doubt realizing I had shared the story with PT.
Later, PT and the ladies having departed, I tidied up and packed my work satchel. Wash, still propped on his pillows, handed me the daily journal. Unable to write, he dictated his orders. Although no longer necessary for ordinary planning, I hewed to the ritual to keep him involved.
“A productive day?” he asked.
“Somewhat.” I yawned, tapping my pen on the journal.
“Phineas is helpful to you?”
“He gives good advice and provides comic relief.”
Wash answered with a grunt.
“What?” I sighed.
“His humor escapes me.”
I shrugged and picked up diagrams. “Have you made up your mind?”
“About what?”
“About officially turning over responsibility for the bridge.”
“You seem to have things well in control.” He waved at the diagrams in my hand. “Finally recognize you don’t need me?”
“That’s not what I meant. Martin can—”
“This is my father’s bridge!” He thumped his fist on the divan.
“As you remind me every day. No one’s forgetting that.”
“He designed it, but he isn’t here. Still, it is being built. Because I am here for him.”
“You’re here for him? You sit around drinking whiskey and telling stories while I feed the circling sharks!”
“Perhaps if you stop feeding him, he’ll go away.”
His face had fallen in defeat. I bit my tongue before I said something hurtful.
As I tucked the journal in my satchel, a wave of realization swept over me. Wash would neither return to work nor relinquish responsibility to another chief engineer. I was not just a messenger, filling a momentary need. Building this bridge would be my cross to bear—for him. My own goals and dreams, of nobly advancing women’s causes or riding a horse through rolling hills of Kentucky, vanished like pebbles thrown into the sea.
I tossed and turned all that night. The responsibility was far too great. I had not the education nor the experience to accept it. I had to find someone else. But then I realized I wasn’t alone; there were capable assistant engineers with whom to consult. Papa’s design was said to be a work of genius. This was a matter of ensuring a plan was followed. Then again, how was I to know if it was?
The next morning, I went downstairs to the library to collect Papa’s original plans. The room echoed with PT’s laughter and GK’s warnings. I smelled whiskey and tobacco, GK’s hair balm, and Wash’s minty liniment. I slumped into Wash’s chair and closed my eyes, rubbed the walnut roundels, conjuring a genie to appear with answers. Upon opening them, there was nothing but Wash’s neat rows of books. Books. All his texts were right here. I had perused the most basic ones in Cincinnati, but now I had more framework in which to understand them. I went to the stack labeled Year One, climbed the ladder, and slipped out the first of a thousand books.